See, there’s no clear way to start this. Because it’s all in my head, but what’s in my head feels too real…too real…
I’m walking under branches that hang over trails like an umbrella;
a feeling of safety, yet…
It’s the empty parking lot and vacant, somber sky that make my skin crawl
My eyes are open and I’m searching,
for anything that could pop out and scare me,
Because this is my life, in my head..
I pull on the hood of a black sweater and toss it over my head. A gold Marlboro is hanging from my lips as I close my eyes. I lose myself in a song that’s been repeating all day because it feels like home.
I’ve jumped habits over the years, beginning with alcohol and ending with this simple cigarette. People always told me I didn’t look like a smoker – and in truth, I’m not – but I’d just smile slightly and go about my day as a non-smoker, with a pack shoved in my jacket for later.
Everyone says when you drop an addiction, you gain a new one. I started as an alcoholic and slowly moved to hydros, eventually on to harder things. I never really explained to anyone why I started smoking again.
It came down to a decision as I sat alone, craving that high. Do I spend money on something that will drag me back into a black pit, or do I return to a habit I know I’ll eventually quit? It’s a crutch. Something to keep me from running back to what I realize is a natural disaster waiting to happen. It’s not easy to give up the things you crave, but I see how it affected me in the past – how messed up I was – so I find myself writing to you instead.
And as you sit here and read these words, I’ll repeat what you’ve already heard:
You’re not alone. At least, not as alone as you think you are. Talking about your problems can seem like too much a weight to put on someone else’s back, but I assure you, they just want to help. Maybe it’ll take time to become a solution, but we as humans are not meant to survive on our own. Help is not a sign of weakness, but rather, a window into our humanity and kindness.
Every week I collect myself and file into a room along with other addicts. We sit in chairs lined up against the walls, and speak of our struggles. We all come from different walks of life – a crack addict, a drunk, a paranoid schizophrenic, a pill-popper, an unmedicated Bipolar – but we all crave the same thing. Help. And the people in this room are our solution. What’s wrong with that?
If I ever gave you advice, it is this:
Don’t be worried that you’ll look weak. You’ve survived this long on your own. It’s okay to ask for help now.