Maybe that's what happens when a tornado meets a volcano

When Eminem released his new album, I admit that I was skeptical...let's face it, Encore and Relapse were subpar to say the least. The popish beats and anticlimactic, generic lyrics only spoke to creepers and posers. Both albums lacked any trace of the bitingly fierce poeticism that made Eminem one of the most influential artists of our generation.
All of the songs in Recovery convinced me that he truly is back to himself again. But one song in particular made me recall the most passionate relationship I've ever had. For a long time I have tried to refrain from publicly acknowledging the impact of this affair, or how often I think of him. But the song "Love the way you lie" on Em's new album certainly helped me confront the internal firefight that to this day, comes and goes (sometimes on the daily) in my own heart.
If you have yet to listen to the song, Em sums up every codependent, twisted, abusive relationship and raps about the cyclical nature that some how wholly consumes the partners involved.
For anyone who has experienced the vicious addiction of a mutually codependent relationship, the song opens windows to memories that you thought were locked up and put away forever.

"I can't tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like"...

But I guess it all starts with a shared need:
I was in London for a whole school year, had never been out of the country and didn't know anyone at all. Insecure, young, without purpose or direction, and woefully friendless.

He lived in London his whole life,  had never been anywhere else. Life kicked his ass every day...he hustled. It was his way of earning the only power and respect that he could get out of the world...it didn't matter if the middle class regarded it as legitimate or not--if there was one thing he would never let go of, it was his pride.

To me, he represented the injustices and shortcomings of "civilised society". In my eyes he was smart,  witty and charming, and horrifically misunderstood. He had such potential, but his status in life was determined before he even had a chance (or the means) to object. Nurturing all of these underdeveloped talents became my project. He knew his way around, was street smart, and he adored me...in the beginning, anyway. He embodied the stability and security that I desperately needed in my new, foreign home.

To him, I personified the unknown and the exotic. I quickly became the adventure and intrigue in what he considered a mundane existence....and I was the only person who seemed to have any confidence or faith in him.
You see, we needed each other...

"You ever love somebody so much you can barely breathe when you're with em? You meet and neither one of you even knows what hit em? Got that warm fuzzy feeling, yeah them chills"...

We spent every waking moment together. It was intoxicating. When we were together, it wad like being on some sort of upper. It was as if our senses were limited in a way....we were only aware of each other. We used to walk along the Thames every night, and I honestly couldn't tell you what it looked like, or what struck me about being in one of the most historically abundant cities in the world...But I can tell you that his eyes glowed golden and always looked like the end of a fire, still burning. The only architecture in London that interested me was his: always stolid, always bold, sharp and angular. I know he felt the same way, because every so often I would feel the heat of his stare on me...fervid and intense, as if he were tying to keep us both in that moment forever.

"You swore you've never hit 'em, never do nothing to hurt 'em. Now you're in each other's face spewing venom"

Crazy thing is, both of us had been hurt before...badly. We clung to each other in those early days as if trying not to drown. We stared at those jagged, ugly scars from past relationships, and tried to heal together...licking each other's wounds. "You are my world, my everything" he would whisper. I would say nothing, just hold on a little tighter.
Soon enough, we realized the complications of our situation. He had a baby on the way from a past relationship that didn't work out. I was only in London on a student visa for a year. He was a drug dealer, and I was determined to become a writer of sorts. He was wildly jealous and I was flirtatious by nature and as a prerequisite of my occupation as a bartender.
The rumours started flying, he started drinking and became his own best customer. I could see him spiralling and it frustrated me. His jealousy surfaced and took on many different forms--substance abuse was typical and his newest habit was verbal and emotional abuse. I was convinced that I didn't want this kind of relationship...but I wouldn't leave. Instead we ran, me chasing him in the rain, him grabbing my arm and forcing me to look into his pleading eyes, me wrenching him off and storming away..."where you goin? I'm leavin' you! No you ain't"....and he's right, I wouldn't leave. I stayed, because when it was going good, it was like nothing I'd ever felt before. I stayed because I was convinced that anyone who could feel that strongly about me, must really love me. I stayed to get my next fix.

It seemed that fire was always pumping through our bodies....until one day, the fire got out of control--it was the second time I found out that he had cheated on me. I was numb...I felt cold and lifeless. My dead eyes looked at him without seeing. My fire was out. I think that terrified him. He jumped up, and tried to beat the fire back into me. I didn't feel it. My body was like an old, abandoned, condemned house. There wasn't a trace of the fire and passion that once coursed through my veins. Suddenly they felt like empty hallways, with pictures hanging on a slant, dusty and neglected.
The worst part about it is that I had hoped that writing about it would allow me to let go. But that's the thing...
"if she ever tries to fucking leave again, Ima tie her to the bed and set this house on fire"    
And he did. I tried to leave. Physically speaking, I succeeded. Got on a plane and left the country hoping to escape the pain. But we had chained ourselves together long ago. The end of us meant the end of Me. At least for a long time.
It's been a year...and I'm still addicted to him.