To K, the Person I Hurt Most. 7 months that flipped my world upside down :/

Dear P.B.S’s

I know I shouldn't reach out. I know you don't want to hear from me. I'm not trying to change your mind or make things worse. I just need you to know I'm trying. I've written this so many times—trying to be honest about what I'm going through, how I'm working on myself, and hopefully creating something I can look back on as I continue my recovery. I respect your space. But I had to do something with all of this, and putting it out there anonymously—just sending it into the void—might help me figure things out. Maybe this will help me believe things happen for a reason and help me heal. Maybe others will relate to this experience and I'll help someone else start their journey.

After everything that happened, I hit rock bottom. My dad lost hope. I isolated myself in my apartment while addiction consumed what little remained of me. The paranoia was suffocating—I couldn't trust my own mind or tell what was real anymore. Every sound felt like a threat. Every thought spiraled into despair. I managed to go an entire week without eating or sleeping, just existing with a persistent anxiety that some terrible outcome was around the corner. The isolation was heavy. I felt trapped inside my own head with no way out. Even through the chaos of a substance-induced paranoid schizophrenic reality, during moments of clarity I saw two possible endings: let addiction kill me, or find the strength to give myself a chance. If you're reading this, some unexplainable power got me off the floor—25 pounds lighter, my body too weak to hold itself up—and gave me just enough energy to grab my phone and make a single call. I don't really remember what happened after that, but I managed to escaped the past 7 months by pure chance.

I'm writing from the treatment center I supposedly called when I feared my body wouldn't function anymore. I wanted help because I couldn't accept that this state was all life had left for me. I'm planning to stay for three months because I can't continue to negotiate my health and expect to get better. For the first time in a while, I'm not here to revamp my career or restore damaged relationships overnight. I'm here because I'm concerned. I constantly find myself stuck in this recurring thought that I might not have another relapse in me.

I miss so many things. Laughter. Waking up excited for the day. Human connection. Feeling comfortable in my own skin. Just stepping outside and being alive. Im living with this constant weight—this emptiness where joy used to be, where I used to be. I miss the version of myself that you met 4 years earlier. I want to discover who I am again, without substances guiding every thought and decision. I want a life built on joy and purpose, not on the constant fight to survive the next moment.

The past seven months cost me more than a relationship. It cost me the future I'd dreamed of since I was a child—not the career or money, but the simple future I envisioned. Marrying someone I loved. Building a family. Sharing life with someone special. When I first read your letter saying I was no longer part of your future plans, that you no longer wanted to marry me or have children with me, it broke me. Everything I'd worked for, everything we'd built together—gone. In that moment, I couldn't breathe. All I could think was: This is what I did. This is what my addiction took from both of us. The finality of it was suffocating. At first I thought it meant I had nothing left to offer, that everything we built was lost because I wasn't enough.

But with time, I've come to see it differently. It meant I'd exhausted you emotionally through the unpredictability of my addiction. The trust we shared had been worn thin. Sometimes two people can love each other deeply and still realize they don't fit in the future they each imagine. I think you arrived at that place, and though it took me a long time, I understand how you got there. The hurt remains, but I see it with clearer eyes now.

I have to acknowledge something that words alone will never fix. My addiction made your life unbearably difficult. I was so consumed by fear and shame that I couldn't see the weight you carried every day. It must have been exhausting, heartbreaking, and terrifying to watch me slowly disappear and wonder if I'd ever come back. You carried more of that burden than anyone else out of unwavering loyalty. It was never your job to support me like that, and I regretably took advantage of your selflessness. I can't change the past, but I sit with the pain of what it cost you, and I'm committed to getting the help I need to never become that person again.

Even though we're no contact, even though I'm blocked, even though I'll probably never send this letter—I still love you. You're still the future I picture when I think of my life. And I regret that my actions throughout relapse weren't reflective of a loving partner.

When I think back on us, I don't define our story by how it ended. I remember the four years we spent growing up together. Some of the happiest moments of my life include you. Those memories remind me of a version of myself I'd forgotten—someone capable of that kind of happiness. I'm determined to find him again through recovery.

I remember lying in the park together, talking about nothing, simply enjoying each other's company without pressure. It's strange how the ordinary becomes what you miss most once it's gone. I regret how often I made things harder than they needed to be. I pushed for certainty and labels before the time was right. I searched for reassurance that could only come from within me. I forced the future instead of appreciating the present. If I could choose one thing now, it wouldn't be a grand romantic gesture. I'd choose to have those ordinary moments back.

Losing you hurt and caught me by suprise. It left me with an emptiness that made me realize how backwards my priorities had become. I'd been chasing things that protected my insecurities or numbed my feelings—high-paying jobs, clothes, watches, titles. When substances stripped away the material stuff, they just vanished. No void, just gone. But losing someone you love creates a painful gap that I never want to feel again. Not because I want to avoid loss forever, but because I never want to take love for granted or let addiction convince me that temporary relief trumps intimacy and connection.

I wish I'd told you I would have chosen your dreams as quickly as my own. I would leave the finance job to bag groceries if it meant you got to attend vet school and live the life you imagined out west. Watching you succeed would have made me happier than any title or paycheck ever could. Your dreams mattered to me—I was just too lost to express anything that didn't revolve around my own self-centeredness at the time.

