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My quarantine life is one now relegated to the inside of four walls, and shockingly, perhaps pathetically, hasn't changed drastically from my stay at home mom life. Although, this means my friends are dying at a more rapid pace. Isolation is the second greatest threat and enemy to rehabilitation and sobriety, with the harmful stigma surrounding drug addiction being the first. I foresee a ‘junkie' genocide in my, our, drab future. We aren't particularly fond of that word, however, so I suppose I could say an addict abolition. I spent the previous two years pregnant for one, and adjusting to new mom life with my newborn for the other. While rewarding, it certainly doesn't do wonders for your, my, mental health, that's for sure. I couldn't wait until Spring rolled around, which only made my jabbering about it for the months prior to my husband, even more pathetic once Spring did roll around with a global pandemic attached to it. I spend my days alternating between smoke breaks, watching my child play, and fantasizing about the feel of the prick of the poison filled needle that brings with it the gift of nothingness. I'm talking about heroin for those unfamiliar with drugs or the sensuality of subtle wordplay that may have missed my intent. You see, some folks, most folks get it all wrong. We addicts, we aren't chasing happiness or pleasure, or any of those other feelings we likely have never even known or experienced before. We are seeking the numbness, the gift of nothingness, that the pin pricked kiss of the needle brings. We live inside a purgatory inside our minds where this incurable, invasive disease we suffer from invades our every thought. For us, the darkness pushes through to cloak even our light and lightest times, inside a veil of secrecy and blackness where addiction grows and thrives. The mental relapse is the first sign that you're headed back into Satan's deceptively starry sky. Once he, or she, as Satan may in fact be a woman as cunning as the beast is, has you in it's grasp, nothing is safe. The sounds of my baby's footsteps, unsteady like a newborn fawn as he learns to walk, are now replaced with the demonic chatter of my afflictions luring me back into their deadly world. Unlike my son, who has all the unconditional love of his doting mother, my childhood was vastly different. The Elmo my son hugs and shakes, for me, replaced with a narcotic filled pill bottle rattle. Or more likely than not, a penny filled medication bottle as my mother and father had already ingested the potent drugs inside. Some of those narcotics given to me also, under the guise of them being vitamins. I was nine years old when I became dependent on and addicted to a variety of narcotics. I then spent the next fifteen years living inside a hell few can imagine, encapsulated with drugs, attempted suicide, child abuse, and sexual assault, just to name a few. I was twenty-four-year-old when I died, the first time, only to be revived shortly thereafter. If you've never endured the hell of drug addiction, I certainly don't recommend it, nor could you possibly understand it. Even after achieving nine years of long term sobriety, the thoughts still pervasive as ever protruding into my otherwise blissful world. That needle would be the kiss of death, no doubt. But the addiction forces me to only fantasize about the kiss part of that prick that for me brings with it the momentary lapse of the memories of trauma. To forget the trauma is a bliss you just can't know unless you have suffered from the irreversible kind. The kind in which there is no fix for, as you are irreparably damaged, as I certainly am. People think we don't know we're killing ourselves with drugs. We know, we just hope and pray we can kill the painful memories before we kill ourselves entirely. Or like my heroin addict friend Diana, molested for years by her priest as a child, only hope as she will never pray again. Hope is something we in the addiction community are in terribly short, if not non existent supply of, however. You would think we were made for this life of isolation, we addicts, seeing as a majority of our lives we typically spend quarantined trying to run from and fight an invisible disease that's killing us in large numbers. But, we're not, and in fact our community's fatality rates only rapidly increase as this pandemic rages. So, just for today I hope and also pray that I won't pick up the poison that will grant me the gift of nothing that I abnormally and overwhelmingly crave far more than the gift of something. Covid 19 and it's deadly symptoms can't compete with the horror of addiction and it's symptoms, but together, together they just might kill me yet.

Some say I feel to much. others say its not enough. when you are feeling down do you run away or turn to pills to ease the pain? People say I'm fine just suck it up and smile. but my smile is a glass mirror waiting to break. just hiding behind is all my pain.

I was more intrigued than I was afraid— and like a tiny white mouse, I crouched down inconspicuously, behind the kitchen door, hiding, the way a photographer might, when trying to capture the perfect cover for National Geographic: With guiltless awe, I watched my father tear into a chunk of raw chicken, like a hairless over-fed vulture, sev/er/ing and p-ulling apart greedily the flaccid pink breast with clawed fist, bits of flesh tumbling off his chin, and clinging onto his chest, exhaling with such fervor, as if his lungs had been picked off his torso like some dried, decayed fruit— And in his breathless satisfaction, he ventured forth a primitive sound from parted gates of brutal red, a sinking growl, a guttural groan, the kind that bends the skin, and shatters the skeleton of a small animal surrendering its own entrails in defeat, the frequency discernible only to that of the tongue of crude beasts with cavernous eyes, a pair of gaping holes where the air collapses and rushes back in a stream of black tar swallowing the universe. I thought I knew hunger— But I'd never known an appetite so voracious, so urgent, so fluent in savagery, it was almost as if his desertion of us in his whiskey-fueled form, was more a rebellion against his own humanity, so as to bypass the guilt, the pain, the agony, of living as man.

