Cocaine Days

With cocaine in my veins, I took my fists to the wall. The drug coursing through my body, I justified unleashing all the overbearing emotions. The hatred. The rage. The sadness. A beast, awakened and free, barreling through drywall with the furious delight.

The drugs always provided a nice coat rack I could hang all the things I hated about myself on.

Scrolling through my phone, sending calls and texts out, trying to score. Waiting for an opportunity to open itself up and my day of glorious self-destruction to begin. Opening notifications on my phone like it was an advent calendar.

I went about my day, delighting in the opportunity to blow my brains out the back of my head with whatever illicit substance I could find. Cocaine would be nice, but anything would do. When you’re broke, looking to get numb, and don’t care about seeing the morning, any drug will do. Staring into the back of my red solo cup I wondered if this would be the last moment I remembered. Would I make it to another morning of being hungover and dry-heaving? Would the light from the lamp illuminating my poison be the last imprint onto the hard drive of my brain? Didn’t seem like such a bad way to go out.

Sat up in a circle later in the night, I avoided eye contact. I hated catching someone’s gaze. Especially in the little junkie circle. What started as a good time had quickly devolved into a burning desire to numb the things eating me alive inside. An album cover, something to cut lines with, and a powdered substance. I kept my eyes on the prize.

I could feel the sadness suppressed one line at a time. Self-doubt, insecurity, melting away to an inner rage. A beast ready to bury fists into whatever in front of him. The physical pain more understandable. Quantifiable. Easier to cope with.

As I splattered my life across porcelain surfaces, the blood and bile caused fits of laughter. Laughter turned to choking and white spots in my already blurred, double-vision. Would the bottom of this toilet bowl, painted sanguine from violent wretching, be the last memory?

Lavishing in my toxicity, I stumble through rooms bloody and broken. Looking for a place to lay my shattered head. Split lips. Broken fingers. Nose burning as the sweet drip fueled me forward.

It feels like a movie. It wasn’t. Movies paint their destroyed characters with redeeming qualities. I didn’t have any. Some days, it feels like I still don’t.

I lay there, free falling into the bottomless pit the drugs and alcohol have created inside.


Will this be my last moment alive?


It’s important for me to talk about life before parenting. To look at the the decisions I made, but, maybe more importantly, look at the emotions I had bottled up inside myself. I believe in looking back on these moments and reflecting because they are an important aspect of what makes me the person I am today. Hopefully, they also help someone who has also chosen to take a tougher road in life to also reflect. Maybe even change. What’s your story, and are you ready to tell it?

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