I didn’t just wake up one day with the idea to quit. Nah.
It was a slow burn, something I’d continuously considered day after day. I’d wake up feeling empty and unmotivated. Endlessly searching for a way to feel validated, I was lost to my own devices. With deliberate bias, I chose to be the victim of my circumstances. Chosen by many to be the “best friend,” yet couldn’t figure out what I’m best at. Eager to point the finger at someone, still couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Stuck in an everlasting loop, chasing my tail & blaming my tale. It’s honestly simple, I was in denial.
Growing up in a place where it’s practically embedded in the culture didn’t serve me well. Often feeling as if It was expected of me to indulge, a “right of passage” of sorts. To say I succumbed to peer pressure is to say the very least. Before my tenth birthday, I could give you a mature description of It. I knew then that It was for “grown-ups,” but that didn’t dwarf the aspiration It inspired within me. To be frank, this actually made It more intriguing to my young, fertile mind. As hatchlings, we don’t actually follow the verbal advice given to us by our elders, no. We follow their example, we move with their shadow & trace their steps.
At twelve years old, I had my first encounter. In a snack-sized ziplock bag, sandwiched between flyped socks & miscellaneous masculine grooming supplies, lied the start of my mischief. I knew I’d have to weasel It from my grandfather, but he was elderly, so I had no quarrels with the idea. After the first time, I didn’t take even a day break until after my nineteenth birthday.
Without the self-control or will power to dabble in moderation, I overindulged. I relied on this substance to carry me for years on end, not often taking time to see the world with clear eyes. I could only go on with an empty battery for so long, I’d have to sit down and recharge sooner rather than later.