Today, we care about likes and comments more than we care about our health and safety. Now, don't get me wrong. Social media is the very reason that I am able to talk to you right now. I always thought it was a blessing until I discovered the dark side of it. I used to be an extremely good student in class but it didn't last long. My parents were always happy with the grades I got. One day they decided to gift me a tablet and that's when things changed. It was the day that I lost my true identity. I was simply not myself anymore. In the beginning, I used to play a game or two which slowly turned into an hour or two. My creativity and passion was replaced with chatting and surfing. It went on until the point that I used to spend almost 14 to 18 hours in a day and sometimes it used to go upto 20 hours as well. Yes, I was an addict. My parents tried everything to help me break free from the chains of digital addiction including counselling but nothing worked. The only result was that I turned more aggressive and anxious. It wasn't until last year that I confronted reality. I was chatting on my phone while crossing the street when I met an accident and from then on everything changed in my life. I couldn't walk or eat on my own anymore. I needed help for almost everything. That single moment turned my life around. This is not just my story but every one of us who is on their phone while driving, eating or crossing the street. Our phones have become an extended part of our lives and we all are tied in the chains of social media. We all can stop this before it gets worse. These are my tips from my experience: 1. Track your usage. 2. Use your phone with a purpose. 3. Set aside time for journaling, mediation and exercise. 4. Make time for yourself and your passion. 5. Make time for face-to-face interactions. 6. Be present and live in the moment. SOCIAL MEDIA CAN BE A BLESSING OR A CURSE, THE CHOICE IS YOURS!

Imagine a world of absolute pain. No, I mean imagine real agony; more, more. You're getting closer. Add a little more pain. Now, consider this imaginary world of yours is as a stumped toe in the night compared to the actual emotional world that you loved one is living in every minute of every day. I don't care how bad you can imagine it to be. If you have never been on the inside of addiction, you could never truly understand. Try telling a hospitalized burn victim that you “can imagine” how they feel. That healed grease-pop scar on your arm, the one that “really hurt” isn't even remotely close to what that person is going through. No, I don't have a PhD behind my name, my experience comes from the inside. I was an addict. Scratch that. I am an addict in recovery and will be for the rest of my life. When you look at your loved one, what you are seeing is not you little girl, or your little boy. That's not your sister, brother, mother or father. That's not your friend. All you can see is the outside shell. I've heard several say that is the abandoned building that used to hold that person. I'm here to tell you, that is not an abandoned building, they are still very much inside that hull. What you see is more likened to a garbage can that is holding what's left of them. I'm here to take the lid off and let you see the putrefied remains inside. When you look inside of that person, you are looking at the emotional sludge that has devastated your loved one. But unlike man-made garbage, God made your loved one the first time, and HE can re-make them again! There is no “bionic” theme music. I'm not talking about repurpose or recycle. HE can literally re-make them. The key is that they need for HIM to remake you too. You may even know their story, but you do not know their heart. If you find yourself asking, “Why?” then you could not possibly imagine the pain that it took to get them where they are. I heard a story a few years back. It spoke of two men, brothers, who grew up and chose very different paths for themselves. One became a preacher, a the other an alcoholic. When each was asked why they turned out the way that they did, they both responded, “because my dad was an alcoholic.” People react differently to trauma. Can you remember when the World Trade Towers were hit in 2001? Some people came out running, some walked, some required assistance. Some people were crying, others were in dry faced shock. They had all gone through the same experience but were reacting differently. Two parents can stand outside of a burning building. One might scream for their baby, the other might bolt inside despite the danger. There is a perfect example in the bible. Luke 15:11-32 tells us the parable of the prodigal son. A man had two sons. The younger wanted his inheritance so that he could go and experience the world. The older wanted to stay and be considered responsible. Neither choice was wrong. Many seem to forget that the inheritance was his to do with as he chose. Two men with the same background and the same inheritance chose two different paths. If you remember from the account, the prodigal son made choices that left him in despair. I heard someone say once that, “He got what he deserved.” That statement bothered me. What if he had made the same choices, but the situation worked out favorably for him? Would he have still “gotten what he deserved?” Many a liar, cheater and swindler have prospered and faltered and many a “good man” have done the same. The world that you loved one is living in is wretched and wicked, and emotionally painful. They already know it. They are living in hell on earth. Fear and pain form calluses on our soul that never heal quite right on their own. Please, stop talking about them, stop praying about them, and start praying FOR them. They want you. They need you. They are desperate despite what they tell you. If you are still asking why, stop. The clinical answer will never suffice. Don't ask, “Why aren't you eating?”. Feed them. Don't ask, “When's the last time you bathed?” Run the water and lay out a towel. Offer to carry them to a doctor, not the police. Stop screaming and start loving. If you really want to know why? Look in the mirror. You are strong and they are weak. You stopped loving them when you started judging them. When they needed you most you faced society and turned your back on them… you're so called loved one. Turn back. Please.