R.I.P. Drugs

An Essay

I am what some may call a “reformed piece of shit!”. I know that a great many of you reading this are cracking your knuckles already in route to the comment section to tell me to be kinder to myself, but it’s true… I used to be a piece of shit.

I never meant to harm others, sure, but I certainly didn’t take the time to consider the consequences of any of my actions. I didn’t once consider what being a selfish, single-minded, narcissistic, over-inflated-ego-driven maniac might do to the people around me. I know all of those words basically mean the same thing, but I don’t give a shit. Damn it! There I go again slipping into my old ways!

Drugs and alcohol have been a pretty big part of my life since I was in my early teens. I was born at just the right time to feel the full brunt of the OxyContin wave hit Appalachia’s shores and, frankly, it’s a borderline miracle that I’m even sitting here writing this. Maybe my will to shine bright was greater than the temptation to burn out. A great many of my friends weren’t so lucky.

19 years old seems like a million years ago yet anytime I see a Tv show that deals with drug abuse I’m transported back to that age and everything is crystal clear. That was the year that I buried 3 of my buddies back to back to back. One to an overdose, one to a car wreck caused by drugs, and one to suicide caused by… well, you get it. It’s only a sad story if you want it to be really. One could argue that they all died doing what they loved: gettin fucked up, popping a wheelie, and sittin out in his yard holding a shotgun. We should all be so lucky.

I remember when the first one died very vividly because not only was it on my birthday, but because I was supposed to be with him that night. Maybe I could’ve been there to help him. Maybe I could’ve called the ambulance in time. There is no sense in dwelling on all that now because in truth, I was just as likely to be zipped up in a coroners bag right beside him. Thank God my parents took me out for a Baked Ziti dinner the night before, something I probably wouldn’t have turned down even if I knew what was gonna happen. Drugs are great, but they ain’t got shit on free Italian food.

His parents found my letterman jacket underneath his bed and to this day I haven’t gotten it back. That’s on me, of course. At this point the reason is that, well, who gives a shit about a high school letterman jacket? But early on after his death it was because even though I’ve made it clear that I was a piece of shit, I still knew what getting it back would mean. I knew that I would have to call them and bring it up and they would immediately be reminded of where they had found it and why. I’ve been told that when you lose a child, you can never truly be happy again, but what if for one fleeting moment they weren’t thinking about it? What if they were having a rare instance of joy, lost in a movie or a book or maybe even a perfectly cooked chicken? I know I’ve been hypnotized by chicken before. I couldn’t do that to them, and I never will.

After we buried him a few days after my birthday, me and most of the gang swore off the hard stuff forever. It should come as no shock to you that we were all talking smooth out of our asses, of course. How we each treated drugs from that point forward varied from person to person however. Some of us, myself included, were able to stay away from em on a regular basis and stick to only gettin real crazy at weddings, or as sad as it is, another funeral. Some of us however crawled right back in the opioid cave where they still reside to this day, if they are still with us of course. That reminds me… I should make some phone calls.

I am a lucky man. I cannot overstate that. Whatever it is that makes someone an addict, I ain’t got it. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely did as many drugs at one point in my life that would qualify me to any sane person as an addict, but I was always able to walk away. I was never hooked on one particular drug, I was just hooked on not being sober, if that makes sense. I had, and have a great many a demon crawling around in my head that at one point chose only to fight by anesthetizing myself into oblivion.

I would say it’s because I’m older and wiser now,but I’m not a smart man and I’ll never admit to being old. I think it’s because of all the blessings in my life and the therapy I’ve received in order to recognize them. I’ll be honest with ya, up until bout the middle of the pandemic I’d still snort practically anything that wasn’t heroin, and only cause I promised myself I wouldn’t anymore. I know the type of person that I am, and I’m not kidding when I say I could do drugs one day and then never look at them again for a year. But I’m making a vow now that those days are behind me, regardless of how much control I have on them.

I’m about to be a Dad, y’all. Lord that feels equal parts awesome and terrifying to say out loud. But I am, and because of that, I reckon I’m gonna do everything I can to stick around here as long as I can. So RIP, drugs. You were there for me when I needed you, and there for me when I didn’t. I guess that’s what we all want in a relationship , but I’m sorry to say that this is where we must part. So long, old friend!

P.S. weed don’t count lol