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[ Personal Narratives ]

Insanity is a false hope to repeat the past and expect a better future this time.

Why was I born with a disease? Why is my disease the only self destructive disease that no one other than the suffering can understand?

 I often ask myself questions out loud to any one higher, any higher power with a bent ear to listen. I never seem to get an answer back in return. No one speaks out of the sky and gives me an explanation as to why I’m one out of every ten people in the world that battles my own mind, that’s faced every stage of addiction possible. There’s the exposure stage of the simple choice to try it once not knowing the horrors of total defeat by the one thing that you crave uncontrollably, yet it destroys you silently as you watch your very self spiral out of existence into delusion. 

I believed the drugs for a long time. I listened as they told me what to do. I bowed as they promised me loyalty, I drove for miles to get what I needed. I cried and pleaded with anything standing in my way of the drugs. I was an addict long before the symptoms of drug use showed up. The feelings of uncomfortable existence. 

I hated being me. I wanted what everyone else had. I wanted to be pretty like her, skinny like her friend, tall like that girl, funny like them. I picked apart every piece of people I wanted to be, while in silence I was picking apart everything I hated about myself by not appreciating anything about the girl I was.

 I longed to be any one but the girl named Hillary.

No courage to face a fear, I was a coward. No confidence in myself to speak to people because they would simply hate me as I hated my self. Self hate and selfishness, total self-centeredness was how my thoughts processed and it’s all the obsession and compulsive behavior that lead myself into a dark place. 

My first drunken night was the first time I noticed I could make friends and make them laugh. I felt 6 foot tall and bullet proof. People couldn’t make me inferior under the influence. I saw a perspective all of its own, and I didn’t want it to ever end. Parties were where I found my weekends at first. Drinking and choking on smoke. I loved the thrill of feeling different. Feeling anything but my own skin over my bones and not being so disgustingly unsatisfied with my life. 

It was good to feel good.. the drugs got harder and my self confidence got bigger. 

The weed I smoked made me laugh. I was hilarious and the friends I made thought so too. Things I longed for were showing up. Like the friends I had always wanted, the cool ones that everyone liked. Getting noticed, people seeing Hillary. I saw Hillary under any influence of drugs and for a small moment I accepted myself.  

It was temporary and costly. I paid for my feelings. I drank my confidence up. I smoked my anxiety away. I snorted my pretty girl days, and smoked and chocked on the funny days. If it was down time to I’d pop pills that made me mellow enough to relax through the confusion of all this life style. I was a ship sailing into the ocean that never believed I could float. 

So I sank deep into the shipwrecks of the ocean and began to drown in my own life choices. 

What seemed to be the answer to my insecurities was to get a quick fix to manage and control my emotions. Too happy, I celebrated. Too sad, I went on benders to numb the pain. And when shit got so bad, I became a criminal, a compulsive liar, master manipulator, I cared about no one but myself to the extent to get what I wanted and feel comfortably numb.

Fuck you if you stood in my way, called me a druggie, told me I had a problem, tried to warn me that I was headed down a life journey that could only end badly. I hated your opinion of me or my choices. My first male friend who ever looked at me as more than a friend, became my drug dealing child’s father who popped pills and felt power and the supply and demand of his own small drug world. He gave me a false sense of love along with a confused picture of how relationships work. He showed me sexually how to grow up and become an adult so soon, how to become a teen mom at 19 and how to break the law to make money and get what I wanted. He taught me love had no boundaries or morals. All is fair in love and war?  Because there was a fine line in the middle between abuse and love.

The people I became dependent on were people who had what I needed, and if you didn’t, you were cut out of the picture. I was given free drugs while pregnant and hustling for my son to have nice things. I was taught how a gangster bitch handles business, and showed the street life of tricks to junkies and all the people that did things I’d never do to get high, or so I told myself. 

Eventually, I had a child, and I quit cold turkey, I went straight into withdrawals from the pain pills. I now had an even larger pile of mess in my life that I couldn’t handle. Life kept happening, consequences to my choices surfaced, and I was all but unwilling to do anything but run in fear to my ease and comfort of dope. The more dope I could get, the further reality seemed, and my feelings of temporary numbness were the only thing I ever thought to do. Over and over, Groundhogs Day was a good way to describe life. I repeated every day as the same. The chase for dope became harder. 

Personal hygiene and concern for my appearance were only achieved if I had the drugs my body depended on to function. Everything in my life was falling apart. I was losing, and the thought of change, never even entered my mind. I was reduced from being human to a more primitive — animal like — lifestyle, it was the survival of the fittest.  Fight or flight.  Full blown addiction. Total loss of reality or responsibility was gone. I was killing myself in the slowest, most painful empty way of death I could possibly achieve.

The drugs destroyed my body. 

The disease had taken over my mind and I was living live in slow motion.  I was stuck on rewind and couldn’t find the button to fast forward thru the hell I faced.  Drugs stopped making me feel good. They turned their back on me. I believed in the power of the high.  I became a slave for the drugs that I needed to survive. I was scary. I believed in the streets. I trusted my dope and I hated the world. Family and friends were gone before I noticed. And then, I got arrested for trafficking drugs, I was still in denial that I had consequences.

I was about to experience detox, the physical withdrawal from my life line. I knew no poison like the poison that I put in my body, which turned my body into that of an 80 year old. Pain and aches, cold sweats and restlessness for a month. Dehydrated and unable to properly function any body part at all, my misery was so unbearable if I could have taken my life through that experience, I believe I would have chose the softer way of death instead of slowly feeling every moment of hell inside my own body.

The insidious insane thought process this disease carries is so powerful that I believed the lies even after all that. I believed I could control my madness. I could regain power over my actions. The moment I put the lies into a needle, back into my veins, I lose all power of choice. I’m no longer in control over my future.

It’s progressive, it’s reluctant and it’s the master controller of my every choice and as soon as I believe the lies my own disease tells myself, i’m screwed.

I do this battle of belief with my own self first . I have to convince myself that I’m believing the false hope. The cunning lies and delusion that it will have the same affect. Controlled use and a bright future for myself the next time. Insane was a word for the mental hospital to refer to hopeless people as mindless beings. No longer mentally awake, forever a tomato in a world of sweet peas. 


      Useless and non existent.

They were people that went to crazy land and won’t return to the real perspective of human thought. I am a sick lady. Now 23 years lived as an addict, unknown dormant and active as the drugs are in reach.

 I’m the definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over. Even knowing the results and how the story ends, but believing that I can do it any way. I tell myself I can fight the power of addiction myself and win my life back and beat the disease.  Like others beat cancer, heart attacks, poisoned food, car wrecks and everyday danger, where odds forever against your fight to win power stand alone. I thought I had a chance.

I’ve lost so many times I became pained enough to accept the reality and stay in the light of fellow recovering addicts who tell my disease the damn truth and remind me daily that I’m the problem to myself. I was a constant component in the game of life or death and I believed that the dying ease of peace away from earth was the easiest ticket out. 

Love is the only way to believe in yourself enough to show others with proof of change and courage that walk through fear. We believe that we can change the impossible. We accessed the always progressive, but only active if we acted on the simple feelings that don’t stay forever.  Looking at my problems in the face of the mirror, staring right back at me and living with the scars of my past, bruised and torn from the lessons that need to be taught and torn on the inside from emotions never felt processed or comfortable as we grow through the falls and bumps in a long road ahead. While holding to a power greater than myself, to turn self will into selfless action, and give up. 

 Painfully dreadful nightmares .. one day it may be to late to wake up.