I feel like dying.

Euphoria. It’s almost as if I am in a dream. My mind focused on nothing but the high that I’m feeling.
I’ve been like this for several hours now, existing in this state of mind. Those little red skittles.
The pills that bring you up. It’s unlike any other high, not the best… but definitely a great feeling.
Of course, anytime something is stolen it’s always better than it should be. Adrenaline rush.
The feeling of not getting caught. The thrill. The excitement. It’s everything. Being a teenager
has definitely got its perks. Experimenting with new things. Trying out drugs for the first time.
Feeling on top of the world, yet so far into the abyss. Of course, it all starts with a need for something
more. Something bigger and better than just living. You want to feel, but at the same time you want to
feel nothing. Let’s face it, it’s the 2000’s. What’s happiness without drugs?
And it started with a boy. Don’t all good stories start out with love? I wouldn’t even call it that. Love’s
not the emotion we felt. I will never put myself in the position to say I loved him. I didn’t. This isn’t a
story about Romeo and Juliet. It’s just about a girl, and how complications led to self medication. So
let’s call this boy… Luke. Sweet, yet badass. Biblical, and common. What was it about Luke? Was it
his good looks, his style, his tempting lips? Nothing of the sort. I was drawn in by the problems he had.
The first day he moved to town, I knew it. I wanted him to be mine, and mine alone. And it happened.
No use going into details about how I snagged this one, all that matters is that I did. I knew what I was
getting in to. I’d heard rumors about why he’d moved to town. He was the kid that got kicked out of town.
The drugs. The psycho ex girlfriend. The cutting. The family problems. I depression. The anger. You
can see it when you look into his eyes. So full of secrets and depth. I wanted in on those secrets. I
wanted to help. I was so drawn in by these factors, I wanted a taste of it all.
He cheated. He broke my heart. We broke up. End of Luke. It’s what happened after him that started it
all. My depression kicked in. I was in the darkest era of my life, and I thought of him. How’d he do it?
How did that boy manage it all. His arms. His legs. Diagonal, Horizontal, Vertical lines, Designs, Words.
Cuts all around. Each cut, a different situation. A different feeling. This little one says “I hate you.”
This deep one says “fuck you.” I want it. I need it. I did it. It all started small, and then got bigger.
Deeper. More artistic. The scars still haunt me.
It took away my pain. But after a while, that just wasn’t enough. I needed something more. Drugs. All my
friends were doing it. Why can’t I? My parents would never suspect it. I had a new boyfriend. He could
get me what I wanted. Which at the time was just weed. I toked with my best friend for the first time. I felt
nothing. I was looking for a new way to take out my pain, to feel something. Anything. And I felt nothing.
I tried it a second time, and I was flying high as hell. I had developed a liking to it and tried various forms.
Hydro, Chronic, Haze. I wouldn’t settle for bum weed. I wouldn’t settle for it if you couldn’t smell it right
when you opened the bag. I wouldn’t settle for anything less than I needed. And I needed good shit.
Shrooms. Trip. Hallucinations. It was good. It was real good. I began taking random shit that I didn’t even
know what it was. If you had anything that would fuck me up, I’d do it. And that’s when that one day came.
Vicodin. I wanted something new, it had to be great. My best friend had it. A lot of it. So I took one. I took
two. I took three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. I took the lethal dose of vicodin, and I’m here to talk about it today.
She doubled it. We were fucked up. She saw fish swimming through the air. I thought the car was a rocket
ship. I must’ve thrown up twenty times that night. Especially after smoking the salvia that we had as well. If
my best friend hadn’t have been there, I would’ve been miserable. Her company made everything better. I
wanted more. I wanted to get more fucked up. I was willing to risk it all to get that high again. I could only
get three, so I took them in the morning one day at school. And that’s when I got sent to rehab.
I stayed sober for five months after that. And now I’m on to the Triple C’s. Dextromethorphan seems to be
the love of my life now, so maybe this is a love story after all. A story about one fucked up girl who needs
drugs to function. I sit here now, high as hell tripping on the C’s. And what’s the moral of the story? I’ll let
you know when I figure that shit out.