A Day in the LIfe of a Recovering Addict

*I must apologize, as I began this story, got pulled away by something significant, and somehow posted the brief clip I had finished. But, since it began this way, it shall continue to be episodic until I feel like I've told my story. Thank you so much for the kind reviews.


People who grow up in big cities don't realize how lucky they are. With all those other people around, you get to keep secrets to yourself.

I grew up in a town with three red lights - in a row, down the main road. The same road I walked from one side of town to my school on the other. One straight line, that should've been the name of the town. Or, more appropriately, Straight and Narrow, walk it or get out. I was a good student - I graduated 8th in my class. I was very popular in school, and that popularity wasn't even phased by me coming out as gay at 16 years old. Society had already begun leaning more towards acceptance, but mostly the young people. The older folks.....were not as accepting. I actually had a grandfather who I saw regularly, but we didn't speak for the last 10 or 15 years of his life. His politics didn't lean in any direction, most especially the drug addicted queer space I occupied.

I had struggled with depression from as young as I can remember. No particular reason, I had a good life but for the years I spent as a child actively receiving sexual abuse. Maybe that was the reason, but I'm honestly not sure. Maybe I can weigh in on that when I get my Masters in psychology (the only degree I'm currently working on is in sarcasm). Regardless of causation, I began a trial and error journey through the antidepressant alphabet at 16. If you've never taken them, that's literally the process. Most doctors have a favorite standard for trying with patients new to them, but it is not likely that this is the drug you will be taking in the end. And they have no idea if it will help, or how. They have no idea what any of them will actually do to you until you take them for a month or two. They just go with statistics. or perhaps they have trait defined statistics like - 'bitchy patient who pisses the bed' gets Paxil or 'kid who suffered unspeakable abuse' gets Celexa. Clearly, I haven't finished my medical degree either.

What I can tell you about with an air of authority, and the only topic I would venture to call myself an expert on, is substance abuse and drug rehabilitation. I'm not a counselor, but man, I seriously abused the fuck out of some substances. I would love for this to be a story of me getting so high that I was in some horrible accident and I, myself alone, chose to get help because I refused to live that way anymore. But I'm gonna call a spade a spade. I loved getting high, and getting high loved me. There were no years of extreme suffering, I did not sell myself for drugs or money, nor did I steal from my family until they wrote me off. Hell, I kept a full-time job and a home the entire time. It was not always more than a hotel room that most people are not adventurous enough to ever have slept in, but I never spent one single day without a place to call home, or slept a single night on the streets. I did not spend near as much time around family, cause I still hated for them to see me high. But I did see them and talk to them. There just wasn't a need to get help. I didn't need help cause I was doing just fine staying high as fuck. I must add that my life is certainly better now, and I've accomplished things that I never could've had I not changed. But I'm sure you'd like to know why I got clean if nothing forced my hand. Believe me, my hand was forced.

Methamphetamine. That is where the problems started. I had been on opiates, pain pills, for ten years and never had any problems. I got treatment, which I abused, but couldn't feel. I was not ready to just not get high yet, so I found a different drug. I don't care who you are, or what you are immune to, meth will get you high.