I stumbled this article about the incidence of heroin-related overdoses tonight, and it's been keeping me from sleeping. There's not much to it that is particularly immediately relevant, but all the talk of heroin addicted males in their late twenties or early thirties dying and dying and dying is making my head spin.
I love my heroin addicted male in his late twenties. He's a pain in my ass, but I love him. I want him with me, always. I don't want to lose him to the ground, to the indignities of a young and wasteful death. Reading these statistics gets me all unstitched.
And I don't want that anger, that albatross. I don't want any more unwieldy emotions. I want him, by my side until we're 99 years old. I want children and grandchildren and to laugh with him when he's an old man and I'm an old woman. I want the happiness that seemed to be ripening when we got married, that first flush of love and hope and something so beautiful that it had to be true.