Eight Years Ago
At some point, every addict has a realization. Whether or not they wake up in a hospital bed or decide they have found god. Whatever. We realize that we can’t stop. The control that drugs once gave us, the feeling of careless bliss, is gone.
I realize that Ritalin is no different than cocaine was in my life, only it is free, bottled by an educated hand and placed in a bag for me to take home. Sometimes, when I’ve been up for a couple of days I read my own book. The one about recovery. The one which left readers with some semblance that I had recovered. And I had, for a while, I really tried.
I skip to the middle and read about my own addiction but it feels like someone else. I should have learned from everything in that fucking book, but instead I fumble through the days writing articles about recovery – something I am clearly not excelling at.
Who the hell snorts pills?