Although I moved on romantically, my thoughts and love always dwelled with him. I figured, there was no reason anybody wanted to suffer with a substance use disorder and there had to be more that we as a culture were missing. By 2014, I began my bachelors program working on my certification to become a drug and alcohol counselor. He said, “I’ve heard couples that do this together form a deep bond and that it’s an amazing experience.” We fought that night and I asked him to never mention it again. He brought up heroin once to me in May 2012. He was like a candy that was hard shelled on the outside, but gooey and soft on the inside. The kind of guy that held my hair back when I was sick and helped me clean up the mess, but didn’t hesitate to call me “Pukeahontas.” His features stern, but it was all a facade. His tongue was sharp and his wit unmatched. The only person I know that effortlessly passed calculus in college without having to study.
The way he’d shift his weight on his feet. Listening to some underground hip-hop or “crunchy groove.” I picture him in his black shin high socks, just above his vans, his basketball shorts, his tanktop he wore intentionally because he worked hard for his muscular arms, his olive skin, long dark hair that hung across his deep brown eyes, that he’d push out of his face with the hand that held the birthmark he was self-conscious about.
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When my grief washes over me, I long for the sunny days in April 2012 when we were driving with the windows down. Marshall Ethan O’Neil was without a doubt my favorite person on the planet.
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