After the confidence I gained from posting the introductory sections to chapter 1, I decided that I should post the rest of chapter one to hopefully give readers more of an understanding on what to expect and my overall writing style. I included the first section on this post as well with an updated section that I had initially removed to turn into a study for one of my first blog posts! I included ”A boy’s role model” please let me know if it flows with my opening chapter or if I should take it out again! Though I’m not as confident seeing this on an actual post, I still remind all readers that feedback is crucial for me to hopefully perfect my project! Don’t hold back! Please let me know where I could improve and what parts seem irrelevant or uninteresting! Yes it’s my story but I also want it to be as enjoyable as a memoir can be. Again, because of the things I’ve done I’m fully aware that I will most likely be hated, I hope you can look passed who I once was and understand the message I’m trying to send!
Where should I start? No seriously. The more I try to remember, the more I envision darkness. I don’t mean “darkness” figuratively I literally mean the color black. My years of drug use have made it so hard for me to remember my past that I can’t tell a story without a long pause and really working my brain so hard that I question if what I’m about to say even happened. Were these past few years just a long dream from a sleep I have yet to awaken from? Yeah, I wish. Realistically, it would be better defined as a nightmare. I’m haunted by my decisions made from the very moment I took my first hit.
I’ve had an addictive personality ever since I was young and as far as I can remember. Having an addictive personality and having a dangerous curiosity for destruction and anarchy was a dangerous mix for me. Not only that, I’ve always had an inner sadness that whispered at me as I grew up. I never paid full attention until I finally did and realized that inner sadness had developed into full-blown depression.
Aside from that, when trying to remember my childhood, I recall growing up around abuse, fear, and anger. From being forced to watch my father literally beat the earrings off my mother’s head, to experiencing his traumatic rage for myself. That fear inevitably evolved into an unbearable hatred that had influenced my decisions dramatically.
I recall my father being an addict himself, but unlike me, his addiction has always been alcohol which was eventually traded out for gambling. Maybe that’s what influenced me to develop that “addictive personality” I’m babbling on about. From abuse to surrounding myself with people who fit the criteria of a “negative influence” I slowly developed a life-lasting addiction to the rush of doing shit I’m not supposed to.
## A Boy’s Role Model
> “Why does he hate me so much? Am I really that bad of a son, mami?”
> “No mijo. You’re not a bad son, papi just needs his rest. He had a stressful day at work. He loves all of us…”
Love? It even sounded like she was trying to believe it herself. As much as she wanted to believe that, she’d hold me trying to keep me as quiet as possible, trembling in fear hoping she doesn’t say anything in a manner that may offend him. My father’s abuse isn’t how I’d define love even being so young all those years of his toxic behavior. That must’ve been some rough 3rd world love from their native country because, as an American myself, I’ve only seen American parents scold their kids just to apologize to them afterwards. Uh yeah, I was unbelievably jealous. But then again it did make me feel as if I was tough because of what I endure.
When ever I’d read articles on addiction or I’d speak to those who suffer from it, a common pattern I’d see is people blaming their addiction on their childhood, or the influence their own parents’ addictions would have on them. Of course it’s hard not to hold grudges, which I did for years but I don’t blame my father’s abuse nor his addictions. I don’t blame my mother when she’d feel no other choice than to spank me as well so that my father doesn’t feel as she’s contradicting him. I don’t blame my culture and I don’t blame my parents’ generation where discipline revolved around spanking wrists with rulers, spanking with belts and bare hands, though I wish that’s the only punishment my mother and I would’ve gotten. I know what my older audience may think, “man up, you millennials complain about everything. When I was your age my father would hit me with a rock.” Okay caveman, calm down. Yeah my father wouldn’t use rocks or whatever the f*ck. Though, sometimes when he’d a strip me naked, throwing me in the shower with freezing cold water and whip me with his belt with a barrage of close handed strikes to the face, head, body, and back. When I was too big for him to do that anymore, he’d stick to strictly punches to the face and head and if I had my shirt off, whips across my chest and back with the occasional shot for the head that I would dodge which resulted it more whips.
