"At sixteen, I walked out of my mother's house with track marks and a half-packed bag. No big fight. No slammed door. Just the silent resignation of someone who couldn't look his mother in the eye anymore. I wasn't leaving home-I was bailing on it. On everything. I didn't know the word "addiction." Well, I knew it; I just didn't understand it. I didn't know that the flu I kept getting was withdrawal. I thought I was just weak."
"Over the next few years, I would burn through twenty-two treatment centers and detoxes. Not metaphorically. I mean actual beds, actual paperwork, actual roommates, each one thinking they'd seen someone like me before. I gave every counselor the same script: I'm ready this time. I just need a reset. I'd be out within days. Sometimes hours. I wasn't ready. I wasn't even close."
"You'd think the biggest lie I told was to my family. Or the judges. Or to all those people who loved me even when I gave them nothing back. But the worst lies? They were internal. I told myself: "This is just a phase." "I can stop if I want." "I'm only hurting myself." I convinced myself that survival was the goal. Not growth. Not connection. Just survive the day, or at least numb it out enough that it passed quietly."
At sixteen I left home with track marks and a half-packed bag, unable to meet my mother's eyes. I did not recognize addiction and mistook withdrawal for weakness. Over the next years I cycled through twenty-two treatment centers and detoxes, repeatedly promising readiness and relapsing within days or hours. I told myself corrosive internal lies—"This is just a phase," "I can stop if I want," "I'm only hurting myself"—and prioritized survival and chemical numbing over growth and connection. In my early twenties a suicide attempt left me strapped to a hospital bed with tubes in my arms and the metallic taste of blood.
Read at Tiny Buddha
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