the only thing I have left is the fact that I’m still breathing. I’m mean it is an exaggeration, I have a home, and food, and more than a good portion of the population. in reality, my social, and emotional states are broken. the only hope i have left is the fact that things could get better. things have to get better. I am positive, in regards to the past couple years, fuck yes I’ve been postive. the fact that I’m still here and I’m still trying is positive, I think. again out of a psych hospital, and still having some faith in myself is remarkable, right? it’s almost like I’m stick on this circular race track, and it’s in auto drive and I have to find a way to gain control and veer off, into something new, a new life and not this continuous circle of hell where I’m driving alone. I’ve lost everything to this substance. the worst part of it is, I’m scared to leave it. I’m scared I cant. I lost my support. I lost my motivation.

it’s strange where whiskey will bring you. it get worse because you lost everyone to your erratic ways, so you search for people who don’t know you, who you can convince you’re normal. they make you feel less lonely for a night, or more like for a few hours until you’re stumbling and in and out of conciousness, you have blips on the night, you wake up foggy. you remember them having their arm wrapped under your arms leading you out of the bar. you know that they are pleased at the state you’re in because your inhibitions are lowered and you’ll give yourself up. and fuck, you’re okay with it because you’re fucking lonely, you’re fucking worthless in your own mind. so you wake up, shirt still on, panties off, and you look to your left, and you see on the night stand that there is still half the pint of whiskey you bought the night before. and I swear to fuck, that that is Christmas morning to me. I contimplate and then I look to my right at a guy that I barely know. all I know is that I can’t be mad, I can’t be angry that they fucked my half lifeless body last night. because I wake up and I’m not alone. but I know that the second they wake up they will find an excuse to get me out the door, so the contimplation phase is over. and you pound that half pint of whiskey, and then I close my eyes for about a minute and when I re open them, the familiar blur is there, the calmness. I’m okay to be alone with it.

and that had been my life for the past year. you have to think, fuck this girls head is so screwed up. and I have to wonder if I’ll ever get it together. if I’ll ever find something or someone to keep me going again. I’ve allowed myself to be abused in every sense of the word, emotionally, physically, sexually. and how do I come back from it. sometimes I think I cant, sometimes I think trying is a waste of fucking time. but then I end up in a situation where I meet other people, I get the chance to meet people that are so fragile, who are so hurt. I get to see their souls, and their beautiful hearts that have been shredded. and I’m not alone, and we are not horrible people, we are not outcasts. we weren’t born hurt, broken, scarred. and I guess, when I think about it, we all have reasons to give up, and these people I meet in institutions and meetings and groups, they didn’t deserve to want give up, and if we all did none of us would have the support and understanding.

alot of you don’t understand, and you stigmatize. I couldn’t tell you to imagine walking in our shoes because you’re imagination couldn’t conjure up these feelings. I’m a life and I deserve a chance, and understanding.

Challenge

Addiction

That's the topic. Poetry, stories, fiction, non-fiction, long, short, all welcome.

tthomas019

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Her Name Was Whiskey.

I remember when I first became addicted to her. She came into my life when I was at a particularly low point. I had just lost a high-paying job as a magazine editor, I was on the verge of eviction, and my girlfriend of a year and a half had left me for one of my friends. Needless to say, I was craving an escape. An outlet. Something to take my mind off the pain. I was in a bar when I first met her. She was everything that I was looking for. She made me feel carefree, like the rules of life didn't apply to me. I felt braver, I felt stronger. I felt like for the first time in awhile I was having fun. She begged me to come back and see her at the same time I had that night. In the morning, I felt a little sick, but in the end it was worth it. I felt better for the first time in months. I went to the bar again the next night, and there she was, waiting for me like always. I was thirsty, and she was a tall glass of water. She was refreshing. Again, I felt the effects immediately in her presence. After that night, I knew that I had to keep going back. I met the same girl in the bar almost every night. Pretty soon, I stopped caring about my needs and everyone else. I didn't care about working anymore, she was my priority. It didn't matter where I lived; I practically lived in the bar with her. That was where I started to hit rock bottom. My family found me and they told me how worried they were about the path that I was taking. How I was ruining my life by being with her. I became angry. They had no idea what kind of hell I had been going through. How did they know what was good for me. All I needed was her. I knew that she would always be there when I needed her, unlike so many people in my life. I told them to leave me alone, that I knew what was good for me. They eventually stopped coming around, but I didn't mind. I still had her. I would do anything to get a chance to see her. I started to lose my memory, my sense of time, and everything else that came along with her. I stumbled my way into the bathroom of the bar and looked at myself for a long time in the mirror. I hardly recognized myself. The man in the mirror had a beard and hair that was messy and unkempt, he had put on a massive amount of weight around the stomach, and he smelt horrible. I couldn't believe what I saw. It was at that moment that I had to get rid of her. I didn't want her to be the death of me. I decided to stop coming around the bar to see her. I told her that we had to stop this, that this would only lead to more hurt and destruction. She was clearly upset, saying that I couldn't live without her. She said that I would come running back to her to get away from the pain soon enough. I left soon after, called up my family, and told them that I was finally done messing around with her and I was ready to get help. The first few weeks without her were horrible. I felt really sick. I would throw up, cry, and fall asleep. When I woke up, the same cycle would repeat itself. My head throbbed and I felt hot and cold at the same time. I wanted so badly to run back to her, to take the pain away. But my family was there, and they were my rock while I was getting over her. In the end, their love and support finally helped me move on from her. I was able to think clearly and see that the relationship we had was toxic and nothing good would have come out of it if I had continued on the path I was on. Today, I'm happy to say that it's been two years since I have had anything to do with her and I have found a new purpose in writing, and I have a beautiful home, with a supportive wife and a child on the way. The last time I saw her was at a bar with my friends a month ago, who were celebrating my book getting published. I simply smiled and continued chatting and laughing with my friends. At the end of the night, as I turned to leave, I gave her one last look and smiled. With a sigh, I turned back around and, as the lights turned off, shut the door behind me.

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