Level one. First time. You're at a party.
Music loud. Lights low. Everyone seems to be having the best night of their lives.
Someone passes you something. A pill. A line.
A hit off a pipe you don't recognize. You hesitate. You've heard the warnings.
D in fifth grade. The commercials with the eggs in the frying pan. Your mom's voice in your head saying just say no.
But everyone's doing it. And they seem fine. Better than fine.
They look like they've discovered something you haven't. Your friend leans in. Just try it once.
Trust Another party. Same friends, same offer. Want some?
You said it was a one-time thing. But what's the harm? It's just parties.
It's just weekends. Everyone does this. You take it again.
The high is almost as good as the first time. Almost. This becomes the pattern.
Friday night, Saturday night, special occasions. You develop rules. Never on a weekday.
Never before 6:00 p. m. Never alone.
Never more than twice a week. weekends aren't enough anymore. Monday hits and you feel wrong, flat, like someone turned down the color saturation on reality.
By Wednesday, you're counting the hours until Friday. By Thursday, you're bargaining with yourself, just a little, just to take the edge off. You start using alone.
This is the line you swear you'd never cross. Using alone means you have a problem. Using alone means it's not social anymore.
But it's not a problem. You're just unwinding, treating yourself. Taking the edge off after a long day.
The tolerance builds slowly. Not flu sick. A different kind of sick.
A sick that starts in your bones and radiates outward. A sick that feels like dying. Your hands shake.
Your skin crawls. Your brain screams one word on repeat. More.
More. More. This is withdrawal.
Your body has adapted to the substance. Your chemistry has reorganized itself around daily use. Without the drug, you don't feel normal.
The thing you swore you'd never become. Your job is gone. Three warnings and then we have to let you go.
I'm sorry. You're not sorry. Part of you is relieved.
Now you don't have to pretend anymore. Now you can use whenever you want. Your girlfriend left months ago.
She packed her bags while you were out scoring. left a note on the table. I can't watch you destroy yourself.
I love you. Please get help. You read it.
You get worse than that. Level six. Rock bottom.
You're homeless now. You didn't become homeless all at once. It happened gradually.
Evicted from the apartment. Crashed with a friend until he kicked you out. Stayed in a motel until the money ran out.
Now you're on the street. Sleeping under bridges. In shelters when there's room.
In doorways when there isn't. Your health is destroyed. Abscesses on your arms.
Infections that won't heal. Organs that are starting to fail. You've overdosed twice.
Both times Everyone who's been where you are faces this moment. The fork in the road. Keep going and die.
The math is simple. Your body can't take much more. Your luck can't hold out forever.
You've overdosed twice. The third time might be the last time. Or try something else.
You're not sure you can. You've tried before. Promises, programs, plans, all failures.
But you're not dead yet. You're still breathing. Which means you still get to choose.
Your mom shows up. Your brother, hourly, sometimes minute by minute. Day one is hell.
The withdrawal hits full force. Your body is screaming for what you've been giving it. Every cell demanding the substance.
You shake. You sweat. You can't sleep, but you can't stay awake.
Your skin feels like it's covered in insects. Your bones ache from the inside. You vomit until there's nothing left, and then you keep vomiting.
Your brain tells you this would all stop if you just used one more time. You don't use. Not today.
The nurses check on you hourly. They've seen this before.
