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What was the point of spending three and a half months in the hospital if I wasn’t going to stop?
I was wasting my life away
She didn’t know what else she could say.
Did I want to be a person that no one could ever trust?
Did I want to be a person that made it hard to be loved?
Where I was heading was a life of crime and likely jail
She was angrier than a July thunderstorm hurling golf-ball sized hail
She had already had to help raise two druggies
Did I want to be just another junkie?
Another fucking statistic? Was I just waiting for the day I actually overdosed?
“Between your family, your friends, your life, and your drugs: Who do you love the most?”
So I wrote and signed a contract saying I wanted to be more than a drug addict
And after one last relapse a few weeks later, I finally kicked the habit.
It’s a heartbreaking thing to be standing in your mother’s room and seeing it in her body language and in her eyes that she is absolutely exhausted from having to beg her child to understand that their life is worth living
I’m sure I broke her heart a thousand times, I don’t know how she kept on being so forgiving
But that day was one of the first times I realized how I was seen in the world:
Just another fucked up girl
If my mother could look at me and ask if all I wanted her to see was a junkie,
Then what did everyone else in the world see?
I didn’t want to be a neighborhood crackhead that hangs out at the gas station, that wasn’t going to be me
I made that decision when for a split second, I saw my reflection in my mom’s eyes and that was all I could see:
An addict.
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