My own experiences with domestic and child abuse stems back to my child hood but you know what? I didn’t blame my early exposure to addiction and abuse. If I did then I’d indirectly be blaming my father for my own decisions. Truth is I wasn’t even thinking about my past when I smoked weed for the first time. I wasn’t thinking about my father beating my mother when I transitioned over to opiates. Maybe I did inherit my father’s “addict” gene. Shit I might even have his “gambling every weekend” gene too. Countless studies say that addiction is almost always passed down from parent to child. In my case that seems very likely. No matter how much trauma I faced in my past, I can only blame myself. You’ll come to learn how I doomed myself from trying to blame others for my own selfish desires. Yes, I feel that I walked a similar path as my father but in time I realize that just because it’s similar does not mean it’s exact.
## Curios George
My road to drug addiction is a tad different. Unlike the typical “my parent was a crackhead” story we all read, my story began not when I took my first Percocet, but when I decided I would try marijuana for the first time. Okay whatever, weed smokers all say the same thing, “you can’t get addicted to weed.” Which is true. There is a difference between mental dependence or “addiction” where you convince yourself that you “need” to smoke, take a hit, blow a rail, etc. and full-blown physical addiction where you shit your pants, throw up anything you ate and prefer death over the hell of not having your drug of preference to even you out. You can become mentally dependent/addicted or physically addicted, sometimes both, is what I’m trying to say. So do me a favor and read back to those last few words again, “My road to drug addiction is a tad different” that’s the key in this below-average attempt to begin illustrating how I became the addict I am today. In my case, smoking weed was 100% the “gateway drug” that developed an alter ego of myself. The epitome of pain itself. Better defined as my ”addictive personality,”
I’ve always been such a curious person, from early childhood to a quarter-century of my life later. Although I’ve always had a curiosity for rebellion and self-destruction, that curiosity didn’t begin killing this cat* until drugs and their euphoric effects were introduced.
Whether it be almost every kid in high school bragging about smoking their first blunts to the occasional kid from the projects that started exploring their options when they were “twelve”. No, I’m not exaggerating. Almost every project kid I met had already either smoked their first blunt, ate their first shroom or popped their first pill at that age. I kid you not. For some reason, if you grew up in the projects, it must have been some kind of “life of crime and poverty” initiation to get high at the tender age of “twelve”, at least that’s what they all made it seem like. I wasn’t a “project kid” but the city I’m from is always defined as the “ghetto”. Yes, it has beautiful neighborhoods, houses and the stereotypical Trump supporters that would lock their door if a person of color walks within 25 feet of their car. But even those same residents helped our city earn the nickname of a “hood”. Although we are technically named the “City of Champions”, Urbandictionary.com better describes us as “a very metropolitan area, resembling Detroit, with a crime rate to match.”
I never truly understood why I acted the way I did in my youth but I look back at myself and can’t help but facepalm in dissatisfaction. Even before my addiction began, I was unbelievably intolerant and unbelievably stuck up. Of course, it’s natural to look back at your high school days in disappointment but me? I was always the character that everyone found annoying. Yes, I knew that and I absolutely worked it as if it was something to be proud of. I would talk down to my close friends about smoking weed and would act as if I were completely innocent and would never “stoop down” to that level. I’d walk around with my chest out, chin up and pants so high that my ankles would show. I wasn’t just stuck up, I was also a lower class child wearing clothes that didn’t fit him. My opinions have always been strong and I had a knack for being judgmental yet never willingly accepted feedback on who I was as a person. Every hypocrite sees themself as a diety, I was no different. Sometimes I wonder how I made it through high school without getting bullied.
I saw myself as an anti-Drug delegate for high school until eventually, I wasn’t. I became so curious and wanted to understand why everyone was so obsessed with “smoking a blunt” and “getting high.” Then again, who doesn’t get curious when everyone’s goal in high school is to be accepted? I’d ask questions about their “first time” and ask about how they felt, what their reason to smoking was and how they make sure they don’t get caught.
