The Demon I Run From

MEMORIES

As I walked out of Dr Lee's office and outside, facing the reality. I slipped both my hands into the side pocket of the black leather jacket I wore, the cold and snowy weather in Manhattan took me down memory lane.

I grew up in a whirlwind of chaos, never knowing what would happen next. My mom's gambling addiction consumed her, and our home was a constant reminder of her struggles. I remember the sound of shuffling cards, the glow of slot machines, and the stench of stale cigarettes. She'd promise to stop, to change, but the lure of the next big win was too strong.

My dad? He was a ghost, a fleeting presence who'd appear occasionally, only to vanish again. I'd hear whispers of his latest excuse – work, travel, or simply "I need some space." Space from me, from us, from the mess he'd helped create.

I learned to rely on myself from a young age. I'd cook my own meals, do my own homework, and soothe my own tears. My mom's addiction and my dad's absence left me feeling like a tiny, forgotten thing, lost in the shuffle.

But amidst the chaos, I found solace in art. I'd draw for hours, losing myself in colors and shapes. It was my escape, my sanctuary. And when I was old enough, I started designing, creating digital worlds where I could control the chaos.

One memory still haunts me till this day, the time my mom locked me in the closet. I must have been around eight or nine. She'd been on a losing streak, and the stress was eating away at her. I'd tried to comfort her, but she just snapped. Next thing I knew, I was trapped in the darkness, hearing her screams and the sound of shattering glass.

As I grew older, things only got tougher. My mom's addiction worsened, and my dad's absence became more pronounced. I felt like I was drowning in their mess, desperate to break free.

But I did. I worked hard, earned scholarships, and landed a spot in college. I studied design, pouring my heart and soul into my work. And when I graduated, I left. I started fresh in the city, determined to create a new life, one free from the chaos of my childhood.

Or so I thought.

I thought I'd found my savior in Devin Thompson. He was charming, kind, and genuinely cared for me. For the first time in my life, I felt seen, heard, and loved. We met through mutual friends, and our connection was instant. He was my rock, my confidant, my everything.

We fell deeply in love, and our marriage was a dream come true. Devin adored me, and I felt like the luckiest person alive. He saw me as perfect, and I wanted to be that person for him.

But beneath the surface, I was still a mess. My childhood demons lingered, and I hadn't dealt with the emotional baggage. I thought love and marriage would fix me, but they only masked the issues.

Devin tried to be supportive, but he couldn't understand why I'd withdraw, why I'd lash out, or why I'd self-sabotage. He saw me as perfect, but I was far from it. My problems ran deep, and he couldn't control or fix them.

At first, it was little things. I'd get anxious, and Devin would calm me down. I'd have nightmares, and he'd hold me tight. But as time passed, the cracks grew wider. I'd push him away, fearing he'd leave me like my parents did. I'd pick fights, testing his love, wondering if he'd stay.

Devin tried to be patient, but I could see the frustration in his eyes. He felt helpless, like he was losing me. And he was. I was slipping away, consumed by my own darkness.

Our perfect bliss began to crumble. Devin deserved better than a broken wife, but I couldn't fix myself. I felt like I was drowning, and he couldn't save me. The love we shared wasn't enough to overcome my deep-seated issues.