Treatment is forcing me to see how addiction made my world revolve entirely around myself. Every decision was about what I needed, what I was afraid to lose, and how I felt in that moment. I stopped showing up for the people who mattered because I was too consumed trying to survive inside my own head. I don't want to live like that anymore. I want to be a better son, a better friend, a better man. I want my relationships to be about how I can compliment others, not about how others can meet my needs.

As part of this program, I'll work through the Twelve Steps again, including making amends. I understand it means taking full responsibility without excuses or expectations, acknowledging the impact of my actions, and letting my behavior—not my words—prove I've changed. That was the foundation of my sobriety when I achieved 4+ years before. It was about learning to live differently, becoming accountable and repairing what I can on my side of the street. That was the man you met and fell in love with. I carry tremendous regret that one moment of weakness unraveled all that work.

If you allow me to make amends to you when the time comes, I'd be incredibly grateful. Not because I expect forgiveness or think it changes what happened, but because you deserve to hear me take responsibility the way recovery intends. If that opportunity never comes, I'll understand. Amends aren't about receiving something in return. They're about becoming someone who no longer creates the continuous need for them.

I know I handled everything after the breakup terribly. I crossed your boundaries. I wasn't thinking clearly—I was reacting from fear, panic, desperation, and addiction. None of that excuses my behavior. I just hope one day you can understand it never came from trying to hurt you. The truth is, I was terrified. I'd lost the last stable thing in my life while everything else fell apart. My career was gone. My home was gone. My sobriety was gone. My sense of self was gone. I was reaching for the one place that had always made life feel safe, not knowing how to exist without it. That wasn't fair to you, and I see that now.

Our relationship was always romantic, but it was built on genuine connection and friendship. Now that the romantic chapter has ended, I wish the friendship didn't have to disappear. There's a specific kind of grief in losing someone you're no longer allowed to talk to—someone who knew you deeply and showed up for you through everything. It's like mourning someone who's still alive, and that loss is just as difficult as the breakup itself. You were one of the most important people in my life for four years, and I hate the feeling of us becoming strangers. I'd love to hear about your life, your accomplishments, and root for you as you always rooted for me. But I understand if that's not something you will ever want, and I'll respect your choice.

You may never know this, but I'm not throwing in the towel. I'll keep fighting quietly and praying. Maybe life will give me another chance to know you again, and maybe it won't. What we shared was real. I'm not romanticizing or ignoring our problems. I just know how it felt when things were healthy, and that connection was unlike anything I've ever felt before. I also believe that connection still exists, but it starts with me rediscovering my character. Nevertheless, I'll always be grateful to have experienced it.

However, odds of another chance are slim to none, but I pray and work, refusing to give up on the version of me buried deep down. I hope by some miracle our paths cross again when I've recovered—when I've found my way back to the version of myself capable of truly showing up for others. That man would have realized the only thing that mattered outside of his own wellbeing was right in front of him. He wouldn't have lost sight of a future with you. You stood by me, challenged me to be better, your presence always a net positive—all while maintaining your own independence and purpose and allowing me the same freedom. I was too blind, felt too undeserving to see the incredible qualities you consistently showed out of love for me. I avoided any discomfort, the difficult work, the honest conversations about how I could be better. Why? Because you were the one, and the thought of being vulnerable and getting left would have destroyed me. Well, lesson learned. Missing the opportunity because I didn't match the effort, intention, and selflessness you gave me hurt so much more I'm putting in the work now—not to win you back, but to become someone I recognize again, to reach a place where I can recognize what things in life are worth prioritize.

More than anything, I want you to know I'm getting better. Your belief and investment in me was never wasted. I'm finally choosing to become that man again because somewhere along the way, I stopped being someone I was proud of. You saw qualities in me that I lost sight of, and now I fight every day to become that person again.

My life is going to look very different than it did just a few months ago. I'm rebuilding connections, trust, health, and my identity from the ground up. It's overwhelming at times, but for the first time in a long time, I'm hopeful. Losing everything forced me to be desperate enough to confront what I'd been avoiding for years. When my back was against the wall and there was nowhere left to run, I found a part of me that refused to quit. That's the part I'm choosing to build off of. The drive to keep going was the first reminder that a good version of me exists.

I don't know what the future holds. Im trying not to think beyond the 24 hours ahead right now. I don't know if our paths will cross again or if this is truly the end of our story. But I do know one thing: Joy is found in people, purpose, honesty, and showing up for those we love. It's not found in substances, titles, money, or accomplishments. Those things can make life comfortable, but they can't provide a sense of wholeness or belonging. Perhaps that was always the lesson I needed to learn from these grueling months.

Thank you for everything you did for me over the years. You were such a significant part of my life. You loved me through seasons that very few people would have. I'll never forget that. Regardless of where life takes us, I'll always think highly of you and hope life gives you every opportunity you deserve.

If cutting me off permanently is what's best for you, I'll understand and respect that completely. It will always hurt knowing I had so much good in my life and let addiction uproot it all, but I don't want to carry that as shame forever. I want to carry it as a reminder of what happens when I stop protecting my recovery and lose sight of my values.

Take care of yourself. I truly hope life is kind to you. Thank you for loving me when you did and believing in me when I couldn't believe in myself. I hope one day I have the ability to show up for others like you do on a consistent basis.

Love,
Mr. W