Eventually, I decided to act upon that cultivating curiosity and my love of drugs began to sprout. I still remember my first time, clear as day. Being a “weed virgin”, my two friends, Devon and Jon, made it their mission to take my “green-ginity.”
After weeks of them trying and months of my personal research, they had successfully “convinced” me to smoke weed. Between you and me, that decision was already made once my curiosity was too much for me to handle.
It was before wrestling practice during our junior year of high school when we bought some low-grade bud with money that I had been saving. We convinced our 18-year-old friend David to buy us one green leaf cigarello and went on to roll a sloppy blunt that was probably, the poorest blunt ever rolled. It did the job so we weren’t complaining. Of course, Jon and Devon took their hit first but after what felt like a never-ending wait, my turn finally came. Puff, puff, pass you say? I don’t think so. I took one deep hit and did my absolute best to hold it in. It felt as if my lungs and throat were on fire and I then proceeded to have, what I thought was an asthma attack. The thing about that horrid burning sensation is if you don’t have any type of beverage to settle that burning inside your body, when it’s finally over it feels as if your lungs are nothing but ash. After I finally catch my breath, it slaps me. I had never experienced any other kind of high so when it hit me, trust and believe it hit me harder than my father’s right hook after having a fervent argument with my mother.
At first, I became unbelievably paranoid because if my father ever saw me high then I’d really catch his right hook, and no that isn’t a metaphor. Eventually, my negative thoughts tire out and I finally get to enjoy my high. As much as I could that is. Smoking before a 3-hour long wrestling practice that revolves around cardio was not a good idea. I was so worried about my father when I didn’t even consider the fact that my cardio was already shit, without including the fact that I had just smoked weed from a leaf of tobacco. If that’s not irony then I don’t know what is.
That “one-time” experience eventually became a habit. From smoking before and after school to eventually sneaking out at night to smoke until 2-3 am I became the person who I hated not too long ago. It ultimately got to the point where I began acting out in class, rebelling at home, and claimed that I was stressed and was angry if I didn’t smoke that given day. I was an on and off, self-proclaimed “pothead” and would brag about my late-night blunt walks around town, and 6-10 blunt sessions any chance I got. In reality, I was a hypocrite who would victimize myself any chance I got so I had a reason to smoke bud. That one need to fit in has been one of my most devastating and destructive traits aside from the curiosity that caused this whole mess. At that point, the gates into the world of drugs were on the verge of opening completely.
We all experience “love” at some point in our lives. Either it’s true love or we think it’s love. Our first emotional connection leads us to make absurd decisions that eventually shape our overall opinion on what love **should** be. See, I’ve had too many of those “love but not actually love” moments so my vision on how a relationship should be was demented for a very long time. Fast forward to my sophomore year in college. By this point in my life, I’ve experienced alcoholism, continued my daily marijuana intake and had just gotten out of a 2-year relationship with a curly-headed beauty whose name I shall not speak. My experience with Curly was that exactly, a relationship that gave me an impure idea on how a relationship should be because of the “love” I had and the heartbreak I ended up facing.
That heartbreak, alcoholic tendencies and forced love of marijuana aside, I actually began to make a life for myself, at least that’s what I thought. I was a successful banker, college wrestler/ volunteer high school coach, I was absolutely adored by all and was the go-to guy for anyone who needed money or a favor. One thing you’ll learn about me if you haven’t already, is that I was full of myself and thought to be better than everyone I associated myself with. I mean, what am I supposed to think? Everyone came to me for their needs because they knew I had it. Oh, you need $200? Okay, pay me back when you can. You’re about to get evicted? Okay, Brenda, here’s some rent money, pay me back when you can.
Even though it secretly bothered me, I loved being able to say “yeah he/she needed me.” But after that heart-wrenching break up with that curly-headed beauty I mentioned, being used for my money by people who’d eventually fuck me over, and my semi-constant drinking and weed smoking; I began to feel empty. Yeah, I saw myself as successful and yeah I felt loved and was popular but that just wasn’t enough.
