It was a long painful summer. Stomach perpetually attacked with whiskey to take me as far away as possible from her. She was devoted and blinded by love still—wouldn’t leave my side. I refused to say I loved her anymore—she compensated by saying it all the time. I watched football, listened to obnoxious music, ignored her whenever possible, and slept on the floor rather than our bed. By winter I had succeeded. She was gone. I stopped drinking for a while. It didn’t last. A few months later I picked up where I had left off. This time to try to forget the mistake I had just made.