Addiction.

 

Addiction.  

 

Tragically unforetold. At first drag, I thought nothing of it. By the millionth, it ruled my world. From age 13 up to age 16, substances pumped my liver; smoke filled my lungs; and powder vacuumed up my nostrils. Innocently enough, teens experiment. Yet, I adulterated my use into weekly, daily, then hourly substance abuse. 

I didn’t think I had any problem with substances. It was everyone else who had the problem, always pestering me to stop and “get better.” They hated my nonchalance and “fuck it” attitude. 

But it was all a front; a cope. My first drug of abuse was my mother’s antidepressant medication. As a child, I didn’t know why I abused antidepressants. Apparently, my mother had used the same antidepressant during her pregnancy. I wasn’t diagnosed with anxiety and depression until age 14, then bipolar disorder at age 16. These were lifelong struggles, gone undiagnosed and untreated. 

“There’s no need to cry,” my mother would say. And this summarizes my existence–an emotionally numb, unavailable, and derelict existence. Forever numb, substances became an escape to feel emotion. Most people run from their emotions–they’re lucky. I could never feel love for a friend, parent, or partner. 

Substance abuse disorders are the most blatant of all addictions. For that, I am grateful. I never had to blame anything else for my unhappiness. But I blamed drugs for making me happy. MDMA first exposed to me the bleakness of my reality. Comparing highs and lows, I realized my high was most people’s baseline. 

By my sophomore year, I was objectively an addict. And I passed the test to get into rehab. Forcefully, I entered. And it changed my life. Among peers, I could see beyond my addiction and recognize myself for the human I am. But most importantly, I saw the havoc substances wreaked and the hold it could have on others. 

Rehab, the first time, made me empathetic. Finally, I could resonate with others. These people spoke my language, ripping the words out of my head. Only they understood. We had a pact, a bond. That’s how I accumulated my first 30 days sober in over 2 years. 

But all good things must come to an end, so they say. And I relapsed–again and again–until they weren’t relapses, and I was back in active addiction. A failure had failed yet again. 

Around this time, I grew suicidal. Expelled from the Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy, alienated from friends and family, and emotionally numb, I was ready to give up. I harmed myself with an electric lighter. Every zap, I hoped, would resurrect me. A dead man walking. 

That was, until my second stint back in rehab. This time, I was ready. I had worked through my anxiety and bipolar depression, using cognitive and behavioral therapies alongside medication. Extensively and proactively, I researched every substance’s effect; and researched mental illness to vocalize my fright. Armed with the knowledge, I walked in the first day with a new hope. And I wouldn’t leave for another 42 days–until I was clean and stable. 

Debts unpaid, I owe everything to Amy Allers, the woman who counseled me through the first 30 days of sobriety. Then, I owe my gratitude to my girlfriend for counseling me through the subsequent 42 days. A little love, patience, and empathy is all it takes to make a good man go sober. 

Since pregnancy, my addiction was rooted in substances and mental illness. But I had to stop making excuses and own up to my shortcomings. I had to radically accept my existence on this earth and use my experiences to help others. For, “it is only by sharing the gift of recovery that we may help ourselves.”(Anonymous) My life now is dedicated to others and the recovery of young addicts just like myself.