{Part 3} Welcome to My Circus, Come Meet My Monkeys!
The Long Hard Road Out of Hell - Deception, Betrayal, Self-awareness and Gratitude
AUDIO TITLE: They Move on Tracks of Never-Ending Light
ARTIST: This Will Destroy You
WRITTEN BY: Kara DioGuardi, Christopher Royal King, Jeremy Adam Galindo
"LOVE, like the most potent drug, offers a fleeting escape from our pain—but when its high fades, we are left confronting a raw vulnerability that mirrors the emptiness of addiction."
- The Dope Doula
Four days ago, I was dumped. Or something like that. A brief, yet intensely intimate relationship ended abruptly. It was sudden, unexpected and jarring.
I was devastated—I felt everything. EVERYTHING, from debilitating anguish to fierce rage. But I was preponderantly stunned. I still don’t know what happened. Blindsided.
The day started with warmth and care, and then, without warning, it was over.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Game Over - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - One Token, One Play - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
EVERY RELATIONSHIP IS FATED AND SIGNIFICANT—romantic, professional, or otherwise—each connection serves (the same) purpose: personal growth.
In every relationship, we teach and learn. Through our behaviour, actions and words, we impart wisdom that often only becomes clear once our paths diverge. Sometimes, the most significant growth is associated with heartbreak, discomfort, or loss, prompting reflection after the relationship ends. When no insight is gained and no growth occurs, the scenario will likely repeat.1
Ultimately, we all want growth and expansion, not restriction and contraction.
I received a text with a vague (and bullshit) accusation hinting at foul play. It didn’t make sense, so I asked for clarification. I didn’t receive any. I was blocked. My indignation surged at being unjustly accused and silenced before I could defend myself. I didn’t know where to direct my anger, hurt, and confusion; I felt utterly winded.
My surroundings weren’t conducive to emotional processing, release or relief. I was trapped, confined in a tiny room; I may as well have been strapped into a straitjacket. My body betrayed the silent shock that overwhelmed my mind. My muscles tensed as if bracing for an unseen impact, each fibre coiling in a sudden, involuntary spasm, while my jaw tightened, the masseter and temporalis muscles like a vice locking my maxillary and mandibular dentitions together, fusing them into an unyielding barrier, accompanied by the familiar dull, throbbing ache.
My heart had been ripped violently from my chest, blood seeping through the white fabric of the proverbial straitjacket, staining my very sense of self, with my screams echoing into an uncaring void with a banner:
My shoulders rose toward my ears, and I hunched forward as though attempting to shield my heart from further pain. Then, my posture collapsed. It was as if the entire structure of my being instinctively recoiled, mirroring the inner turmoil—a stark, frozen tableau of sorrow and disbelief.
Was that reaction disproportional for what some might call a brief online love affair? Perhaps. But stick with me, we’re almost there.
A year ago, I would have replayed all the ways I had been cheated, deceived, or misrepresented, wrapping it all up with a lesson about vulnerability and the consequences of opening my heart to yet another man. But then, I simply didn’t have the self-awareness to see beyond my victimhood.
This still rang true two days ago.
The question that echoed through my mind was: “Why?” Eighty times per minute.
Why did this happen? Why am I utterly shattered?
So I wrote. I crafted a coherent narrative of events; of our entire love affair, etching the exploit into the fabric of reality with black ink to white feint margin paper. Reminiscent of tedious study notes, untidy corrections, and adjustments scribbled on all pages, creating an intricate web, mapping my thoughts onto events and with dialogue recalled and analysed and reinterpreted and dismissed. Everything I knew and everything I wanted to know, all penned and webbed and mapped, to the corner of self-loathing and psycho-bitch, and there the floodgates opened. Gushing and flooding my consciousness with grace and truth - my truth; unfeigned insight; into myself.
Journaling works, people! (And I didn’t even need validation!)
The truth is, I’m navigating a very vulnerable space, one filled with existential questions and deep reflections. I’m redefining what safety, home, and self mean in a world that isn’t exactly supportive of such introspection. And somewhere along the line, I underestimated my ability to dissociate - I got mad skills!
I’ve been using drugs—relatively successfully—since I was twelve to escape unwanted sensations, emotions, and experiences. Yet, I pushed this coping mechanism too far, diminishing its effectiveness and tumbling into dependence.
Over the years, I had come to rely on methamphetamine as a lifeline—a means of coping, escaping, and simply existing. However, as the drug began to lose its effectiveness, my mind unconsciously sought a substitute for that lost sense of relief and security. This new romance stepped into that space, and swiftly fulfilled the role that meth once played, offering a familiar promise of safety and survival.
The connection was instant, emerging with a surprising intensity and deep significance.
The excitement, anticipation, and perceived safety offered an escape, a beautiful alternative to the present moment, which has always felt masochistic. The interaction became a welcome and useful tool for dissociation. An alternate reality I was transported to via instant message. I had something to look forward to at regular intervals throughout the day, something novel to get me out of bed in the mornings. I loved that his inherent communication style felt trauma-informed and I got to experience the treatment that I advocate for, relating that says: “I’m not bothered by the fact that you inject drugs. You can never do anything that’s not OK if you are being yourself.” No fine print, no expectations, no pressure, no judgment. Only care.
