I was safe in my comforter. Safe in my room, in our house, in the middle of the night. Safe in my dreams, safe with my mind. Or so I thought. Ironically, I was safe dreaming of a crisis. I was in Dawn's living room going through a bag of clothes that had been stuffed full, both randomly and carelessly. No matching outfits, not enough underclothes, no toothbrush, no hair products, barely enough medicine. I pull out some old clothes that could probably use a good washing, but they'll suffice in this situation. I graciously take the toothbrush I'm offered along with my dirty, stale clothes to the bathroom to change. I try desperately to find some state of peace for bed but it seems next to impossible.
I have to admit: it's nice to finally have someone take care of me - to have someone love me enough, to have someone drop what they're doing and think, "Wow, this girl needs me and I love her too much to let her go to waste." Not too many people have taken that opportunity in my past, though there were more than enough chances. Or, maybe that's just my perception. Maybe people have taken the opportunity and I'm just too blind to see it. Either way, this feels different. Regardless of the fact I know I can't stay here or that I'm awkwardly positioned on the couch beside Dawn or that I look like death, I'm as comforted and grateful as I could possibly be. My mind isn't working properly; whether it's from stress, the lack of sleep, or the drugs, I'm not sure and, to be brutally honest, I don't care. I feel as if I'll always be in debt to Dawn and her family, though I don't comprehend at the time that I'll never truly be able to return the favor. Instead, my frantic mind starts dreaming up possible gifts for them. Honestly, I think I'm just looking for a release - something new to crowd my head rather than the now prevalent thoughts of homelessness, drugs, and all my bridges burned.
Whoever that is in the mirror, it can't be me. She's tired and ugly, with circles under her eyes, skinny, broken, worthless. I don't want to look but, I can't bring myself to quit staring. Is this what I've become?
This is where the dream separates itself from the actual memory. In reality, this night was the beginning of a long road - one that eventually leads to where I am now: a good foster home, celebrating an entire year clean, getting ready to go off to college to become a substance abuse counselor. Don't get me wrong, the road was far from easy. It was full of fire, hell, and a ton more bad decisions that should have let me without Dawn but didn't. My dream, however, is a different story.
I reach into my bag and pull out a syringe just like the ones I use for my insulin. Instead of pulling up insulin, a sweet, thick , brown substance fills the syringe. I lay it down and pull my hair up in a loose bun. The next few steps are so routine that I don't even have to think about them. Reach over and lock the door, take off my sweatshirt, sit down on the hard toilet seat, make a fist, and watch the veins pop up and scream my name. The part of the ritual that's different tonight is the thoughts that flood my brain. When I'm not getting ready to shoot up, I'm thinking about heroin so when it's in a syringe right in front of me, I think of nothing but heroin. There's no room for second guesses or guilt, shame, or logic; just the thought of bringing it all home and flying. Tonight, however, Dawn crosses my mind. Guilt, shame, and logic enter my psyche. Here she is, letting me sleep on her couch, feeding me, taking me in while I'm homeless and here I am, shooting up in her bathroom. Her kids, both younger than me, are up in their rooms doing homework and I'm down here pulling up a good dose of H. I take a mental note, telling myself that I'm a selfish bitch, and continue with my actions. The addiction, the drugs, the darkness is stronger than my willpower to be good, clean, and altogether a decent human being. Though I long for the latter, it seems so far out of reach and I can't bring myself to waste the dope. I look at the prepared rig again, take a deep breath, insert the needle into my vein, pull up some blood to form a detrimental mixture, and slam it all home.
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