I apologize for having to tell you like this, but it is truly the best way. I cannot go on pretending like nothing is the matter, and I fear you will think I have been trying to keep it secret if I do not disclose it. You deserve the truth. You need it if you are going to continue loving me for who I am. Otherwise, you will be loving a charlatan, a goddamn phony, a lie.
I have an addiction–one that trumps all others–a madness, really. I lose sleep over it. I sleep in over it. I may be seen in a depressive, moody, or distracted state. I know I’ve been missing a lot of family functions; I put off dinner dates; I haven’t called in weeks. I have probably come off as a procrastinator, a shut-in, a misanthropic, paranoid, socially awkward sociopath, constantly referring to the phantasms of my delusions. This is why. I will not ask you not to worry in spite of all this. You should. Because it isn’t an addiction I can ever quench.
I know what it is doing to me, but I can’t stop. I’ve tried. I listlessly lounge about, seeking release from its constant heavy presence–its grating breath behind every thought, but it remains.
It is both a love and a chaotic destruction of myself. I cannot–will not ever stop. I had to write this, because you deserve the truth:
I am a writer.