I’m writing my story now because I’m finally able to muster the courage to put everything out there. I type these words in the middle of the night because it’s all I can do to stay sane. I am writing my story because the love I once felt for drugs, the life I thought it had given me, has been tarnished. Our love affair has ended. Over time it has turned into hatred, bitterness, resentment, and so I write my story and hope that this glimpse into my existence isn’t lost on anyone. The scars have not yet faded, I have not healed, but each day is better than the last.
I allowed heroin to come into my life, to chew me up and to spit me out, to break me. I invited it in with open arms, knowing how things would end, but its charms I could not resist. Together we broke hearts. Together, though we could do anything, we hurt those that I love the most. We brought them unimaginable pain and worry, we fed them lies, we used them, manipulated them, until they could take no more.
There was a time when it would comfort me, when it would hold me in its warm arms and take away the pain I felt, but those days are far behind me. Now it only laughs in my face at the fool that I’ve become.
I’d always told myself that there was no greater anguish than that of the heroin addict, but I was wrong. The real torment is for those who love us. The deepest agony I’ve ever seen is not in the addicts I’ve known in my lifetime, but in the eyes of my own daughter, the tears spilling down her face with worry that her mother was going to die by her own hands.
I do not regret what I have done to myself. I will endure the sickness and the liver disease because these are the things that I deserve to feel, but my heart breaks each day for the ways in which I’ve harmed those that have always loved me. It’s for them that I keep going.
I will continue to document my journey as long as my fingers will let me. Every moment that passes gets easier. Though I may feel like I am dying, I’m really just coming back to life.