I Ain't No Savior

I struggled to come up from the depths of my slumber. Still asleep, yet I knew I was being observed. Finally, I was conscious enough to have my brain signal my eyes to open. He was laying on his side there beside me, propped on the palm of his hand, looking at me.

“What? What’s wrong? What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just looking at you. You breathe so well, as perfect as anyone I’ve ever seen or heard breathing.”

“Okay. That’s a very random thing to say to someone. No one’s ever said that to me before. Thank you? (I think).”

“No, seriously. You take deep breaths in through your nose and then you exhale through your mouth. It is all very steady and perfect. It’s quiet, no wheezing, nothing to break the rhythm except an occasional sigh..”

Now I was getting a little weirded out.

It had been over eight years since I last had this man in my bed. Now this. Maybe I was dreaming, still asleep, just dreaming I had woken up.

He spoke again. “I’m sorry I woke you up. I can’t sleep. I just can’t sleep. I’m all messed up from the hospital routine. Eleven days of nurses and respitory techs and doctors waking me up at all hours… I just can’t seem to sleep.”

Then he started crying. I was married to this man for 16 years. I was there with him when he buried his mother, his father, his brother. I was there when he shipped out to the Persian Gulf, and again when he returned. I was there for the birth of his children, for hospitalizations of his children. I was there as he dug graves for our family pets over the years. I was there. I had never seen him cry.

Except one other time. He cried when I told him I was leaving him almost nine years ago.

“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

“You saved my life. You saved me. I would have died in that house, all alone, but you came and called the ambulance and came to the hospital every day, and you saved me. I would have left the hospital this morning and gone back to that lonely house and kept right on doing what I have been doing for all these years, and it would have killed me. But here I am, with you again, where I have always wanted to be. You saved me.”

How does one respond to something like that?

Part of me feels guilty. I didn’t save you: I almost destroyed you. I am not a hero; I am a traitor. If I hadn’t left you, would you have gone so far down the suicidal path you wandered so aimlessly all these eight years? If I had been whole, if I had been well, if I had been faithful, if I had been loyal, if I had stood by you as you stood by me, would you have come so close, would you have gone so far, would you have come face to face with death eleven days ago?

Part of me feels justified. I had to leave. I had to save my own life. I had to reclaim my sanity. I had to get better. There was so much healing to be done, and I had to do it alone. There was really no other way. I never stopped loving you, but I could not die for you.

Part of me feels angry. You could have had me back years ago. You made choices that made it impossible for me to return before now. You loved the drug more than you loved me, more than your children, more than life itself.

Part of me feels empathy. I know you loved the drug more than you loved me, for I once loved it more than I loved you. I know, I understand, I’ve been right where you are this moment.

Part of me feels grateful. Having you here makes me feel whole again. I want to wake up every day with you nearby. I missed you when we were apart. I longed to feel complete. My home felt empty. My home, now our home…once again.

How does one respond to something like that?

“I haven’t saved you. I just love you. I can’t save you. You must do that – all I can do is love you.”

“No, you saved me. You're my savior. Your love has always saved me.”

How does one respond to something like that?

I’m Maze. I’m an addict.