Another thing about me that eventually played probably the biggest role in my addiction was the fact that I became unbelievably emotionally needy. I finally experienced what I thought was true love and heartbreak so I developed this everlasting hunger for attention and some kind of loving connection. Sex? Yeah, sex is great but I didn’t crave it the way I craved a woman’s love.
I found myself remember times I’d go above and beyond for Curly and how I devoted my life to her. I’d skip class to please her, not come home for days to please her and even admitted my love hoping it was mutual. It wasn’t. I didn’t give up though, even when I found out she was seeing someone else. Of course, I was heartbroken but I stayed vigilant. Until of course I stopped being useful to her and she ended our two-year relationship with:
> I need to love myself before I can love you.. but I value your friendship I hope we can still be friends.
Those words tore right through me. My heart sunk. I could literally feel the pounding go from my chest to my stomach and as I opened my mouth to give a pain-filled response I felt my eyes tear up. At that point, I knew that if said anything else I’d end up crying, so I got up, gave her one last pain-filled glance and left the cafeteria. Yup. She broke up with me in a fucking campus cafeteria as if I was some kind of nobody who didn’t cherish her virginity and did absolutely everything to make her happy. I thought I loved her so much even when that “love” itself hurt. But for whatever narcissistic reason, I loved that my love for her hurt. Was that normal? Probably not. Did I even make sense just now? Probably not. Little did I know, the same words she told me, are the words I need to accept for myself. Something I don’t realize for another 6 years.
> I need to love myself before I can love anyone.
So upon learning that our love was never mutual, she quickly went from “curly-headed beauty” to the “manipulative bitch who broke my heart.” When I ask myself, what was the actual reason that caused me to transition from weed to pills, her name always came up. I just couldn’t get over that heartbreak even after I met the mother of my children. Of course, she’s completely aware of my heartbreak and you know what? She gave me the love I needed right away. From the moment she met me, she knew I was the one she wanted. Yes, I’d die for her now but back then, her love just wasn’t enough.
Every time I think back to my initial neglect towards the mother of my children, deep hatred and anger for myself takes over. Of course, eventually, we built a powerful bond with a mutual love so much more powerful than I would have ever experienced with Curly. I mean that’s what you get when you finally date a woman who knows what she wants instead of a girl who still brags about being drunk at college parties, right?.
But before L became my blessing, I was lost. Curly took my sense of direction, my pride and my happiness with her the night she tore my heart into pieces. I’d find myself looking at her name on my phone while typing a hate-filled message about how she was it for me. How she was my “one true love”. I felt so used and abused and confused. I turned into a damn depressed version of Dr. Seuss for fuck’s sake.
From writing texts that I never end up sending to quoting love songs throughout any social media she followed me on, I hoped that she’d one day change her mind. Until that moment came, I needed some kind of escape. I needed my heart to be put back together, or at least that’s what I thought. I’m just a heartbroken 19-year-old boy, who thought he knew what love was.
Finally came the night that would shape my life into a ball of shit and regrets. Again it starts off as just another night of me constantly thinking about how Curly “broke my heart.” About 1 am on a weekday. My favorite bottle of Bacardi and the 2 Grams of weed I had left wasn’t satisfying my need to forget. I just couldn’t be alone with my thoughts, because if I was then I’d have another hour-long session of love songs, love notes, and unnecessary tears for a bitch who was probably getting fucked while I proceeded to ruin my life.
I was with two of my friends, B & C. That night we were at a hidden baseball field really late. Back then We would constantly go to a baseball field that we’d simply call “the park.” B had just popped two Percocet’s. I guess my venting had depressed him so he had an escape of his own. B had recently gotten a prescription for percs so for that week the only thing I really remember is him popping pills and constantly saying he felt amazing or that he’s “so fucked up.”
This is where that curiosity and “addictive personality” began to take over my body once again. Just like old times, I had slowly become more and more curious about that supposed “amazing feeling” the whole week B was taking them. Like me, he had gone through his own heartbreak so his easy access to pills turned into his personal escape. I needed that. I needed to forget about my heartbreak, I wanted to stop feeling like I wasn’t good enough, I just wanted my loud thoughts to quiet the fuck down for once.
