If I can be honest it hurts more than I thought it would. It’s not that I miss him. I mean, I completely forgot he even existed until yesterday. It's just that it feels way to close like it could have been me. Hell, it was me. I think it's the timing of it all that makes it sting so much more. The saddest part is, I don't even have a picture of him or us together. We were addicts after all, in and out of institutions trying to get clean. It looks like I won this round but I don't feel like a winner. Right now, the only things I feel are grief, anger, and sadness. All that's left are memories. I see images I also forgot about; scenes I shoved deep down. It hurts as they come back up. I see flashes. I feel his pain as I reminisce with my demons —demons that took his life, demonic creatures that are taking way too many. As the thoughts come flooding back, I try to channel the rage inside. What comes out, you ask? A eulogy, or at least my version of it; something I never thought I'd have to write but here I am and here it goes.
Waking up really is the hardest part. Except at this point, my mornings weren't filled with fear. Or, at least not the type I had been running from. During the height of my addiction, waking up meant I had to snort at least 60 milligrams before even thinking about getting out of bed. If I didn't, I'd be sick —opioid withdrawal sick, the kind of sick you'd do anything to avoid. But that's not me anymore. It had been almost three weeks since I got high. I really can't put into words just how special it feels to wake up and not need a pill to function. Yeah, I was about to be put on some mental health meds but that' different. And so, just as the tech promised, 7:00 a.m. rolls around and I'm politely woken up by the same friendly face —ready to start my day just as I will continue to do for the next 28 days.
I remember when we said goodbye. He was so mad at me. I was a little mad at me too —for letting things get so screwed up. I definitely led him on all summer just like he said. I was an official college graduate; diploma in hand, ready for the next chapter to begin. One path brought me down south —South Florida to be exact. My family relocated there from New Jersey a few years prior and they just so happened to hate my drug-dealing boyfriend (except back then, they didn't even know he sold). I say this because the other led me west with him, Brad. Which story was I going to tell? I didn't know yet. All I knew then was that I had to make a decision. So, here it goes.
I was more stuck than ever but I couldn't let anyone else know how bad off I really was. So I'd put on a mask and pretend I was enjoying the bed I made. Except, I wasn't happy, sane or functional. I was addicted, defensive, and in full savage mode. Things were different. No matter how bad it got in college, I always had Brad. We kept each other in check, but this time, I was all alone, with no one to look out for me but me. And you definitely didn't want this junkie on your side. I mean, I was the girl who robbed you and helped you look for it. I was the girl who used to have it all together. Except now, I had nothing but pill residue everywhere. So how did I afford to keep everything up? Three words: pawn shop madness.
Most of my friends had a dirty doctor in their pocket, but even with the blue prescription pad, it didn’t guarantee you a refill. So if I couldn’t sponsor a friend’s script or find a pharmacy to fill it, I’d have to do what I normally did and buy my pills off the street the old fashion way. Except, even when I talked a big game, I was usually still scared. My main goal was to not get beat (or arrested). I mean, an 87.5-pound white female, picking up $400 worth of opiates, driving a C280 murdered out Mercedes Benz in the hood, pretty much screams easy target. So if you're wondering how this pill-head got her pills, you should probably read this.
As if things couldn't get any worse —I was still a hostess at The Office, an $18 gourmet burger joint on Atlantic Ave. in Del Ray Beach, Florida. If you remember from a previous post, I relapsed and eventually found myself homeless after getting kicked out of the halfway house I called home. I also found another pill-popping boyfriend who tried his best to save me. Turns out though, I needed to save myself. When a friend turns foe, before I know it, I hit rock bottom for the second time. Except once you fall as far as I had, there's nowhere to go but up. Here's what went down.
Regardless of the politics, it was still hard. In short, I hated being home. It was a shocking reminder of how messed up my family life had become and I didn’t want to deal with that or feel any of these feelings. I mean, what teenager would anyway? I remember wishing I was anywhere, but here —be careful what you wish for. At the time, I was a freshman in high school. I lived in an affluent suburb of South Jersey and up until this point, everything was fairly "normal" —except, a few somethings were about to go really wrong. It would later be revealed that my once perfect existence was really all smoke and mirrors. But let's start at the beginning.