On Again

I'm considering a resumption of this off-an-on affair I've maintained for about 16 years. I call my mistress Effexor, but she also goes by the much more seductive moniker of venlafaxine. Effexor is always willing, though sometimes apathetic. Our separation has been difficult. Can't live with her, can't live without her. Can't kill her.
Each time I reunite with Effexor, we enjoy a bit of a honeymoon period before lapsing into our familiar, sometimes-monotonous routine. That is the point at which I resolve to dump her as soon as something better appears. Codeine dalliances have made me feel pretty good. Why can't there be an antidepressant that makes me feel like that? Some kind of medical rationale must exist. One being that codeine and its ilk addict people. I'm not sure wherein lies the difference, but breaking up with Effexor holds plenty of pitfalls, also. For some reason, though, regulators sign off on antidepressants. As I think they should. I just remain unclear about the distinction between being addicted to one drug and not another, especially when one appears to have as many side effects but isn't as effective. Everyone should take drugs that make them feel good, then maybe they wouldn't go around killing each other. Opiates lose their effectiveness after a while, but so do antidepressants. So I want the drug companies to develop an antidepressant that makes me feel like opiates do and that won't lose its punch. Come on, motherfuckers.
Effexor makes me put on a little weight, but not because of her cooking. She occupies my thoughts while I sleep, though not peacefully. She makes me sweat, though generally not because my heart races in anticipation of seeing her. We share a certain familiar comfort, though it can breed contempt. I can be sad when I'm with her, but I'm a tragic case without her. I'm resistant, but I know I'll end up with her eventually. The long and winding road leads to her door.
Spirituality has no place in her life. God matters not. When my mother told me as a young lad that the Virgin Mary doesn't refuse children's prayers, I believed her. So I prayed. I prayed for relief from how I felt. I prayed for some kind of deliverance from the pain. I wondered, as I do now, how my years of suffering fit into God's plan. The plan that he has that we can't question. Gotta have faith. I didn't get relief, so eventually I puzzled out that what my mother told me was bullshit, though she believed it. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe a reason exists for pain, from my earliest memories into adulthood. Perhaps a pleasant surprise lies in wait. It could happen.
But for now now I worship at the altar of Effexor. When I lie in pain, I know I can expect reasonably prompt relief. I can't wait for eternity for my reward, for the waiting very well could hasten the arrival of eternity.
Moments occur that I wish I could capture even while Effexor and I remain apart. An airplane glides, silhouetted against the early-morning sunshine, and peace descends. And in an instant, the train carries me away from that moment in time. Effexor precludes such heightened-senses moments, for she deadens me, but in so doing, keeps me alive.