I just started reading ‘Eat Pray Love’ and this excerpt stopped me in my tracks.  I’ve been this girl in many ways in the past.  OUCH.

All content is the property of Elizabeth Gilbert and Penguin Books.  Eat Pray Love is available at Barnes & Noble, Borders, Amazon.com, Target, and many other places where books are sold, wordpress just won’t allow me to link to them.   I highly recommend the book and the film.

 

(Dating Tip:  Men LOVE this)

The fact is, I had become addicted to David (in my defense, he had fostered this, being something of a “man-fatale“), and now that his attention was wavering, I was suffering the easily foreseeable consequences.  Addiction is the hallmark of every infatuation-based love story.  It all begins when the object of your adoration bestows upon you a heady, hallucinogenic dose of something you never even dared to admit that you wanted–an emotional speed-ball, perhaps, of thunderous love and roiling excitement.  Soon you start craving that intense attention, with the hungry obsession of any junkie.  When the drug is withheld, you promptly turn sick, crazy and depleted (not to mention resentful of the dealer who encouraged this addiction in the first place but who now refuses to pony up the good stuff anymore–despite the fact that you know he has it hidden somewhere, goddamn it, because he used to give it to you for free).  Next stage finds you skinny and shaking in a corner, certain only that you would sell your soul or rob your neighbors just to have that thing even one more time.  meanwhile, the object of your adoration has now become repulsed by you.  He looks at you like you’re someone he’s never met before, much less someone he once loved with high passion.  The irony is, you can hardly blame him.  I mean, check yourself out.  You’re a pathetic mess, unrecognizable even to your own eyes.

So that’s it.  You have now reached infatuation’s final destination–the complete and merciless devaluation of self.

David and I continued to have our bouts of fun and compatibility during the days, but at night, in his bed, I became the only survivor of a nuclear winter as he visibly retreated from me, more every day, as though I were infectious.  I came to fear nighttime like it was a torturer’s cellar.  I would lie there beside David’s beautiful, inaccessible sleeping body and I would spin into a panic of loneliness and meticulously detailed suicidal thoughts.  Every part of my body pained me.  I felt like I was some kind of primitive spring-loaded machine, placed under far more tension than it had ever been built to sustain, about to blast apart at great danger to anyone standing nearby.  I imagined my body parts flying off my torso in order to escape the volcanic core of unhappiness that had become:  me.  Most mornings, David would wake to find me sleeping fitfully on the floor beside his bed, huddled on a pile of bathroom towels, like a dog.

“What happened now?” he would ask–another man thoroughly exhausted by me.

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