A Love Lost to Addiction, A Recovery Found in Benoni

With a heavy breath that seems to carry the weight of my world, I unfurl my fingers, letting my pen touch the page. Today, the silence of the early morning in Benoni is a canvas for words that are reluctant to come, for they shape the narrative of my deepest shame.

Dear T,

As dawn breaks over the calm of the East Rand, its gentle light streams through my window, casting patterns on the wall that remind me of the days when light danced in your hair. The peace of this Gauteng morning is so starkly different from the turmoil that churns within me, a daily reminder of the love lost and the damage done.

Writing to you now, I think back to our life before, to the normality of our routines—commuting through the bustle of Johannesburg, weekend getaways to the serene outskirts, or the occasional shopping spree in Boksburg, each moment now tinged with a sorrowful hue.

Today’s letter pulls me back to the heart of my regret—the darkest event of my alcoholism, when I allowed my addiction to steer the course of our life together into tempestuous waters. The pivotal climax wasn’t marked by one catastrophic event but rather a series of tidal waves that chipped away at the foundation we had built.

I recall one night in particular: the echo of slammed doors in our home, a mishap turned into a catastrophe by my intoxicated state. The painful clarity with which I can still picture the disappointment in your eyes haunts me more than the hazy recollections of my stumbling words and stumbles in the dim light. It was then that I finally saw, through the fog of my stupor, the depth of despair I had cast you into—the love you held for me, battling the growing impulse to leave.

Each day, you tried to reach out, your hands stretching across the abyss that my drinking had carved between us. And each day, I retreated further, until that outstretched hand could no longer bridge the distance, not even when you reached out wanting me to go to alcohol rehab in Benoni, asking if I was ready to seek help.

Your absence is a void no words can fill, a silence no amount of noise can dispel. The counselors here in the tranquil outskirts of Benoni speak of forgiveness, of facing our shadows to walk into the light. Yet I find myself in a liminal space, caught between the need to forgive myself and the unshakeable feeling that to do so would be to forget the gravity of loss my addiction brought upon us both.

What haunts me now is not just the memories of broken promises but the stark finality of the consequences. Your decision to seek refuge elsewhere, to give us the space we needed, was supposed to be a pause, not an end. The cruel theft of time that the accident on the return from Boksburg to Johannesburg granted us neither pause nor peace, only an abrupt stop to what should have been a lengthy narrative of love and growth.

This letter is the outpouring of a troubled soul, an attempt to navigate the chasm between repentance and redemption. It’s here, in this Johannesburg rehab center embraced by the whispers of Benoni’s tranquil veld, that I confront the ghost of my past and the stark reality of my present—a present where you live only in memory and these letters.

I cannot ask for your forgiveness anymore, T. Nor can I promise you a future that we both know is no longer ours to share. What I can do is swear to honor the love we had by walking the path of sobriety with a resolute heart, by carrying your memory as a beacon through darker days, and by hoping that somewhere, you are free of the pain I’ve caused.

With a repentant heart and a hopeful spirit, Tony

The sun has risen higher now, bathing the room in a forgiving glow. I fold the letter, another step on the craggy path to healing, and place it with the others. Each word, heavy with emotion, is a testament to a love that endures beyond mistakes, beyond tragedy, as I continue to seek solace in the sobering light of dawn