Biologically, the experience is striking. Even though long-term meth use has depleted dopamine and strained the adrenal system, the brain can still experience emotional highs—especially those linked to love, connection, and social bonding—because different neurochemical systems and circuits come into play during moments of intimacy.
Even with reduced dopamine, the brain’s remaining reward circuits can respond to new, intense emotional experiences, like falling in love or forming a deep connection with someone new.
This emotional high isn’t driven solely by dopamine; it’s a complex blend of oxytocin, norepinephrine, and serotonin: excitement, attachment, and anticipation.
In simple terms, love is a powerful drug.
But is it addictive?
When that connection was abruptly severed, it felt like the emotional equivalent of reversing an opioid overdose with naloxone—a sudden, violent shift from bliss to cold turkey, immediate withdrawal. The sudden loss plunged me into unbearable emotional pain: raw, exposed, and vulnerable, with no clear reason or support to ease the transition. This reaction triggered deep-rooted memories of childhood trauma associated with rejection, abandonment, and fear.
I wanted to die.
When our safety, dignity, or a sense of belonging is threatened, the amygdala signals the hypothalamus to kickstart the body’s fight-or-flight response. The prefrontal cortex (PFC), which normally helps with rational thinking, emotional regulation, and impulse control, assesses the risk and formulates a response. Yet, under chronic stress, trauma, or drug use—especially methamphetamine—the PFC becomes weakened, allowing the amygdala to take over and generate overwhelming emotional responses without logical guidance (remember that intense breakup in high school when you felt you’d cease to exist, unable to eat or sleep, and willing to do anything, ANYTHING? Yeah, like that).
The hippocampus plays its part by attaching emotional significance to memories. When a new experience echoes a past trauma or loss, it retrieves those memories, prompting the amygdala to overcompensate and trigger intense emotional responses.
In the wake of a breakup, memories of abandonment or past hurt can make the pain feel immediate and insurmountable.
In short, this relationship was my methamphetamine.
Why don’t we have harm-reduction protocols for Love? It has severe harm potential & if consumed irresponsibly, love can destroy lives and inflict intolerable suffering.
I struggle to reconcile my present emotional landscape, which I once believed impassable (because nothing is impossible). Just yesterday, I was a wreck—yet the dramatic shift in my emotional and mental state within twenty-four hours of seeing how my physiological response wasn’t the result of the perceived malice and betrayal but that I’ve carried it with me since childhood and that, fundamentally, I was cross-addicting, is surreal!
I’m not heartbroken because I lost the love of my existence!
I take that back - actually, I did! I didn’t realise that meth was the love of my existence. It served me selflessly and reliably, fearlessly, most of my life.
Meth didn’t abandon me. It didn’t reject me.
I outgrew it.
And then my nervous system played me - fooling me into thinking I was in love with a man who could never reach the bar set by my beloved. No man can. And that’s OK.
I am terrified of what lies ahead, but I’m content and sincerely grateful for the experience.
Although communication would have been appreciated and much of the devastation might have been mitigated, I am aware that others involved were also hijacked by dysregulated nervous systems, fuelled by fear, with their prefrontal “brake cables” effectively disconnected. Something triggered a sense that his safety, dignity or belonging was threatened, activating an extreme flight response. It’s not personal. His limbic system is keeping him alive.
He’s impervious that there is no threat.
As survivors of developmental trauma, we’re always running, fighting, people-pleasing or faux-dying for our lives—until we’re not.
Gratitude though? Nobody is sincerely grateful for abandonment or rejection.
- True. However, I am grateful for the experience because I gained something invaluable: Hope.
This experience showed me that regardless of the extensive damage I have inflicted upon my brain, this long, hard road out of hell isn’t the death of joy or pleasure, it’s not some impending doom.
This journey, which hovers over me like a dementor, is now less intimidating and debilitating. I might have an actual shot at pulling this off!
I’m reassured that it’s PAWS, not a lobotomy and that I do have the capacity for small and occasional moments of enjoyment, fulfilment, affection, intimacy, and pleasure.
I am grateful for the self-awareness that appeared seemingly by magic and pushed me through the pain. I have immense gratitude for the experience because, for the first time in almost a decade, I experienced the sensations of my aliveness.
When the road feels too long, gruelling, and hopeless, I have this souvenir to remind me of what’s waiting on the other side.
Thank you for reading Matters of Substance.
If it should rear its nasty head, please resist the urge to be cunt. 🖤
I believe in you!
In this context, I refer to the natural transitions in our lives—beginnings and endings that come with relationships ending, friendships evolving, or the loss of employment and material circumstances. This does not include situations involving abuse, violence, or rape, nor is it meant to imply that victims of such trauma are responsible for their suffering or must change themselves in response
Can this be required reading for every girl and woman? Can we get this into textbooks and schools and magazines (do mags still print?)?? This is insanely brilliant. You are insanely brilliant. This is making soooo much click for me. I can’t quite absorb your words fast enough. Or deep enough. Off to keep trying … 🤟🏽