They say it’s better to have loved and lost. It’s a sentiment that I’ve debated many times in the last several years, and as time continues to pass me idly by, it’s one I’ve come to resent.

It’s not the sort of advise I find meaningful or helpful. Love is destructive. Love is demanding. It takes everything from you and ruins you for all eternity, because here’s the thing, once you’re in it — you’ll never find anything like it. It’s addictive. It’s climbing Mount Everest. It’s swimming in the Amazon. Its adrenaline in the purest form. It’s tasting the nectar of the gods. It’s life and death and it’s everything. It’s in everything. It’s exquisite. And it’s painful.

Is it better to have loved and lost than not at all?

Maybe for some. Maybe it’s worth losing every fiber of your being just for chance to love someone so dearly that you’d risk it all for one moment, one breath, one taste, one summit. But I think…I think it’s sinful, to grant an addict a taste of their kryptonite, and strip them of every semblance of it. You get the love and wonder and the incredulity, and then all that’s left is pain and sorrow and guilt and hopelessness, and yes, there’s love there, but not really. It comes with all the symptoms — except without the high.

So I just stopped cold-turkey, as they say. Because existing in a world where he isn’t in it? I can’t bear the thought. The memories aren’t enough to satiate my craving, and the pain flows endlessly. So I gave it up. I rejected the world, my family; I rejected him.

It’s a little lonely out here in the void all alone, but I’ve gotten used to the silence. I’m comfortable now, where I can be vulnerable and not feel all those emotions… I can feel safe now. Safe from loss of something I almost had. I’m safe from the taste of that horrible, beautiful, endearing, terrible thing called love.