From Dope To A Little Bit Of Hope Read Count : 8

Category : Books-Non-Fiction

Sub Category : Biography

 May 2010


     With my particular human design, or personality, I'm in a constant journey to discover the answers to life's universal questions. Why are we here? What is the point of all of this? There are too many patterns and coincidences for everything to be random… right?

     Most importantly, What is my purpose? Why am I here? 

     Why the hell am I still here?! 

     Me!, the asshole who not only deserves to die, but wants to die! 

     Why did I survive the insane number of shots, while my loved ones are dead from one?! 

     It should've been me! 

     It should've been me!!


     My tears are violent. They form salty globs on my eyes, keeping me from being able to see the flame as I attempt to light a cigarette. I don't need a mirror to see my eyes are bloodshot. I can feel the blood burning against them as it coagulates into these warm clumps of viscidness. I lean back on my weathered couch and smoke until my lungs become a Fourth of July barbecue. 

     After a few pulls of my third cigarette, I'm calm. I stare at the orange glow of the tip of the cig then glance down at the couch. It looks like a war zone with its burn holes, rips, and puddles from the array of shooting tears. The faded cushion looks identical to several pairs of pants of mine; torn, frayed, and riddled with burn holes from nodding off with a cigarette in my hand. "Holy shit."

     I look up as if it fell from the sky. The realization that has me frozen with eyes wire. This whole time I've been upset, I didn't once crave or even think about heroin or using—anything. Sure, I inhaled three cigs in record time, but that's a hell of a lot better than having to suffer the excruciating shame from not finding a working vein. Not to mention the physical pain from piercing bruised areas with a dull needle. 

     One drug at a time. 

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