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"You'll see you're not the only one who's hopeless..."


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My dreams haven't sobered.

I'm my dreams, I'm still that coked out girl waiting for a sun that will never come. I'm colorless, empty, and weak. There's nothing left to give so I just take. I take the lines one sniff at a time. I take the pills one pop at a time. Why turn down something so destructive when you've already hit rock bottom? I'm my dreams, I live in rock bottom.

My inner addict is gone, at least so I think. I try to tell myself that during the day, in hopes of keeping her away. But, what I don't realize is that I am her. I became the addict I was so fearful of becoming. I'm my dreams, it's me. All me. Addicted and alone. I've submerged myself into the addict's lifestyle so she no longer taunts me because she's finally inside me. Her dark clouds wrapped around everything I once believed in. She swallowed me whole.

She got to me.

And in my dreams, I have no one left but myself. The addict.

I went to sleep that night dreaming of her – or should I say, myself. The surprising call from Ty was what did it. Hearing his voice took me back to a time of misery and self-loathing. All the progress I made was shoveled in the back of my mind as I was reminded of all the horrible things I did to him. The terrorizing. The screaming. The destruction.

I hung up on him.

He called three more times after that until he finally got the picture.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't have anything to say to him. Although, I kind of had a slight idea of why he called. While I was in rehab, my therapist told me writing letters could be therapeutic. So that's what I did. I wrote letters to everyone I wronged in my life. Including Ty. His letters were different from everyone else's, mainly because instead of words I used art. I drew him four different pieces, one for each month that I was there.

Most of my letters went unsent, except for his. I wanted him to know how sorry I was for the person I had become. For the decisions I had made. For ruining him and his girlfriend. 

All four charcoal pieces were self-explanatory. The first one I drew at the end of my first week. It was a bottle of pills being dumped down a greedy mouth. The second was a car wrapped around a tree trunk, there were no bodies, just shattered glass and car pieces lying around. The fourth was myself, sitting with Gary around group therapy. And the fourth? The fourth was myself writing a letter with the words 'sorry' in bold. There were tears coming down my face and hitting the words, as if it were real.

They were all very dark colored pieces with minimal lighting. They weren't the best, the withdrawal made me shaky and anxious, which made majority of it looked rushed. But I did the best I could. I knew he would understand.

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