This last year and some since I moved to New York City from Canada has been one of the most difficult years I have ever had in my life. A month before I had decided to leave, my father had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Since it had been two years that I had seen him, I felt there was no choice but to move here and be closer to him and my mother. I took out a student loan from the bank in order to do it as I was struggling financially and had no savings from a physical job where I had injured my back so badly that it left me nearly unable to walk for six months.
I had enrolled in grad school to do my masters degree when I got here, but due to the stress from my father's condition which worsened by the week, I took a long standing deferral only 5 weeks later. I traveled back and forth to another state because I never knew when the last time would be that I would see him alive. I watched as his body increasingly deteriorated from the cancer, and soon came the day I arrived and saw him take his dying breath.
At the time, I was shattered. I had moved to New York alone never having been here before, having no friends, no connections, not knowing where I was going half the time, getting lost in the cold, dark streets, knee deep in snow. And now my father was dead. I cried all the time in the streets and subways, I drank all the time and got involved with people I couldn't trust who had no interest in my well being. I was oblivious to how much of a wreck I really was as my heart had been broken. I was so confused, emotionally numb, and alone, and didn't have a friend in the world. I was unemployed, couldn't go back to school, but was trying to do yoga as much as I could to stay balanced, and even went to a few group meetings to cry out loud without shame. But even that made me feel isolated. I felt I had no connection to people, nor that I could contribute positively in any way. I was uninspired, unmotivated, and felt dead inside. I had lost my maker, and therefore felt life held no purpose whatsoever.
Then I met someone who I felt an immediate connection with, he and I got along so well and wanted to spend every waking moment together. He brought me up on a day when I felt my lowest. He helped me get my first job. We had a lovely romance, walking in the sunny heat, eating at different restaurants, listening to music. He was a musician, and an artist, he cooked, and had a full time job. He showered me with love and the affection I wanted and needed, he hugged me, and stroked my hair when I was in mourning. He and I wanted essentially the same things: to get married, have a home together, live a decent life and have a family.
We soon decided he would move in with me and my roommate, and that the addition to the household would prove monetarily beneficial for all of us. In the fall I found more work and was soon more active, meeting more people, finally had new focus. He had been going job to job by then, but when he did work, he worked around the clock. I found out that he owed my roommate a bunch of money, as did I, from the utility bills that accumulated over the past year. In December, he had made an agreement with our roommate that he and I would take care of all the rent for the next few months until all of our debt was paid. I wasn't exactly cool with it, but had little choice and eventually found a third job just after the new year.
But there is more to the story:
Over the fall months, I started noticing that my boyfriend was always broke, even when he worked all of the time, and finally learned that he was doing drugs. I didn't know how much, what, or where he got them. It seemed he'd give me half-assed answers to cover up the truth. He would keep telling me that the rent would be paid at the end of the month, or that he would have money next week to take care of our meals, or going out. We both hate where we are living, and have talked about moving out in the summer, and would start saving in the winter. So we devised a plan when he found a new job that sounded good to me, so that we could eventually leave New York, and I believed we were going to execute that plan.
But the words were never put into action. I was still drinking too, and though we drank moderately some nights together, other nights, I would drink too much and for too many days consecutively, never really having a grasp on reality. On top of that, though we celebrated our anniversary every month, each time the night would start off nice, but end sour and with us breaking up. On nights like that he would cut himself, or talk about killing himself. Of course I didn't want any of that to happen. I loved him. Still love him.
I told him things needed to change, and he told me he would to a treatment program, that he didn't want to lose me over this. I acknowledged to him that I’d been drinking too much, and that being depressed was no excuse. I vowed to him I would get better. Would be better, would do better.
Just recently, at eight months into our life together, he suddenly lost the job he had been working at since January. He wasn't able to find work after a week. On Friday it was our anniversary again, and I had to work both my jobs. I had found out that a check we had cashed of his through the ATM at my bank had been returned, and I wondered what was up. I got home later than usual, after midnight, and he gave me the cold shoulder. Then he accused me of cheating on him, which is absolutely wrong. The next day he lay in bed all day, we hugged and cuddled, but then he disappeared for five hours without answering my calls or texts at all. I got down and decided to get drunk. I noticed when I finally opened my wallet that my bank card was missing. I checked my account, and found that money had been withdrawn that day, so I canceled my card. But when we met up, I was glad to see him, and we went to get me pizza. When we got home, I asked him what he spent the money on, and he told me Oxycotin. That really angered me in my drunken state and I flipped out and told him to get the fuck out and that I never wanted to see him again. He left, and I didn't see him the rest of the night.
But the next day came around and I first called him at nine o'clock in the morning. He didn't answer, and I called and texted many times throughout the day. But his phone was off. I took the night off work, and spoke with one of my cousins on Facebook. I told her he had mental health issues, and she advised to call the hospitals. So I did.
The first one I called he was at. I rushed down and found he was in Psych ER. He had tried to kill himself. Now he's being kept in psychiatric care for depression.
I've seen him twice, but it really sucks. I know I love this person and believe that two strong souls who really love each other and are committed to one another can get through anything. Now I'm just alone without him. I feel awful, and just want to be with him, want him back in my arms again.
I can deal with the debt. I can deal with staying off booze. I have decided to take my life more seriously, and trust in God, to pray, to get myself productive and healthy again... but I fear that I will lose the heart of my love. That's not what I want to happen.