Drug City

July 3, 2009

Curt writes:
It’s my parent’s fault. Society’s fault. Your fault, school system’s fault, television’s fault, my ‘best friends’ fault. Everyone’s fault that I’m snorting chemicals. Burnt. Down. I could have been a famous musician, or a president, or own a restaurant downtown if you hadn’t screwed me up. Destruction. Failures. Fine, leave me here, alone by myself, you stupid world, fake people.

I used to have joy, used to smile and play, used to have dreams! Crushed. Smoked. Now look at me, rotting in some grungy room in a smelly house. Late for the factory job, chewing on yesterday’s meal, tobacco on my bed next to the baggies and the nightmares. Some ecstasy to get me happy, some cocaine to make my heart race, and some special K to suck the life out of my skull.

Cry. Scream. Cry. Look out the window, see the sky, see the family, just beyond drug city. See the sun shining. Want it. Leave the room, use the phone, use the emails, use the bike, just get out, run as fast as possible. Run to recovery, to love, to Caritas. Because it wasn’t his fault, or my grade three teacher’s fault, or the movies I watched…it’s my fault. And I’m ready to be accountable. Forgiveness. New. Changes.