Addiction Memoir Sample
It is a memoir of a young man who succumbed to his addictions until he became homeless. Read about his journey back from homelessness into society, encouraging others to do the same.
I, Phillip, was wandering down the paved sidewalks outlined with red brick. Aimlessly, with no point, plan, or purpose; I was beaten. It was instinctive, my walk, or the mere ability to move at all. There was a magnetic pull that prevented me from stopping. I continuously sauntered toward the unknown to keep from passing out. I had nowhere to go. For the past couple weeks I was considered homeless. There were several days that I squatted from one poker room to the next. Laying my head down wherever an available space was because I was not going to sleep on the street. Stability wasn’t my concern, my next high was and it was for that reason I had no place to call my own. All my energies dwindled down to getting my next fix. The world fell apart around me, and I continued to have no care in the world, except for one.
“My man, I need that hook up.”
It was all I needed and beyond that the rest would come eventually, as it always had. My connect would let me know when and where I could meet him next. Then I would be off to figure out how to get from one point to the next and how much money I needed to make it happen. With my cell phone by my side I effortlessly moved from one space to the next. Reuping, getting high, and then beginning the process all over again. Another poker room, another day to get high, another way to figure out how to reach the goal and keep it moving.
Nothing uplifted my spirit. The highs weren’t as satisfying as they once were. Life wasn’t coming together no matter what I did. I relentlessly continued to walk to change my scenery. The greens of the forest preserves, and golf courses began to fade behind the grays as I passed the parked cars, parking meters, and stores like Egan and Sons that delivered wines and spirits. Alcohol was something I rarely indulged in anymore. I was down and out. The suicidal feelings were brewing, but I would never let them take control. Death was the last thing that I knew, positively that I had the better of. Unlike everything else in my life; I had no control. Had it been 10 minutes or just one? Was I walking tall, stumbling, I didn’t know, and it really didn’t matter? Right past the Red Eye Café where I had often gone to grab a bite to eat, the coffee shop I frequented to caffeine up, all were reminders of a better life. When I was high all was right but dealing with reality was a beast that I had, as of yet, tried to conquer.
I continued walking past N. Willow St., and Ray’s Luncheonette, where the pancakes or beef, bacon, and cheese on a roll would always hit the spot. Dropping wads to pick up the tab with whomever I was rolling with at the time. If you were with me you had no worries. I had the good time that you were searching for. The vividness of my memories had disappeared with the years of drug use. I was the man no longer as I wandered further into town. Timelines blurred, disappointments disappeared with the simple sniff of acidity that went straight to the head. All that was left was the shell of thoughts that encompassed the familiar scene. Although I seemed to meander, there still seemed to be a mysterious purpose to the direction of my walk. As soon as I arrived at the corner where Walnut St. and Depot Square met, I headed toward the Walnut Street Train Station in Montclair, New Jersey.
Was I even going anywhere? Hell no. It was a Sunday, and the trains didn’t even run. My body was tired, for the loss of time included the span of my stroll. There was no point in my movement besides keeping myself alive in a passive-aggressive manner. Did I genuinely want not to exist anymore? No, but I was done, tired of being tired and the same ole’, same ole’. It was depressing to see that everything moved with purpose, grew naturally, and I was stagnant, breaking, falling apart. It was the lowest low I had ever felt, and I was drowning so much faster than I could lift myself up with another high. As I walked through the grass, the area of trees that seemed to flourish in my demise, I couldn’t even muster up a feeling of anger at being left behind. I wasn’t sure at that moment; was I even worth another day? I cut through the parking lot to head over to the closest shelter by the train tracks. I sat, taking a load off, finally as if I had arrived at the destination.
I blacked out. Maybe for minutes, hours, had it been a day. The only reason I woke is because a couple knocked on the plexiglass trying to get my attention.
“Are you alright?” The guy asked. They both had a look of concern plastered across their faces.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I replied.
What they didn’t know is that I wanted the space and time to figure out what my next move was. Their mere presence confused a situation that they had no idea about. And I wasn’t about to indulge them. I needed to put some space between them and me. The couple had already begun to tell me that it was Sunday, and no trains were running as if I didn’t know that already. With my back turned to their, most likely genuine concern, I could hear their voices fade off in the distance. I walked away never minding their endless rant, they were wasting my time. Even in this state I was untouchable by absurdity.
Yes, it was absurd to think that I had no clue how the trains ran. Or to believe that someone who never asked for help needed it. It was not like I was unsure that I coveted saving. The truth was that I was intoxicated by the draw of heroin and cocaine. It gave me a false sense of superiority. I used it to create my power, my image, my worth and the manly bravado that led everyone around me to believe that I had it all under control. When the truth was the farthest from this facade. I needed saving yesterday.