Inside the Mind of an Addict

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Inside the Mind of an Addict
Inside the Mind of an Addict

Why is it that no one understands me? Can’t they see I’m hurting and crying out for help? Yet my friends have stopped calling and my parents won’t give me a dime – what’s wrong with them? I don’t need them, I don’t need anyone. I’ve got this just fine, I can go it alone.

Inside the Mind of an Addict
Inside the Mind of an Addict

Alone. I hate being alone. The silence is haunting. The TV and internet are momentary distractions. I’m bored. I know what will make this all better, and I start drinking. It’s only 10 in the morning. Ahhhhh! The first beer goes down nice and smooth but it doesn’t do the trick. I down a couple of shots of Southern Comfort as I open a fresh cold one. Now that’s more like it. My neighbor pops by, he knows where to find me and is misunderstood, just like me. We should be at work but we took the day off. Too much stress. We won’t bother to call in either, just make up some excuse about being sick or my cat dying. It worked last time, didn’t it? It isn’t my fault I have bad luck with cats. My boss will understand. Even if he doesn’t, to heck with him. The job sucks anyway.

Where was I? Oh yeah, a six pack in plus additional shots, but now with a drinking buddy. You know what would make this perfect? Some coke. My buddy just happens to have some. Awesome! It has the proper effect of making the alcohol even more fun as we blather on like the Chipmunks about nothing at all. We won’t remember a word of this conversation, but it sure feels good.

My cell phone rings. Ugh, it’s mom. ‘Just let it go to voicemail,’ I think, and that’s exactly what I do. She calls again and then a third time. Now I’m getting paranoid – who died? I answer her fourth attempt and she starts in with a “hi honey.”

I love my mom but I’m not in the mood for any of this, especially when she asks “are you okay? You sound sick.” I assure her that I’m fine and from there on all I hear is “blah, blah, blah,” as I wonder how much longer I need to stay on the phone and when I can do my next line. It seems like hours even though she’s mercifully done within five minutes. Some other people call during the day and then my boss. What a freaking buzzkill. I choose to ignore them all. I’m busy for Christ’s sake.

The day moves on and we’re having a grand old time as we occasionally knock over bottles and accidentally spill stuff, making a mess of my apartment. I barely notice. But you know what would make this day complete? Some heroin. We check our pockets to pool our resources and call a dealer who’s courteous enough to deliver faster than Domino’s. Now this is bliss. I pass out in a complete stupor without a care in the world.

I wake up hung over and miserable, soldiering forward into the shower to prepare for work. After all, I’m totally broke. God, I hope I still have a job. I stop for one brief moment to wonder why the heck I do this to myself, and then return to normal programming, thinking about the next possible time I can get high. Why is it that no one understands me?

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