Chapter 1: The Cycle
I found it very challenging to write about my past. I’ve written many times about my story, but digging deep into the feelings is something that I never wanted to do. I don’t want this feeling anymore. These are the thoughts that I have when I’m trying to go to sleep at night and then I get grossed out of myself.
You know what I mean? Those memories that linger even though you don’t want them to?
As I read this chapter back to myself, I still don’t feel like it conveys to awfulness that was this time in my life. I don’t want it to be a war story. I’m not trying to induce shock and awe, but I do want it to be honest.
Anyway … chapter 1 is in the books. Read below.
The morning started like any other morning. I opened my eyes and sat at the corner of my bed. I put my face in my hands and put my elbows on my knees. The desperation of the moment hit me, and the truth quietly crept in.
I was a nobody. I was a loser.
I stood up, I went over to the drawer next to my bed and pulled out a little green pill.
Green monsters we called them. 80 mg pills of OxyContin.
These pills were my center of gravity. They were my joy and my suffering, my muse and my captor, my wings and my shackles. Holding the pill in my hand brought me comfort. “Everything was going to be okay.”
I walked out of the bedroom and over to a desk in the corner of my living room.
It was a Sunday. The morning was beautiful. The sun was shining and the April air filtered the delightful chirp of the sparrows and the finches. The sun crept through my window and lit up my wall. For a moment, I felt a hint of inspiration. This was it. Today was going to be different.
I sat down at my homemade desk and I crushed up the little green monster into a fine powder. The pile of white powder gave me hope. It invited me in and waited for me to indulge. I snorted my drugs and suddenly, life opened up to me. The angels had returned and reminded me that I was special and that I was meant to be somebody. The Oxy filled my blood with adrenaline and filled my spirit with a false hope and confidence. My pupils narrowed and my focus channeled. I remembered who I was.
“I am divine. I am godlike. I am all powerful. I am what I’ve always wanted to be.”
Suddenly, I could talk to girls and I could introduce myself to strangers. I was back in the game. People were going to like me and respect me and one day, everyone would cheer for me. People would stop laughing at me and I was going to stop hiding in corners.
This was my moment. My window of enlightenment had opened, and I needed to take advantage of it before I returned to being myself. The real world was only a few hours away. I was ready to get started.
So I looked up at the screen.
I had a clunky laptop that I purchased from the pawn shop down the street. In this laptop was a word document. The document had one sentence on the top. The sentence was in bold and centered on the page, as though it was the title of something important.
The document was simply called …
Those were the only words on the page. In that moment, I channeled my superpowers and embraced my confidence and strength. I leaned forward on the desk, put my hands on the keyboard, and got ready to create my masterpiece.
Today was when my new life would begin.
I was going to write and I was going to be kind to myself. I was going to eat healthy and drink enough water and most of all, I was not going to get high anymore. I was going to summon up the willpower to overcome my fears and my depression and my self loathing.
I put my fingers on the keyboard … and nothing happened.
I sat there, and I stared at the cursor. The subtle blinking reminded me of my failures. The blank page was a window into everything I wanted to be and everything I knew I could never become. I sat there for hours.
It was a cycle of momentary inspiration followed by bitter defeat. I would say “okay maybe I just need a cup of coffee”, so I would go to the coffee pot and fill up a cup. I would take a sip, and pump myself up. Then I would sit back down and freeze.
So I’d say “I’m going to walk to my bedroom and back. I’ll take a few laps and then I will start to write.” But it never happened.
The drugs started to wear off and my inadequacies once again become front and center.
I was never going to write a book. I was never going to be anyone other than a low life drug addict. I was a loser and I knew it. Why do I keep playing this game? Why do I pretend like there is hope for me?
The sooner I accept the truth, the sooner I will stop trying to fight it. I am worthless and no one will care if I was gone.
I felt ashamed. I was ashamed of what I had done, I was ashamed of the way I had behaved and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t summon up the courage to let my failures die and allow myself to be free from the concern that trapped me.
I was a prisoner of my own mind. I was a captive of my own body. My life was a constant repetition of temporary relief which was always followed by more guilt and shame.
How much longer would I last? How much longer could I possibly go on like this?