Obsession Consumes You

Love is an obsession that rarely makes sense. The things we love most often defy logic, and yet they define us, cling to us long after they’re gone. I’ve been trying to unravel why some memories feel like they’re burned into who I am while others dissolved into nothingness. It’s never the sensible, practical things that stay with us. It’s the irrational loves, the chaotic obsessions, the things that broke us and somehow still mattered more than anything else.

I stumbled upon a Theo Von podcast recently, and he was talking about his past drug use. When he spoke about cocaine, it wasn’t the detached words of someone performing regret for the sake of appearances. There was a softness in his tone like he was describing an old friend. His words had a poetry to them and an ache that was impossible to ignore. It was clear he loved the drug, even if it hurt him. That sounds absurd if you’ve never loved something. How can someone love a drug that ruins you? But that’s what obsession does. It doesn’t care if the object of your affection is worthy or not. It only cares that it consumed you.

Hearing him talk about it, I started thinking about the nature of missing something. About the way loss digs into you and refuses to let go. You can only ever miss something if you truly loved it, and not just in the superficial way we use the word love to describe things we enjoy. I’m talking about the kind of love that becomes a part of you. That intertwines with your sense of self so deeply that losing it feels like losing a limb. When you lose something like that, it never disappears. It lingers just beneath the skin, waiting to remind you of what’s no longer there.

It’s not the kind of thing you can bury or forget. It stays with you, popping into your head at the most inconvenient times. A scent, a song, a fleeting moment of déjà vu. It doesn’t take much to drag it all back. Sometimes, it feels like the more you try to let it go, the stronger its grip becomes. And it doesn’t matter if it was a person, an idea, or even a thing. If it mattered to you, if it truly defined you in some way, it sticks.

I think about how people demand proof of love. Maybe it’s because they want to be missed in that way, to know they left a mark on someone’s life that time can’t erase. Women especially seem to crave this. It’s why they ask questions like “What do you like about me?” On the surface it’s a simple question, but underneath there’s something more desperate. They’re asking to be adored in a way that can’t be faked. And when a man struggles to answer or when he stumbles over his words and gives a half-hearted response, they know. They might not admit it, but they know. If he can’t see her in that irrational, all consuming way, then there is no true desire.

Love, obsession, whatever you want to call it, doesn’t require an explanation. It doesn’t ask for validation because it’s self-evident. You feel it in your gut, in the way the world shifts when it’s in your focus, in the way everything else seems dull by comparison. And when it’s gone, it leaves behind a void that nothing else can fill. You can try to replace it, to move on, but the memory sticks.

When you love something deeply, you don’t just lose it when it’s gone, you lose a part of yourself. It’s why the reminders hurt so much. They’re not just memories of what you had. They’re reminders of who you were when you had it. Losing it is a kind of death. The rest of life goes on, but it’s just quieter now.

That’s the price of obsession. To care so deeply is to risk losing pieces of yourself along the way. The rest of the world becomes a dull hum that fades into the background. But what you loved stays. Forever. It doesn’t matter if it was irrational, destructive, or even painful. It mattered, and that’s enough to make it unforgettable.

Subscribe to get articles like this delivered to your inbox for free!