Sometimes,
it takes everything someone has
to keep them from falling apart.
For me,
it's one of those god forsaken times.
Now,
laying in my rock hard bed,
I regret taking that last shot.
I regret taking "one more" hit.
I regret "just trying" smack.
But mostly,
I regret trying to solve my problems
with a razor blade.
If I had the ability
to make good decisions,
I'd probably be
somewhere much better.
Instead,
I've been sitting in a juvie cell
for two months.
Michael,
my assigned officer,
the sheriff's son,
refers to what I do as
"running into a door that's wide open".
I don't get it,
but that's probably because
I've been having withdrawals for weeks.
Side note;
from experience,
smack withdrawals are the worst.
Nicotine withdrawals?
Just a lot of sweating and dry heaving.
Boom withdrawals?
Can't sleep, can't eat.
Snapping withdrawals?
Shaking and excessive crying.
Alcohol withdrawals?
Anxiety and headaches.
But smack withdrawals...
smack withdrawals are hell.
You can't eat.
You can't sleep.
Everything hurts.
Your nose never stops bleeding.
Constant panic attacks.
There's no point in trying
to stop projectile vomiting.
It gets to the point
where all you want to do
is rip your fucking hair out.
Yeah,
I can see why they gave me two months.
That was pretty generous,
considering the fact
that I already have
quite the criminal record.
"For a sixteen year old boy, you sure daydream a lot."
Michael smiled at me.
"Funny. You gonna bring me back to rehab now?"
I sat up,
walking to the small,
dinky mirror on my cell wall.
I stared at myself.
Ocean eyes,
long,
caramel hair
parted into a sharp fringe,
and tan skin
covered in tear stains.
I take back that
"ocean eyes" thing.
I have druggie eyes.
dark circles and a milky haze.
I brushed my teeth,
took my ADHD medicine,
and brushed my hair.
"Ready?"
I smiled at Michael.
"Yeah. Is your dad going to drive me?"
Michael nodded.
We walked out to the waiting room.
As always,
Sheriff Kabelka glared at me.
He gripped my arm
and handed me off
to the inpatient guard.
Another side note;
Fuck the Baker Act.
It's absolutely idiotic.
The first time I was Baker Acted,
I was 14.
Eighth grade is when I really fell apart.
I got into a terrible cutting habit.
Some snitch caught me
at school,
in the bathroom
with a paperclip.
There was a huge fit amongst the staff,
and I was taken away.
"In the back, kid."
I sat down, rolling my eyes.
The guard was basically sitting on me,
and Kabelka insisted I wear handcuffs.
One more day,
I told myself as the car took off.
One more day.
