My parents weren't nice people. The asshole that raised me isnt my real father, his brother was. My real dad overdosed on heroin before I really knew who he was to me. My biological mother is also a heroin addict and keeps pumping out a new sibling that I have to pretend to care about every year.
My fake father beat the shit out of me and verbally tormented me and my sister for years.. Things got so bad he started putting locks on the refrigerator and cupboards so we couldn't eat unless he or my step mother allowed it. (Parents at least had the courtesy to divorce when I was 9) I remember the deep feeling of fear seeing his car pull in to a parking space across the street every day just hoping I could hide in my room long enough to hope things might settle. They never did.
I remember being thrown down the basement steps, being beaten down with a mop, hit on the top of my head several times by a fucking ice cream scoop, and the several times it was just an all out one sided brawl. I've been slammed into things so hard that even the slightest edges of cabinets, door frames, and end tables left scars on me. Those days seemed endless.
I started doing drugs when I was about 15. Just painkillers at first. They were easy to find. I tried to kill myself with them when I was 16 to no avail. The rest of my family, however, finally started to see what was happening to my sister and I after the day I left the hospital from the overdose. They raised their voices, they complained, they got goddamned angry. They ultimately dos nothing whatsoever.
My addiction to drugs only worsened when I felt too much social pressure at school. It worsened when I felt the anxiety of home crushing me. It never ever let up.
I was homeless by the time I was 17. I lived in a park downtown for a couple of weeks while still going to school. I had only what I could carry in a backpack and two guitar cases. It was humiliating.. Teachers looking at me sympathetically, others staring in disgust. Unwashed. Bruised. Scarred. Terrified. Tired.
Eventually I got together enough courage to ask a friend if I could live at his parents place with him for a while until I could figure out what to do. After that I graduated, bounced from couch to floor to street to navy boot camp back to street to floor again. Nothing was working out.
I found myself begging my best friend, as my last hope, to live with he and his parents. Finally a stable place.. I got a full time job several months later. I saved up, got an apartment and really tried to have some fucking independence for once. I was still using drugs but now with a twist. Harder and heavier things were needed because I hated me more. Although I was where I wanted to be I still knew deep down I was as worthless as I had always been told.
Eventually I lose the decent full time living. I work part time minimum wage. Can't afford my place. Can't afford to even shop at the store I work. So I give in. I quit, I lose the apartment, and I focus everything on drugs because I don't care about me now. There was never a reason to I guess.
A couple years later, here I am. Laid off from work. Living at my girlfriend's parents house. Depressed, newly clean from addiction, and getting emotional over every little thing and I don't know why. I would love to just start using again, and if I didn't have someone to let down I would have given up by now.
I needed this off my chest. It's only parts of my story, and probably somewhat incoherent so I'm sorry for that. I'm also sorry if I offend someone. This is just me venting to the wind because despite my best efforts to stay off drugs there is always some asshole that comes by and reopens old wounds. When I feel my heart sink in my chest and my eyes begin to burn with a sad angry feeling, all I can think about is escaping it because I'm not a better man.
Submitted June 23, 2016 at 12:03PM by Cheadlejuice_Juice http://ift.tt/28OJIpz offmychest
No comments:
Post a Comment