A virus; slowly fighting its way into your system, it’s sleeping at first and it’s bearable. But once you slip, it’s like a scorned lover. I’ve kept the urge locked in a vault. No longer did I consider myself addicted to the past. I fought for a cure to this relentless hell – finding it in writing and music – but now I’m building an immunity.
I found myself sorting through ideas. How could I find some pills without allowing the people around me to know? What could I get my hands on? The weight I’ve placed on my delicate shoulders is shoving me into the ground, trying to bury me six feet under. Honestly, that’s where this problem would end.
But I’ve promised to not go back to that version of myself. I never liked her. She hid in purgatory and settled for routine. I’d like to blame the conversation topic for my struggles, but avoiding what I know won’t help. And honestly, it’s nobody’s fault but my own. I feel like I’m locked in a dark room, screaming to be let out. This is torture. But I guess I can fight it. Or I guess I have to.
I remember being called popper as I navigated seventeen. My desire to do better seemed to evaporate each time my friend brought a baggie of brownies with some white motivation. I’d take it happily and stuff it in my bag. For the rest of my days, I slacked in class, waiting for the clock to move hours ahead.
It wasn’t even pot that drove me to pills, but instead, a driving need to escape a depression that I battled alone. Pills helped numb the pain. And I always grew up telling myself I’d never walk down this road. But addiction is a virus that sleeps during the day and wakes you at night. One time is just one time…until suddenly…it’s not.