I was swimming that night; my bed was like a pool of water- an ocean even, and my sheets were the waves. My pillow barely acted as a life preserver, moving back and forth from below my head and then thrown to the floor and picked back up again; repeating this action over and over throughout the night. My hands sliding back and forth- tossing the pillow around to gripping the sheets. My legs moving about, trying it’s hardest to keep my body afloat, never stopping and never tiring. I can’t sleep. I feel like I’m dying; painful and slow and when I’m not thinking about how much I want this to be over with, I’m praying that something- anything- will kill me.
My days are torturous and my nights are even worse. I don’t stop yawning; tears filling my eyes and running down my face. I have sneezing attacks, maybe 10 or 12 sneezes in a row, and when I do it feels like my ribs are breaking and the air pockets are being torn from my lungs. My head explodes in pain. Not like a bad headache but more like someone is hammer drilling from the inside of my skull- directly behind my facial features- outwards, with the force of a hundred Clydesdale horses charging across a wide open pasture. I removed my hoodie because of how damp the cotton is around the neck and lower back from the sweat flowing out of my skins pores, like the pores themselves are being forced open by what’s left of my soul, which is only trying to break free from the mess of a human I became. But as wet as my sheets and clothes get, I’m attempting to warm myself by wrapping my arms around my torso. I swear that I’m now freezing to death although if I could think about anything else, other then detoxing cold turkey, I’d know my mother has set the houses temperature at a comfortable 68 degrees.
I know she is sleeping. Her pocketbook hidden underneath her side of the bed, away from my addiction and my hands. While I flop myself on my back and light a cigarette I can’t even enjoy, I begin convincing myself that I can easily sneak into my parents bedroom, crawl across the carpet at yhe foot of the bed and around its corner, quietly revealing what my mother thought was hidden and protected. A purse without cash was no longer a problem; I knew all my mother’s pin numbers to her debit cards and I could forge her signature with one of her checks. I actually practiced writing like her for hours one day while I was high so I’ve got her penmanship down to a T.
I can’t help but focus back to the physical pain and discomfort my hips and knees are in. Every angle- Every position, they stay restless, and I pictured how peaceful my night would be without my legs. I mean literally legless. Aw, how perfect that would be. Although I’d still have one problem remaining: I’m so weak and tired that my muscles don’t even work correctly. I’d be better off without them. I decide that my muscles are only weighing my body down and I just can’t remove myself from the puddle of sweat I’m squirming around in.
After turning onto my side; my legs moving like they’re riding a bike which isn’t there, I get a little jolt of anxiety and i snub my cigarette out that I just let burn down to the filter. I move my tongue around the roof of my dry mouth and taste blood, or maybe iron or mettle of some sort, and I remember my dad has to remove his hearing aides while he sleeps so he won’t hear a peep if I entered the bedroom. It’s only me against my sleeping mother and the silent of the night. I’m aware but not worried that both of my hands can not stop shaking. They may be my only nemesis in attempting this robbery. My fingers would be better off twitching upon the keys of a piano then inside of a bag, feeling their way towards my mom’s purse.
I get up and walk to the bathroom- this being my 10th time today peeing. I have no idea how my bladder holds this much urine, especially since I barely stomached the cranberry juice from this morning, but it does. I’m still constipated- I haven’t shit in about three weeks- and i dred the next couple days where I’ll basically be living in the bathroom- my ass not leaving the toilet seat.
I’ve made up my mind. I’m gonna take whatever is in my mother’s purse. If I dont get caught tonight, I’ll definitely be in hot water tomorrow, but at least I know she will never tell my dad what I have done.
In 24hrs I’ll feel ashamed and upset of what I did and although no one will ever believe me, my feelings are sincere. I hate myself so much because I can’t control this disease I have, that I’ve contemplated not only killing myself so my family no longer has to suffer but I’ve already slit my wrists and cried hysterically while gagging on the barrel of a pistol one of my drug dealers left behind after an intense night of smoking crack and shooting heroin. The fact that I hated myself so much because I couldn’t stop being this evil waste of a human, I wished and prayed and tried- by overdosing- to die every single day and it’s one of the most honest feelings I’ve ever had in my life. I was just too stupid or too much of a pussy, to actually carry through with this selfish act.
☆ This situation occurred so many times, I lost count. I stole, lied, munipulated, and hurt my family. My mother was held hostage for almost a decade because of my addiction; because of me. These actions and decisions I made- like this one- brought my entire family to hate upon me and to this day they refuse to forgive me or find a neutral ground on which I can prove myself to them.
My father and I haven’t spoke in almost 3 years, though I’ve reached out and attempted to make an amends with him like I was ablento- and succeeded- with my mother before she passed away. My brothers haven’t accepted me as family and we haven’t talked in about 4 years. And it’s also been about that long since any relatives on my mothers side of the family, last spoke to me, except my Aunt who told me i could not attend any of my mother’s ceremonies and remembrance activities when she died. That was almost 3 years ago when I was told I can not go to the wake, the spreading of her ashes, or the viewing of her body before cremation. I still remember- to this day- the things my mom asked me to remind everyone about when we celebrated her life.
My mother forgave me. For everything. But my family refuses to try. So, I could not see my mother off to heaven because the family turned on me. I was blamed for partial reason of her dying; I causing the cancer to come back so strong. I was accused of that. This is the thing though:
She died on my 17th month of sobriety. I was almost 1 1/2 years away from drugs. And my addiction was still punishing me.
Posted from WordPress for Android