Entry #0553
I’m a recovering heroin addict who is separated from his wife and child. All I want is my family back.
I’m a recovering heroin addict who is separated from his wife and child. All I want is my family back.
So what am I doing with my life besides wasting away? 19 year old drop out with a son. Not what I was expecting my life to turn into. I used to be a straight A student with amazing potential. How I lost it all is beyond me. Maybe I shouldn’t have started drinking. Maybe I shouldn’t have started experimenting with drugs. Maybe I should’ve waited until marriage to open up my legs. Damn, I mean I never thought I’d end up pregnant to the first person I ever had sex with (a person nine years my senior). I can’t believe that people who don’t know me see me as a young dumb slut. It hurts so bad because I know the truth. My life is hard. I’m not a bad person . I’m actually quite intelligent. I feel like it shouldn’t be this way. I feel like I’ve been somehow shorted. I’m so young and I feel stuck in a life that I don’t want to be living. I want someone to come rescue me from all of this but I know its not possible. I know I’m stuck for good. I’m tired of being alone with these thoughts. Ugh, at least death is inevitable. Just gotta wait my turn.
Today I found my old pipe. I went out to the rundown building that stores all of my possessions, for now. I rummaged around, and I found my pipe, grinder, lighter, etc. I pulled out my computer chair sat down amongst the rubble of my former life, and I cleaned out the resin. As I return to the bickering family I reside with for two more months… I smiled to myself, knowing that they had no idea.
My name is Patrick. I’m 15 years old and my mom just caught me smoking marijuana. I feel disappointed in myself.
I’m a drug addict. I use for fun. The fun causes me trouble. The trouble causes me stress. I use to alleviate stress. The using causes me trouble, and so on. I can’t stop.
I want help, but don’t want help.
I need help.
My brother had aplastic anemia as a child. As an adult his blood cell counts were never normal, his drug use was how he managed his physical and emotional pain. Two years ago he died. I feel horrible, but it was such a relief when he passed away.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to my mother for more than six months when she died. I hadn’t lived with her for more than three years. I was 18, three days into a vacation in the same state that she lived in, just three hours away from her, when I got the call. My friend and I were stuck in the middle of the road going to an apartment — her car shut off and we were waiting for help. I threw up. I spent the next two weeks and all of my vacation money driving all over Florida, signing consent forms and talking to coroners and cops. She died of a drug overdose, made possible by a dirty doctor who was “treating” her for a painful disease she didn’t have. She paid him in cash for every prescription he wrote. Only one family member came down to be there. She was cremated. We had a small memorial service, during which my great aunt allowed 12 of my mother’s closest drug dealers to come into her house, get drunk, steal her prescriptions and my cigarettes, and eat all her food.
Afterward, my family member went back to Illinois, and I left my great aunt’s house and flew back to NYC. I left her remains with my oldest friend, in the back of her closet. It took almost another six months before I bothered to send them to my family members in Illinois. When we got them, we dumped them into an unnamed river. I cried.
I’m 20 now. I can’t stop thinking about that time. She had been on drugs since I was 10 years old. I have called 911 more than thirteen times to have her stomach pumped. I had been in five major car accidents, including smashing into the side of a semi at 40 mph and rolling a car twice end over end and three times side over side down an embankment and hitting a tree due to her drug-impaired state. I had been waiting for her to die for almost ten years. She ruined my vacation.
About once a week I go and visit a man in his early fifties. He is, I think, the saddest man in the world. After years of drugs and alcohol in the 70s, he had a very sour relationship with his mother. He left for the army without mentioning a word to her. The army helped to clean him up, but sadly very few of his issues started before the army. Hepatitis from a tattoo in Korea, a cheating wife, a liver transplant, and two of this three wonderful boys dying in an instant has driven him into a state of constant sorrow.
Going to see him is rarely fun or uplifting, I usually leave with a lump wedged in my throat and a pitiful twenty he forces me to take for moving firewood. It is usually a chore to go visit, something I only do for his sanity. With a second failing liver and a very bitter sweet dream home, every visit is more sad than the last; it seems that every day his stomach is bulging more and his face is more tired. There is nothing I can ever do to cheer him up, let alone keep a smile for more than a few minutes. There isn’t much I can do for the saddest man in the world, beside sit and give him someone to talk to.
One of my best friends just died. I knew he was going to die before he turned thirty, but I still can’t fathom a world that he doesn’t exist in.
I am going to buy heroin. I don’t know what else to do.
I’m 19. I started doing drugs when I turned 15, and I started snorting cocaine before I was 16. I lost all of my friends and my boyfriend who got me into it in the first place. I thought my life was over.
Last september I met this boy. We started talking and he hasn’t left my side since. He always promised he would help me get through it. I’ve been sober for 4 months now. The day before I met him I was planning my death. I owe my life to him.