I was so scared to ask him for a pill because I knew a bit about drug addiction and how it can ruin someone’s life from courses I took in college but I also thought myself as a mentally strong person who would never succumb to addiction. As I try to build up the strength to ask for a pill without making me look desperate he becomes noticeably different.
Eventually, he gets quiet. His eyes become low, straight face, overall went from outgoing to calm and looked as if he was moving in slow motion. Finally, he looks at me and says,
> Do you want one? I’m not gonna force you but you keep crying over your ex, that’ll make you feel a lot better.
I look at him and think to myself,
> It’s about damn time, stingy mother fucker.
Obviously, I didn’t want them to know how deeply I craved escape so I began to act as I usually do.
> Fuck I look like taking those shits, do I look like a druggy to you?
I said, trying to maintain my anti-drug persona. Yup. Years after smoking weed for the first time I still held myself on a pedestal. I still believed I was “too good” for the shit I knew I was going to give into at some point. I secretly hoped that he’d argue back and play the role of the bad influence. Trust and believe that’s exactly what he did. Nice. After a short “I don’t wanna get addicted/ don’t worry you won’t” debate, I finally decided it was time to cut the shit and feed my curiosity.
> “Okay fuck it, but if I get addicted it all your fault”
I jokingly say as reach for the pill. At that point, C realized I was serious and begged for me not to do it and insisted that I would get addicted.
> Don’t worry, I’m all about mental toughness, I’d never get addicted plus it’s just this one time
I say, trying to convince her. It almost felt like I was trying to convince myself too. Although she didn’t admit it until years later she had experience with her family being addicts and the destruction it caused during her childhood. I will never blame her for not warning me of the lifestyle she knew I would eventually endure, but sometimes I do wish I at least knew what the fuck I was in for. Either way, it probably wouldn’t have made a difference.
I saw myself as the equivalent of a God and I would have never guessed that this one pill I held in my hand, staring at it in awe, fixated on its perfectly round shape, would be the actual stepping stone to me becoming a “junkie.” I toss the pill in my mouth quicker than my last nut. Grab Bs bottle of water and chug the whole thing. Not a single drop left. I did it, I’m a damn hypocrite again.
I put myself on a fucking pedestal, I worked at a fucking bank, I was fucking good looking, and I was so fucking successful for my age. I immediately regret my decision and become so angry with myself. I start imagining how all my hard work and all my assets and opportunities were at risk because I decided to take that one pill. And my good looks. My dashing good looks! What if I lose all my teeth and have sores all over my face? Of course, I didn’t know the difference between a crystal meth addict and an opiate addict. On top of that, I became a hypocrite again! I’d always claim that I’d never get into drugs but so much for that.
Excuse the profanity and repetition but I don’t know how else to express my anger in myself. That night I made my own bed. At first, I started to hesitate quietly and felt nothing but embarrassment and fear.. 20 minutes of mental torture pass and as I began to feel relief and thought, “okay it wasn’t enough, I’m good.” I look at B to act my tough usual self and I pause. There it was.
My eyes dropped, my heart slowed, it felt as if my face was slowly melting off. For the first few seconds, my vision goes black and slowly comes back. It felt as if that breathtaking feeling just slapped me to make its presence known. I close my mouth, smile, and that’s all she wrote. I became obsessed. I forgot about my heartbreak, I forgot about why I was so scared, shit I didn’t even think about how taking this pill almost scared me straight. Nothing mattered anymore, I didn’t care about that damn pedestal I stood on, I didn’t care that I may have ruined my life. I thought I needed a woman’s love. Wrong. I wanted to feel like this forever. To me this was love.
## In control
The thing about drug addicts, is that at first we really think we can control our habit. For the first few years, I did a decent job. Id pop pills every other weekend, which I would desperately look forward to. By that time I had an even better job, a junior in college, I felt like I was the damn Wolf of Wall Street, successful as fuck, reaching every goal I’ve ever listed in my notes. I was untouchable. Mix that feeling with the perk high I was so obsessed with. Bulletproof.
