Stories! I'll tell my story. I'm incredibly bored and it's a rainy day and all that.
I've had treatment resistant depression for as long as I can remember. I first tried to kill myself around 8 (very confusing, knowing you're so different and not knowing why). So, I hopped from addiction to addiction during primary school and high school (self-injury, anorexia nervosa, other self injurious habits) and started smoking pot around 11 or 12. Then I met some older friends who were into pills and meth, so by the time I was 15 I was smoking a ton of weed every day and doing pills and sometimes meth. I started art school at 17. I went nuts. "my life got flip turned upside down" as the Fresh Prince would say and I had a dissociative attack, ended up in the psych ward. After that, I met a guy who was a heroin dealer. Woohoo! And we started dating.
I probably snorted heroin 3 or 4 times before I asked him to shoot me up. I think I had this romantic idea about the junkie artist in the dimly lit room, writing poetry and nodding off and making love and eating fruit and all that shit, like a lot of us do I think. And it's true. It's like that. It's fucking beautiful and dramatic and tragic for a while, until it's just dramatic and tragic, and then after a while it's just tragic and sad.
I started stripping to support my habit (and his). Luckily I'm pretty and I had dreadlocks down to my ass and I was good at it, so I made a lot of money and never had to start hooking. But it also allowed my habit to get a bit out of hand.
The first time I quit, cold turkey, I left him. I moved back with my parents. It lasted maybe six months. And then I went back, and the rest is blurry. Using, dancing, quitting, using, quitting, dancing. I managed to finish my AA in all this and graduate with honors, and even occasionally hold down a second job. But by the time I was 21 my habit was getting bad. I was experienced by that point and had lots of regulars so I was averaging $500-700/night and it was all going into my arm.
I met a wonderful boy at work. We started dating, we fell in love. We had an awful habit together for a while. Eventually, I decided that quitting on my own hadn't worked for me and that I was incapable of holding myself responsible because I had become so fucking good at manipulating myself and everyone around me. I had watched three friends die and my boyfriend almost die (I had to keep him alive until the ambulance got there, breathing into his icy lips, only one side of his chest working from a collapsed lung). I went to the methadone clinic.
I cheated a lot at first. But eventually my back hurt so badly I couldn't work anymore, so I couldn't afford dope. And then I actually got into the program, and life got better. We got a nice apartment and my boyfriend was working regularly. I started working as the VP of a startup company in an office with my own desk and everything.
We moved to California. I stayed clean. The last year, though, I've been back in the Midwest. I got sick, see, and now I have lots of chronic pain. So there's the struggle all over again, with the pain (I've always had back pain, and it's most of the reason I started. I'm 27 and I have osteoarthritis and four herniated discs squishing my spinal cord, and fibromyalgia). When they give me painkillers now they barely work because my brain is rewired for opiates.
It starts out beautiful but it never ends that way. It ends messy and sad and pathetic.