(Originally written September 2025)
I recently finished reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s new book, All the Way to the River. Did I not go to bed three times in a row because I was reading it? Maybe. But I also did not stay up until 4am reading it, so progress is being made.
A lot of folks across the internet are in a tizzy about this book, tearing down Liz Gilbert’s character, calling it a solipsistic (I was definitely familiar with that word before yesterday) and self-indulgent piece by a writer who no longer knows the value of boundaries.
Let the haters hate, I say. Not everyone is made for brutal honesty. Not everyone can digest spirituality and personal evolution laid bare. Not everyone is capable of moving beyond who they think a person SHOULD be to hold space for who a person actually is.
This book, like every honest thing, holds a mirror up to the reader. Not everyone likes what they see.
I love books like this. Oversharing? That’s not a thing in my world. I am willing to lay my heart on the table, bloody and pulsating and gross, and I have a deep affinity for others who can do the same. Even if I did skip most of the poems. Not because they were bad, but because the story was so good and I wanted to keep going.
But this is not a book review. This is about what this book made me think about.
I am a recovered hardcore codependent. Hardcore, people. I loved me a narcissist. Of all the men I dated, got engaged to, and married, ONE was a decent human being. But that was a fluke, because he was engaged when I met him and also my Chinese TA. My subconscious expected him to suck. He didn’t. He did move to China, though. Which is good, because I would have felt bad if I had married him then left him because I am gay.
The rest? Wow. Holy shitshow. A string of holy shitshows to match the holy shitshow of me.
I sacrificed everything for “love.” Jobs, family, friends, school, my credit score, beloved hobbies, my dignity and sanity. I did shit things, embarrassing things like calling a man while HUNKERED RIGHT BELOW HIS BEDROOM WINDOW to see if his phone was on silent or if he was ignoring my calls. It was the latter. I chose people I could not control, then ran myself into the ground trying to control them.
But love and sex addiction? Not me. After all, I can count all the people I have slept with on my two hands. I have acquaintances who have slept with 30, 50, 150 people. I have never been a sex addict.
Still, as Liz dove into what characterizes the addiction—bouncing from one person to another, always having people in your back pocket, craving the high of infatuation, relationships overlapping, sneaking around, always looking for the next hit, becoming all-consumed with the newest flavor and always ending in the lowest of lows… Familiar.
So I am wondering if I was, indeed, a love addict.
I thought everyone skipped out on family functions, ruined their 4.0 GPA by failing classes in their final semester of university (by not showing up) for the sake of infatuation, and threw their besties under the bus for the attention of a crush. I thought everyone maxed out their credit cards, skipped work, stopped sleeping, and replaced food with coffee in the name of fresh “love.” I thought everyone would breeze past things like a man having a wife or girlfriend if the chemistry felt right.
I am beginning to think that may not be true.
Apparently people out there can be in new relationships and be, like, healthy about it? Still have their own identity? Make wise decisions that benefit their future self? Bonkers.
I have not reached any conclusions, but I am thinking about it a lot.
What else.
I am thinking about my time with addicts. The years I spent trying to “save” them. How I choose them. Why I choose them. The cost.
Liz Gilbert writes: “But for anyone out there whose life is being ruined by an active addict right now, please allow me to say the one thing that I don’t think gets said strongly enough or often enough: It’s okay for you to leave them. Don’t get me wrong: Addicts are precious and suffering children of God, and they do not deserve your contempt. But if you can ever save yourself from one—run.”
When I read this I jumped to my feet and yelled (quietly cause everyone was sleeping, it was more of a hiss) “YES! PREACH IT FROM THE MOUNTAIN TOPS!”
I wholeheartedly concur. RUN. Get out of there. Alcoholic? Love and sex addict? Drug addict? Gambling addict? Fucking run and do not look back.
Yes, they might never recover. Yes, they might become homeless. Yes, they might even die.
You can’t do anything about that, you have no power to save them. What you CAN do is save your own life, what you CAN do is not let them destroy you both.
Clear instructions. Hard. Heart-breaking. But clear.
But it was less clear when I was in it.
Number one, as I previously mentioned, I was the walking definition of a codependent. We WANT unsafe relationships and people who treat us like shit, otherwise how will we sacrifice and save and be victims?
Number two, I was not 100% certain he was an addict. (I am clear on it now)
Yes, every time he went out alone he would disappear, his phone would go straight to voicemail, and I would spend hours checking police accident reports.
Yes, he’d finally come home plastered at 3am, 4am, 5am, puke splattered down his shirt and the side of the car, glassy-eyed and unable to stand up straight.
Yes, he hid a gallon of sake in the bedroom closet.
Yes, he drank WHILE he drove.
Yes, he’d show up drunk to my work. And to family dinner. And to outings with friends.
Yes, I lied for him.
Yes, I was cleaning his vomit out of rugs, off cabinets, off clothes, off walls and staying up all night to make sure he didn’t die.
Seems obvious except I was told by more than one person “But does he hit you?” and “But does he keep a job?”
No, he didn’t hit me. And yes, he did manage to keep a job.
So it was confusing.
Number three, he was not ONLY an addict. The addiction was actually a distraction and cover for what lay beneath, which was arguably way worse. Or maybe the addiction was a symptom of what lay beneath? I don’t know.
See? Confusing. And what my therapist is for.
So the book made me think about a lot of things. I am still thinking about these things. If you would also like to think about these things (maybe you’ve also dealt with addiction or tossed your whole life aside in the name of love), consider reading All the Way to the River.
I’m not sure if this post encourages or discourages reading this book. Let me know.
Love,
Angela
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