I even had the first and only woman to ever truly make me feel loved and appreciated by my side at all times. She became my biggest supporter and absolutely worshipped me. Curly headed what? Nope, I have a queen by my side and she was having my prince. Yup, my first son was on the way.
All this financial success and newfound love and support added to how I viewed myself. I went from being so torn about taking one pill to make opiates a priority. I became my own story’s antagonist. I was a stuck up little prick who loved only himself and lived only for himself but loved the euphoric effects of opiates even more.
I was such a hypocrite that I would look at addicts in disgust because I thought they were weak-minded for letting their favorite drug take over their lives. Even after popping my first perk and eventually adding it to my schedule and to my bi-weekly budget, I still Refused to admit that I had developed a habit. Although it wasn’t physical dependence, I’d still have strong cravings at times. “But I’m not an addict” I always thought after satisfying that powerful urge. My “little” secret; she loves me… she loves me not.
I strongly believe that all the times that I frowned upon drug addicts and all the times I’ve talked so much shit about my friends who did cocaine, dope, shrooms, etc, is what led me to become an addict. I should’ve known that my ignorance would keep me blind to the fact that I had eventually become worse than the friends I talked shit about, realistically I became worse than many of those addicts whose weakness disgusted me so much. As much as tried to ignore it, I slowly began to realize that karma really is a bitch. And God doesn’t like ugly.
I can only describe my first perc high as love. I wanted nothing more but to be perk high and I swear I’ll never forget it because after that, I have never experienced a feeling as beautiful. I quickly jumped from one perc every other week, to two every week. As time passed I increased doses more and more frequently. I had quickly started to build tolerance and the highs were barely ever the same again. Even when I was told to try heroin that it was “so much better“ than being perc high, I never felt that beautiful euphoria. Don’t get me wrong, I still loved the feeling but only opiate addicts can understand how much the feeling begins to fade as your dependence grows.
Even though it was still a year before my addiction to sniffing began, I had gone from having a pill-popping schedule to literally pop 20 at a time every other day. No, I’m not exaggerating. Obviously, it wasn’t all at once, although I did once try and almost choked. I’d do three or four each time, but Within 2-3 minutes, all 20 would be in my stomach. Eventually, I moved on to perc 30s because they were easier to swallow and everyone had them. I’d even take pills every morning at work because it was “too boring” or at parties because “I worked hard all week so I deserve to feel good.” I wanted to keep forgetting about my daily stresses and have fun so half the time I wouldn’t just take percs. I had begun to experiment and started to take Xanax, kpins, Adderall and sometimes OxyContin. Eventually, it got to the point where I’d a blackout at parties and would get woken up the next day, still completely fucked up, from random friends telling me;
> Hey it’s 6 am. you gotta get ready for work
Work? What was I thinking mixing all these drugs on a work night? A quick slap to the face and warm shower, maybe a donut from Dunkin’ Donuts to start off my day was never enough. I’d fall asleep standing up, fall asleep in front of customers. And of course, I was 19-20 working in a bank in a rich town so they don’t know what addicts are like because addicts couldn’t afford to even get to this town. “Sorry I had a long night” or laugh it off, “sorry I was at a college party”, was my go-to excuse. That was just the start of the trouble I began to make for myself.
From the day I popped my first pill, to a year later, my tolerance skyrocketed, I had spent thousands and I had even started selling cocaine to help maintain my habit. Did I need it? Not really, but an extra $1000 a week didn’t hurt seeing that I had to pay bills, save for my son, save for our house and provide for my pregnant girlfriend and her daughter all while buying pills at a growing rate.
Even though money was never an issue, my queen was closer and closer to giving birth and yeah we started looking for a house to buy, but I was also looking for my next batch to buy as well. I’d spend $100 a day for a few pills that were barely getting me high anymore. Yes, it’s still an amazing feeling but I’m praying that my next high resembles that first time. Even if it’s for a second.
By this time I was a successful loan officer at a military credit union, I hadn’t graduated college yet but I was finally a senior. I even started lifting weights and working out. Yes, I’m bragging by the way. The pedestal I stood on was taller and stronger than ever. After switching jobs three times, I finally found a job that I made enough to pay our bills and buy my pills. That didn’t even matter for too much longer because shortly after my son’s birth, the hardships slowly began.
