The cat behind me sends my body into a state of near defeat. I can't breathe, my chest feels like a boa constrictor has me in its grasp, my eyes, my nose, everything runs, and I cough like I have tuberculosis. And yet, this neurotic feline sits behind me outstretching its paw and pressing it against my shoulder. It reaches for me, calls for me. I am allergic to this cat, Domino, as much as I am allergic to heroin. And it still searches endlessly for me, always maneuvering its way back into my life.

Heroin became my sweetest, kindest, most tolerant lover. She cradled me in her inviting arms when I needed consolation. She was the friend I called upon when I wanted to celebrate, because it wasn't a party until she walked in the door. She laid in my bed, caressing my skin, delivering to me everything I desired. She never accused me of straying, she never turned me away, she never disowned me for my imperfections. She's intoxicating. She was also the most hateful, hurtful, backstabbing lover one could ever imagine. When I wanted her more she wanted me less. She distanced me from my family, my friends. She drove me to complete isolation, decided for me what I was doing every day. She took pleasure in seeing my pain. And that made me crave her even more. She would never leave me. She's the type of lover that will hold you for hours, kiss you softly, whisper that you are all she needs, and when you lie together in bed she screams that she hates you, throws her clothes on, breaks a glass on your head and smashes the windows out of your car.

And so is the world of the junkie. Until November 3, 2009. That was the day I left the one love that would never leave me. That was the first day of my life.