Summer 2022

For me, loneliness tastes like a peanut butter and honey sandwich.

A few months after we left the homeless shelter and settled in the RV, Irish began leaving me alone for days at a time, or multiple days in a week. It reached the point where he was gone more than he was with me. 

There wasn’t much food in the RV and he never left me with any money or gas to run the generator. There was no way to run a fan when the temperatures climbed into the 80s and 90s and there weren’t any battery-powered lights in the RV yet.  I spent many nights by myself in a dark, too-hot motorhome. 

Sometimes Irish didn’t have a phone, so he’d take mine with him which meant I had no way to contact anyone for help if something bad happened.  

Flashbacks

During those early times of being left alone, I didn’t have any books to read, and with no phone, I didn’t know what time it was.  It reminded me of when I was first locked up in county jail: the complete absence of all the normal things I’d occupied my mind and my hands with (social media, Netflix, YouTube, gardening, cooking, crocheting) wreaked havoc on me mentally and emotionally.  My mind and my soul had gone into a horrible withdrawal.

I threw myself into reading everything I could get my hands on from the little bookcart that came to the pod a few times a week.  During lockdown times, I obsessively drew floorplans and renderings of warehouse loft apartments I knew I’d never live in.  They were a way to use my imagination to escape my surroundings.

Being left by myself at the RV and never knowing when, or if, I’d see Irish again was worse than those first weeks of incarceration.  The constant, ongoing stress of Irish’s disappearances and his brief returns was suffering like nothing I’d experienced before.  

While he was gone, I was scared the entire time that he’d abandoned me and was never coming back.  When he did come back, I lived in fear of his next disappearance.

Living in constant fear is the hell of loving an addict.

What to Eat When You Don’t Want To

Some days when Irish disappeared on me, I didn’t eat anything.  The anxiety and depression completely took away my appetite.  My record for not eating during Irish’s absences was two days.  I made sure we stayed stocked up on bottled water during our infrequent trips to the store — at least I was able to stay hydrated even if I didn’t eat.

Eventually, my body needed something and food was strictly limited to whatever was in the cupboards.  What we always had on hand were bread, peanut butter, and honey.  And so I’d make a peanut butter and honey sandwich.

I’d always liked those sandwiches in the past.  Once upon a time, they were something I treated myself to.  Not anymore.  

They became a symbol of my isolation, of countless days and nights alone in the RV facing the unknown.  They represented fear and uncertainty, of not being able to trust or depend on Irish since he never kept his word to me.  They became the taste of being neglected.

“I Promise”

It hasn’t stopped, either.  Two nights ago Irish told me he was going to take the muffler system off an abandoned car that’s been left for weeks in a parking lot about five minutes away.  He also said he was going to fill up our large blue water jugs since all we had left were three 20-ounce bottles.  

He even made a joke as he was heading out the door: “And then I’m going to come back and fuck the shit out of — we’ll make love.”

I haven’t seen or heard from him since.

Something in me — the part of me that knows I can’t rely on him — knew he wasn’t coming back even though he said he was.  I turned off the generator around 3 am and tried to get a little more sleep.  I wasn’t surprised when he wasn’t back a couple of hours later.  

I was, however, surprised when he didn’t show up by dark last night.

He said he was done being gone for more than one night in a row.  He’s promised me numerous times that he was done leaving me alone at night, period. But I knew better than to believe him. It only took a day or two before he broke that promise the first time he made it.

If you know anything about addiction, you know an addict’s promises mean nothing.

The day before he disappeared, Irish mentioned he was concerned because I’m not eating, drinking, or sleeping.  He said he thinks I’m depressed (he’s correct), he thinks he’s the one depressing me (it’s his choices and his behavior I’m depressed about), and he doesn’t know what to do.

I guess it hasn’t occurred to him that leaving me alone for days with no word from him isn’t helpful for my depression.  He refuses to acknowledge how much pain this causes me because then he’ll have to take ownership of his part in my unhappiness.

Eating to Live…Literally

Today I knew I had to make something to eat — the leftover pizza was gone by last night.  I’m eating a peanut butter and honey sandwich as I write this.  I might as well eat this when I’m already upset and depressed to prevent any other foods from developing an association with my feelings of abandonment.

And so I chew and swallow each bite without any enjoyment. Peanut butter and honey sandwiches have been forever ruined for me.  Eating one is a chore.  A “have to,” rather than a “want to.” 

Some day, I’ll never eat another one of these again.