beginning of my book/memoirs...?

Before I cut my first line of cocaine, burned my first scar into the tender skin of my wrist, or shoved my finger down my throat, I had no intention of having a ‘problem' much less an entire set of them. I don't think any addict ever starts down a path of self destruction with the knowledge that it is in fact a path to be traveled, and not just a one time stop on the journey of life. Shit, if I ever did meet someone who had every intention of becoming a substance abuser I'd hand them a loaded .45 and tell them to do it in the bathroom or outside so clean up was easier. Never having thoughts of suicide, I suffered more at the hand of my substance abuse because I actually wanted to live. I wanted to be a functioning, successful member of society that enjoyed waking up in the morning and living out my life doing whatever it was I wanted to do. But fuck if I knew what exactly it was that I wanted to do. Writing has always been organic for me. My first creative writing project in third grade enlightened me to the liberating characteristic of the written word. It was pre-determined that writing was going to be a part of my future, it was just figuring out who the audience would be that stifled me. Poet, journalist, novelist, I had no idea which title my name should fall before. In the process of trying to figure my life out, I did a pretty damn good job of fucking it up. Until now I'd been afraid to put it on paper, terrified to really see the horror of travesties I had committed against my family and friends, all in an effort to fill some inner void. An inner void, insatiable,  gnawing away at my inner core unyielding until I railed a line or pushed a burning match into my wrist. I still view those times in a sordid but sexy, sallow light. There was something alluring to me about that ‘underworld'. The beauty that could be found in such tragedy drew me in rapidly, at times unwillingly. The methodical obssessiveness with which lines of cocaine were drawn up on a mirror enthralled me. The way my deeply purple fingernails tapped down on the joint being passed around was mesmerizing. There was a dirty sexiness about this part of my world that for a very long time, I was unwilling to give up. As intoxicating as this part of my life was, its inherent instability lent itself to my unraveling. What follows is not for the faint of heart. I hurt everyone in my path and abused every substance I could find. I stole drugs from my father, money from my mother, and happiness from my sister. I cheated and abused the one man in my life whom I truly loved and I know undoubtedly loved me for my faults, not in spite of them. That sole loss of love and happiness that fateful spring sent me careening down my path of destruction at a faster pace than ever before. It was in those following months that I stole, cheated, lied, and destroyed everything in my path in an attempt to not feel so empty, to fill the void He no longer occupied. All of my suffering hailed from that simple need to fill my emptiness. But in my search, I ended up with absolutely nothing and no one. And as vain as this sounds, it all started because I wanted to be skinny. Seriously.