On (Not) Being in Denial

 I hadn’t been alive for years, until I had to fight for my life.

In a jail cell, they want you to suffer. They make everything suicide-proof, but it’s all ironic. I found a way to kill myself in there if I wanted, one that would be painless, quick and seamless. But I didn’t.

I had hurt everyone I loved at that point. All my lies had crumbled, like badly written lyrics on pieces of paper in a trash can. I felt like Judas, having betrayed all of my friends. I understood why Christians made up Hell. They made it for people like me.

My ex-best friend said my drug use in freshman year would amount to me being dead in a ditch. I realized me being dead in a jail cell in junior year wouldn’t be that far off. I hated everything I became, but most importantly, I hated that she was right.

In order to get all the drugs that slowly killed me, I had to lie to everyone. By the end of my reign over my life, I had conjured so many lies to my friends and family that I had grown tired. I knew that day when I drove something would go wrong, but I didn’t care enough about myself to stop anything. All I could think about what my next fix. I couldn’t stand being sober for one minute.

The girl who could do nothing else but be alone with her thoughts was gone yet again. She came back in waves. She oscillated, in flux with the moon phases. 

I looked around at my friends who could regulate their drug use. I didn’t suppose my daily use was anything abnormal. I saw it as something I necessitated that others didn’t. I would grow angry at drugs being illegal when so many other addictive things are legal, like gambling, drinking, sugary foods, or smoking. None of it seemed fair; I couldn’t see myself as an addict in the sense I didn’t see myself as different from anyone else. I saw everyone else as addicted too, in some way, just they were in denial of it. I felt stronger by being addicted and yet knowing it too. I was never in denial. I always knew what I was.

I was in so deep that I needed to swim up now or I was going to never be found again in the water. My body would only rise again with the gases that are released from a decomposing body. I needed to swim up that day or I would only be found again dead.

And I did swim up, but not of my own volition. I needed to be pushed against a police car, handcuffed and incarcerated to swim up. 

Because there was something I realized in that jail cell. It was different from the police that came to save my life when I attempted suicide. Those police wanted me alive; these new ones wanted me dead. 

And I just couldn’t stand the fact someone wanted me dead for being addicted. I couldn’t stand seeing someone wanting me dead more than I wanted myself dead. That gave me strength to not kill myself in that cell.

There are still things I wrestle with everyday: why I got in that car, why I crashed, why I failed the field test. None of it goes away, and it won’t forever. I changed my life forever that day, but had addiction not done the same thing but slower? I would’ve never been there if it hadn’t been for my addiction. 

And, for the first time in my whole life, I hated being addicted. I hated who I became. Before, I was proud. I remember I told the love of my life that I was proud of how well I could keep things from people and he was disgusted. And I just couldn’t fathom why. 

It felt like life was a game and I was playing it right. I was maintaining about four lives while living one steady one in my subjective reality. I felt superhuman. I felt like I had cracked some code. I remember thinking that if anyone else had had to deal with these many stories and keeping them in track, they wouldn’t be able to. All my life I felt so boring, but this was how I coped. This was my way of feeling special.

I bit down on my cloth until my gag reflex enacted. That is innocence. Innocence is shattered when you keep biting down, until you have no more gag reflex. Until nothing phases you.

I’m embarrassed now that I needed several rock bottoms to wake up. But I realize now I was just in a very, very deep slumber. And I realize now that when I awoke from my metaphorical coma, I did have others around me, in fact, they were holding my hand and crying at my feet. And I just looked at them with confusion at why they were still there, not elation in the fact that I had woken up or that they were with me. I was so ungrateful.

I’d rather have been in denial, but I always knew everything that was wrong with me. I just never wanted to fix it, and I guess that hurts worse.