No matter how hard I pushed, I couldn't be the cure of her disease.
Without fail, my pressing reason, trying to grind out the addiction plaguing her life, would bounce right back to remind me that it isn't my sobriety to claim.
She needed her own help, not mine.

Though I know now it was never my job, and I knew all along it was never my fault, it does sting my withered heart to know it was never my responsibility.
That maybe I never did and never could make a difference.

But the saddest page of this story is where I finally come to terms with the jealousy flowing through my veins. Pure unparalleled jealousy and hatred for a chemical that without fail has controlled countless lives.
Jealousy that stems from the realization that I couldn't and won't ever be her drug of choice. I'm not as good as that simple compound.
Everything my life had to offer pales in comparison to an intangible high.
My humor, my laughter, and my smile were worthless compared to the instant satisfaction that her drug gave her. My life becomes secondary to an inanimate chemical.
My heart became a side order to an entree of addiction.

-RÆ