



I was dreaming of home. The cold of winter grazes my cheeks. I am rocking back and forth in my empty apartment. I have the windows open. My heart is going to beat out of my chest. I am grinding my teeth for what seems like weeks. My parents live 45 minutes away but it might as well be at the other side of the world. I am in this room, in this body, in this moment. This might be my last. Sweat starts pouring off of my forehead.



I moved out of my parents house when I was three weeks shy of 18 years old. I was still in high school. It was weird to transport myself from my apartment to high school. I thought I was so grown up. My parents agreed to help me with college expenses. I had such a bright future. I was such a bright kid. I was taking vicodin here and there. Some acid from time to time. Smoking weed every day. Drinking until I blacked out. You know how it goes.



It wasn't long before I saw a different side of the world. I lost my virginity to my first serious boyfriend my last year in high school. I thought it was true love always. Within a few years, I would be trading sex for drugs. Because that is where the drugs lead me. I had always wanted someone to love me. I grew up an overweight smart girl with glasses. I always wanted someone to love me most of all. When I took those first few pills, I saw myself the way I had always imagined. I was thinner, more confident, and most of all I did not give a damn what anyone thought. Until the next day.



I remember getting drunk and beating up my roommate. She had left rehab and seemed to always be whispering about me. I had confided in her and she abused my trust. One night, in front of a room full of people, I snapped and kicked her door in. As I was hitting her, I realized all the anger of my 18 years of Earth was coming out. I could have killed her. I stopped myself. I couldn't take my emotions. It wasn't her, it was me. I pulled her up and told her to get the fuck out and never come back. I destroy everything I touch.



My parents dragged themselves across town a few days later. This was only one of two times they ever visited my apartment. They shook their heads in disappointment. How could I have done such things? How could I be such a monster? I didn't know either. I didn't know why I did anything. All I knew is that I grew up with my father drunk and my mother crying on the couch because she couldn't save him. All I knew was that I tried drugs at 7. All I knew is that there were all these things inside of me and no one cared, least of all myself.



Why did I want to try heroin? Why not? The feeling, the absence of pain, was what I craved. That feeling of fuck it and numbness that rolls over you. It is the only thing that can push crippling depression into the backseat and tells it -let me drive for awhile. Heroin is a drug for people that think to much. Heroin is for sensitive people who have trouble relating to the world. Heroin is for the person whose words get stuck in their throat. Heroin is for the person who sees the world and wants to watch it burn. That was me.



I used to sit and dream of home. A home that never existed. I imagined a home where I felt safe. People loved me there. I was okay within my skin. I did not need to use drugs. I would nod out after injecting a half gram of infectious poison into my body withering of starvation and dream of a place where I could be accepted for myself. I never found that place until I quit using.





I was dreaming of home. These rooms have bright lights with no shades and dirty walls. They are perfect for finding a vein, not so good for sleeping. I fell asleep holding my knees. I was rocking back and forth. It soothes me. I don't feel so alone when I hold myself. I came to California alone. I spend most of my time with me, my cooker, and my memories.