There was a time when coke could make me forget anything. Any painful memories, those feelings of despair, hopelessness—all instantly replaced by a euphoric high, this wonderful calm, a brilliant satisfaction. A quick fix in a trusty green bag.
But inevitably, the bag would empty. No matter the time, I’d go get more, doing whatever I had to do to escape myself, to run away, if just for a moment.
Then it stopped working. No powder could silence the noise in my head. I chased its relief with increasing desperation, but it was gone—and I, and my feelings, were left in its wake.
A year clean; I’ve stopped chasing, stopped running. But I haven’t healed. Not totally. Not yet. I’m sick of breaking down, sick of crying, sick of scaring the one who loves me most. I’m sick of feeling like I’ll never get past my past. I want to fast-forward through these bad parts, to run my life like a horror film—to close my eyes during the really scary parts. But life, though terrifying, is not a movie. And besides, I’ve never been a good actress.
Here’s to hope, or something like it.
