I should have been Nancy Reagan. I mean, I should have said no. Instead, I said please and thank you. I started using drugs just shortly after my symptoms really began at the ripe old age of thirteen. I went from using on and off to almost always on. I stayed that way until I was thirty seven. I didn’t use during my pregnancies or when I was nursing my babies and I vowed during those times I would never go back. In fact, I had done this without pregnancies too. It never stuck. I liked the way I felt when I was using. It was as if they gave me some sort as semblance of peace when I was manic and a boost when I was depressed. Strangely, I took somewhat good care of myself while I was smoking, snorting, and bumping. Kind of. I kept with self care, beauty routines, vitamin supplements but everything else dangled in the wind. No matter how much I wanted the peace to be real, my mind was just two feet beyond it screaming at me. The mood boosts were little more than throwing myself into hypomania. I used heroin and speed together. They were my sanity. Odd thing for them to be. As drugs go, they’re a bipolar duo. Go figure. Right now, as I write this, it’s taking me everything in my power not to rationalize and romanticize my use. My behavior was problematic. I would still walk down the road half dressed. I have mentioned that before and with reason. It was my signature move besides going into debt. I truly loved the ritual of getting high before throwing caution to the wind. As time went on, I couldn’t get high. I just got stable(ish), so I used more and added different types of drugs. It hardly worked. I started adding self harm to the mix. Just like drugs it helped, until it didn’t. Not eating or purging after eating helped until it didn’t. I was frustrated and then the bottom dropped. My daughter died and then, my father. I went into full psychosis and tried to overdose, repeatedly. The combination of drugs plus adding tenfold to the amount I would use in one sitting wouldn’t take me out. Cutting, hitting my head, trying to speed into walls (gas ran out), and dating someone who attempted to throw me over our stairs by my neck didn’t kill me either. I would try them all over again and in difference sequences and groupings but to no avail. Eventually, I lost everything and that’s when I found abyss. My bottom had already fallen out. Having nothing, including my sons, left me even more desperate for death. I mean I was already broken to begin with. I couldn’t relate to anyone. I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin, let alone my family. I was left with me, unmedicated, and so was the rest of the world. I would walk for miles anytime, day or night, praying for someone to randomly murder me. Fuck, why wouldn’t anyone kill me? I needed them to. I kept praying for death or sanctuary. I wound up committing crimes. I got arrested for a weekend, only to be told I could go free the following Monday. It wasn’t a sanctuary, but I couldn’t use for two days. I was left right where I started from. Six months later, I was picked up, again. I detoxed on the floor of the county jail. I got sentenced to twenty three months in prison and did seventeen. The beauty of this was I got medicated and clean. I am still medicated and clean. It sucks living to live again and having to rebuild but I’m never going back. I will, however, come back to talking about my experiences with drugs and the culture surrounding. It’s my goal to get more and more open about me and my life.