“Clock strikes twelve, it’s all over after”

I am an enabler.

My most recent experience in love has completely warped my sense of peace. I’m so conflicted. I told myself I was done—how could I not be? The lack of intimacy alone was reason enough. But if I’m truly done… then why am I still thinking about it? Why am I drawing parallels? Why am I so quick to look inward and ask: What is wrong with me?

I have to wonder if this is intentional. Is he pulling me back in using the one thing he knows I’ve struggled with all my life? Addiction. Addicts are truly the devil. I do believe addiction is a disease. I believe they are powerless in many ways. But it also makes them some of the most skilled manipulators. Even when I recognize the manipulation, even when I see the end goal, I find myself folding. My logic disappears.

And now, instead of staying grounded in the betrayal—the lie that he was ever truly sober—I’m battling myself. I’m swallowing guilt. I’m wrestling with a misplaced sense of responsibility. Why do I feel bad for him when he lied to me?

I’ve noticed a painful pattern in myself: I am emotionally drawn to addicts. I get caught in this endless loop of trying to save them. And I’m starting to realize that maybe this isn’t about them at all. Maybe it’s about me. Maybe it’s a wound I’ve been avoiding for a long time.

Am I addicted to addicts? Is this some form of co-dependency, where I keep seeking out the same chaos and pretending it’s love? I’m starting to wonder if I’m more attached to the pattern than to the person. It feels like I’m drawn to the mess, even when I know it will only break me.

At the same time, I’m confronting something even more personal. Somewhere along the way, I started to believe that my body was the only thing I had to offer, Physical desire has become the only measure of love I understand. Being wanted makes me feel worthy. But when I really slow down and ask myself if I even enjoy it… I don’t know. I think I crave being desired more than I crave the act itself. It’s a strange realization. Sex feels rehearsed—like a role I learned to play. And when my partner doesn’t show interest, it’s not just rejection. It’s like I vanish.

Where did this come from? Maybe from past relationships, where sex was the only time I felt safe or seen. Maybe even earlier than that. Maybe it started in childhood… loving and being hurt by an addict. That kind of love shapes you. It makes chaos feel familiar. It makes dysfunction feel like home. And now, as an adult, I’m unconsciously repeating it. I seek out men who carry the same shadows, who reflect the same damage. And I call it love.

My mind feels tangled. I’m drawing lines between addiction, co-dependency, sex, validation, and a childhood shaped by chaos, but nothing feels clear. It’s like I can see the patterns forming, but I don’t know what to do with them. I keep circling the same questions, and instead of clarity, I just feel more exposed. It’s not progress. It’s just noise…