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         She was my first love. She was easy to get and made me feel so good. I had her every night. My liquid poison. The taste of her on my lips, the rush she filled my veins with. She was my muse, my escape. Until she almost destroyed me. I had to give her up. It felt like she was everywhere I went. I had to use every ounce of self control to ignore her, until a new lover came along.
         Her name was Mary. I had seen her time and time again, but she never sparked my interest. One night I decided to spend some time with her. I inhaled all of her being. I felt calm with her. As I released her, all the bad things going on in my head disapated into the air. She embraced me that night and I knew immediatley, she had me.
         I was lost in a cloud of smoke. Nothing mattered, except the time we spent together. While I was with her I even brought a new friend around. This friend numbed it all. I had reached the point of no return. Nothing was going to come inbetween myself and my love affairs.
         I only remember those times of my life in pieces. Dark, broken pieces. It was a phone call that woke me from my haze. It was the two people who brought me into this world. They begged, yelled, and pleaded for me to let go of my love. They warned me of everything that was slowly being taken from me. The life I had created and cherished more than anything was on the verge of being taken from me. It was time to let go.
         The following day I found myself face to face with a therapist inside a hospital I knew all too well. That hospital held me for a month, two years prior, when I tried to take my own life. I expressed all my love affairs to this woman, along with re-hashing multiple life traumas with her. Molestation, rape, knives, guns, violence. I felt like a record, playing the story of my life over and over again. I was numb to it. They admitted me into their partial hospitalization program.
         I arrived my first day, with my old friend xanax in hand. She was still my crutch. I couldn't walk into a room without her, talk to people without her, or even begin my day without her. I sunk into my chair and gazed around at the group of people sitting before me. I saw a swirl of faces. They ranged from old, to young, to hispanic, to black, to white, to disabled. I sat in silence. I don't remember anything else from that morning. The next thing I knew I was sitting in front of a psychiatrist who told me I needed to go to the emergency room for a xanax overdose, or they were going to hold me there. I always went for the escape route. I left.
         The next thing I knew I was in the hospital with little sticky circles all over my chest and a needle in my arm. I was in and out of conciousness. They told me if I couldn't get up and walk out steadily, that they were keeping me. I had my stubborn pride still stuck inside me. I used every ounce of strength in my body to walk a wobbly ten feet to a wheel chair. I was free again.
         Still emotionless I feel alseep that night, but awoke the next day with a new sense of self. I looked at my son. So innocent, so precious and new to life. I cried and cried. It was time to free myself of the imaginary chains that surrounded my slowing dying body. If anyone needed me, it was him. He is named after superman, and now I know why, he saved my life.
         I went back to the hospital group the following day. Everyone complimented on how great I looked. I didn't feel any better. I didn't know what they meant. I just knew my friend wasn't with me. My palms were sweating, hands shaking, thoughts ruminating. I felt hopless. I questioned myself, was I too far gone to be helped?
         No. Nobody is. There is always a reason to exist, even if you think you can't find one.



To be continued...