63rd St.

Chapter 3

It silences those relentless voices in your head, encouraging you to give up.

In the beginning it looks like a solution.

But it is a trap, nonetheless.

Because once you allow yourself to cave under the pressure, cave under the daunting need for comfort, you can't get out.

Substances, self harm, sex.

I've fallen into the first step of the trap.

Substance. Alcohol, cigarettes.

I was in denial about it for a long time.

I'd say things to myself like "I don't abuse anything because I'm not addicted at all. I can stop anytime I want. I just do it for fun."

But I was wrong. Abuse and addictions aren't the same thing.

I use alcohol as antibiotics, numbing the internal pain life brings me. Abuse. I use cigarettes as an escape, smoking only when I feel the need to escape the control, and actually have control over myself for once. Abuse.

I may not be addicted but that's not the point.

I bring the bottle to my lips once again, taking a few gulps. These thoughts are always hard for me to think about; thinking about it makes it real.

As much as I'd like to stay in denial about the whole thing, pretend none of it exists and continue on with life, I can't. Nothing good will ever come from claiming ignorance.

I'm a substance abuser.

There I said it.

Even just the thought brings a sick feeling to my stomach.

I lift the bottle to take another sip before I impulsively screw the top on and stuff the bottle into my backpack.

I throw my bag over my shoulder and dart down the stairs, and as soon as I make it outside, I start down my street to 63rd St.

I live on 61st Street so it's a bit of a walk, but I like walking. Especially during times like this when I need to get out of my head.

The house on 63rd was owned by an old widower. I always used to see him walking on my street. I didn't know much about him, other than the fact his wife died a while ago and that he didn't have much money.

One day about 4 years ago, I was driving to the market with my mom and I briefly saw a sign of eviction on his door. I try not to assume, but I can't help but think it's because he couldn't keep up with the rent.

He moved out of course, but no one seemed to be interested in the house, so it remained unoccupied.

Some years after that, I frantically ran out of the house after a fight with my mother. I had nowhere to go, but I didn't care I just needed to get out.

After aimlessly running down the street for sometime, I came across the house.

It was decayed, molded in some areas, and in desperate need of some renovation. The windows were boarded up and the lawn was dead and dry.

I'm not sure why I was so captivated by it, but I saw it's potential almost immediately.

I went around to the side of the house and found a ladder, leading up to the roof.

It had a few old rain puddles and leaves, but there was a spot near the middle that looked simply untouched. Like it was made just for me.

I stayed up there for hours, thinking, crying, observing.