My boyfriend has always been adamantly against substance abuse. It was one of the many things I fell in love with– that he stood for something in a world where so many choose to follow the crowd. He went to a high-school with the highest rate of substance abuse in the state, yet he had never tried alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs of any form. I was proud of him for that.
Although I have had friends that get drunk every weekend or get high more days than not, I myself have chosen not to. It wasn’t a matter of availability– I had plenty of opportunities to smoke, or drink, or party. It was a conscious choice not to. I have drank at family parties; at family dinners I might have a glass of wine or a flute of champagne for a celebration of a special occasion, at cookouts I might have a few sips of beer, but that’s it. I have never been drunk. I have never been high. These are things that I am proud of.
A year and a half ago, bf went to a party and got drunk. Or at least that’s what he told me at the time. Now he claims to have just gotten buzzed. I don’t believe him. He was too hungover to go to school the next day; I had to pick him up from his friend’s house after school.
Seven months ago, when his best friend turned eighteen, he started smoking cigars with him. This irked me, but not severely. It was a bit of a bonding activity for them, and the thought of them wearing monocles and sitting around in bathrobes and bunny slippers was to silly of a visual to pass-up.
Six months ago, while we were broken up and he was seeing someone else, he started smoking cigarettes. I wasn’t impressed, but I wasn’t too shocked or horrified– I myself had smoked a few clove cigarettes in celebration of my eighteenth birthday. I had since then become a bit of a “bitterette” smoker, only smoking when I was pissed off about something and needed to clear my mind.
Three months ago, I noticed that his smoking had increased. He was no longer having the occasional cigarette because it was “fun” and gave him a nicotine high. This had turned into a cigarette to wake up, a cigarette on the drive to work, at least two cigarettes while at work, a cigarette or two on the drive home depending on if he made any stops along the way, possibly another cigarette upon arriving home, and a cigarette before going to bed. I was beginning to lose tolerance with his smoking: he smelled like smoke, the second-hand smoke in the car gave me headaches, and he couldn’t afford it.
Now, he still smokes just as much. He’s stopped trying to say that he’s not addicted, because he has tried (and failed) to quit twice. He smokes as much as half a pack per day depending on whether or not he’s working. His immune system has decreased. His teeth have started to yellow from nicotine stains. His hands smell constantly of cigarettes, his skin reeks the smell of tobacco. His mouth tastes stale and burnt. It is disgusting.
On Saturday, I found out that he has started smoking marijuana. He hid it from me for two weeks, until I asked him point blank on Saturday morning. I found out that he had smoked it five times in the past week and a half. I am so unspeakably disappointed. I’m torn in every direction. Part of me hates him for sinking to that level. Part of me feels like a hypocrite because I’ve been tempted by curiosity before. Part of me wants to slap him across the face. Part of me wants to smoke it with him to see what it’d be like. But I can’t. I refuse to compromise my morals simply because he chose to.
He laughs about it. Like it’s something to be proud of. As if I am missing out on something.
That night I told him exactly how I feel about it. I told him how I’m angry, how I’m disappointed, how I’m hurt. I thought that our talk had some meaning to him.
Yesterday I ended up crying in front of him because I was still so upset about it. He seemed to care. He held me in his arms.
Today, he smoked pot again.
I am furious at him for pretending to care. I am angry at myself for thinking it would matter. I’m hurt that he is choosing pot over me. I’m disappointed in his choices. I’m embarrassed to be dating him.
I am embarrassed to be with him. Embarrassed.
I’m still in love with the man I fell in love with. The problem is, he is no longer there. The man that has taken his place disgusts me.
Title from Passive by A Perfect Circle
