Addiction; being abnormally tolerant to and dependent on something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming.

Hi. My name is August, and I have an addiction.

In my 25 short years on this earth, I've known people with a wide variety of addictions. I've had a crush on a hockey playing alcoholic. My best friend was a quiet nymphomaniac. I dated the biggest prescription drug addict the island I come from will likely ever see. Myself? Outside of my strange adoration for all things caffinated and my cigarettes, I'd never really thought myself a true addict; all of the addicts I knew had habits for things that were self damaging. At 23, I realized I had a worse addiction than all of them combined.

The most serious relationship I'd ever had prior to The Boy was the notorious Musician; a messy-haired, guitar playing brilliance who proved in the end that genius does border on some insanity, on both of our parts. He was beautiful, and his music stopped my heart in my chest, and the need to keep him, in spite of his humanistic flaws, overshadowed every other aspect of my life. By the time we came to an ugly and hostile end, I'd lost everyone. The social circle I had been such an active part of prior to our relationship wanted nothing to do with me; my own best friend told me that we made each other volatile, and I had to choose between my heart and my pseudo-sister. I chose him.

Luckily, she didn't really mean the part that went, "if you get out of my jeep, we're done."

Like Frodo and his seemingly imbecilic 'ring of power', I was willing to sacrifice any and everything for an entity that made me miserable. Why? Because he loved me, and I had to be special if someone like him; someone who made perfect music and had perfect hair, could love me. Why? Because I was obsessed with being his girlfriend. I was hooked on having a real 'starving artist' in my corner, writing songs about me and making me feel important.

Because I was addicted to it.

Eventually, like most addicts, I hit my own version of rock bottom; crying in my car in his driveway, with the bags he'd packed for me in my backseat and my birthday cake/dinner still sitting, untouched, in his kitchen. Then came months of a vigorous self-appointed rehabilitation, which involved rebuilding my social life and desperately trying to find another person to make me feel as good as The Musician had. After a slew of other musicians, jocks, and random hospital workers (I thought a boyfriend with a career would be a good upgrade) failed to make me weak in the knees, I discovered my real problem.

Relying on other people to make me feel important.

That is what brought me to England in the first place; the need to disappear on my own, somewhere no one knew me but myself. England was my Betty Ford Clinic for 2 weeks, where I learned that I was strong enough to kick my habit back at home.

Ironically, in doing so I met the real boy of my dreams.

His story is much sweeter, and therefore saved for his own post. He deserves it.

My name is August. I am 2 years sober, and finally happy.