## Out of control
As addicts, we never realize when we’re about to hit rock bottom, nor do we see the damage our addiction is causing. Before I caused emotional and physical damage, I started to put my financial stability at risk. Of course, I wasn’t aware of how much I was actually spending but either way, the amount of money I was making made it barely noticeable.
I had fallen in love. That’s the only way I know how to describe the feeling I’d get throughout the process of acquiring these pills. This was enough for me to put all of my worries and responsibilities aside. I needed to chase her. I needed her to wrap herself around me. ”I’ll never lose myself and I’ll never hit rock bottom”, I thought to myself. My strive was so prosperous that even after months of using, only blessings were coming my way. I felt invincible, I felt bulletproof. I’m aware of the risks but I felt so stable and comfortable with the path my life was going I was unfazed. I felt I was in control and I there’s no way I could even lose. I stood firmly on my pedestal and this euphoric feeling she’d bless me extended my reach to the heavens. I knew in my heart that I would never fall off. What I didn’t know was that I was hanging so close to the edge of my pedestal, it slowly began to tilt from the weight of my growing addiction.
The day my son was born I had bought about $200 worth of pills. My first child is about to be born, this is the best day of my life. Yeah, I’m going to celebrate. Though that day my definition of “celebration” included my daily dose of percs and sitting beside my beautiful pregnant girlfriend. I can still remember how stunning she looked pregnant. Eventually, I go to the bathroom and pull out the pills from my pocket. I had them wrapped in an ATM receipt paper, enough for two days. As I looked at them I thought to myself,
> “I should just take all of them now, I mean I am going to be here a while, right?”
So that I did. It was an easy decision, I had the money so I could easily just buy more if I wanted to, it’s whatever.
I come back out, sit with the love of my life and our conversation about God knows what continues. I soon start experiencing a very familiar but very vague feeling. I pause, look down at my hands and start to focus on that familiar feeling. Could it be? Could it really and finally be?
And again, there. It. Was. My eyes dropped, my heart slowed, my face felt as if it was slowly melting off. A beautiful slap to the face and I did not mind at all. My vision goes black and slowly comes back, and for those few seconds, it feels as if I was moving in slow motion. After thousands of dollars and failed attempts to catch this demon, I finally grasped her. I reached out and did not want to let go. For whatever reason, it felt exactly like my first time and I was unbelievably happy. In a few hours my son was born and I finally caught her, the demon I chased and continued to chase for years after.
Did I ever feel the same? No. That was the last time I ever felt that glorious euphoria that felt like an escape but was actually a prison. I wasn’t escaping anything at all, and realistically speaking, there’s no way to escape the responsibilities of fatherhood, being a provider, being a boyfriend and making sure my family is fed and has a roof over their head. Shit, there’s no escaping life, but my mind became clouded. The whiny, stuck up, self-loving, arrogant and self-proclaimed “hood rich” brat I once was, faded away.
My personality was changing, I didn’t care to help out “friends” anymore, I slowly stopped being a sweetheart and spoiling my love and her daughter, shit I didn’t even take care of myself. I wasn’t lifting anymore, I wasn’t in school anymore. I began to sell cocaine to those “friends” I used to look down on and it was much more lucrative than selling to strangers in the streets. I started trafficking guns from city to city, trafficking drugs from state to state all for the extra income to feed my cravings. The only trait that I convinced myself that I still had was being a “good” father to my son. I still thought I was in control. Maybe a little more careless, but I got this. This addiction let me believe I was in control and she was almost ready to show her surprisingly ugly self and I still thought I was in love with a beauty.
My love for that one euphoria hoping I would feel it again became an obsession to the point that it overlapped the love I had for my girl. Even it was never truly the same again, I basically ruined my life and destroyed so many relationships chasing that demon. I was too proud to verbally admit it but I saw it. I saw it the moment I struggled to maintain a steady source of income. My addiction is out of control.