Yesterday, I talked to Carson. In addition to all of his other problems, he’s in a bad place financially. If things don’t start working out for him soon, he’s going to be homeless. He told me that two nights earlier he got really drunk and then took a handful of sleeping pills, nearly overdosing. Yesterday morning, he woke up staring at the rafters of his celling and thought about hanging himself, so he took another sleeping pill and went back to sleep. My afternoon phone call woke him up.
My response? “That sucks and all but, can I come over and fuck you?” I didn’t use those exact words; I’m not a monster. I put it a lot more tactfully, but that’s what I meant.
Later I was thinking about what a selfish asshole I am. This whole time I’ve been thinking that Carson is bad for me, looking at him like he’s my version of a bottle of booze — a bad habit I’ve picked up but know I’ll eventually be strong enough to put down again. But he’s not a substance, he’s a person and I’m just as bad for him as he is for me. Worse, maybe. I’m not a healthy person right now, and I’m only going to drag Carson down. There isn’t much further he can go.
My typical pattern is to have sex with someone first, then maybe develop a friendship with him later. With a little recovery under my belt, I flipped this formula around with Carson. We hung out for a full two months before anything sexual happened between us. I care about Carson. I wish I could be a positive force in his life and boost him up, but I’m too fucked up to help.
This needs to stop. I need to get better before I can attempt another romantic relationship with someone, and I need to stay away from Carson. If I can’t do it for the sake of my health, I need to do it for the sake of his. I am powerless over the disease of sex and love addiction, though. Knowing I need to stop some behavior has never before been enough to make me stop. I need to rely on God now more than ever.
Thy will, not mine, be done.