I was on crack. Not bouijie WallStreet cocaine. Hard Detroit crack. The kind you know is killing you quickly but you really can’t help yourself.

Like you’re falling in the shower and you’re trying to grip the water and pull yourself up. At a certain point, self help is foolishness. You gotta ask yourself, “what are the odds there’s even a better life?” Jokes.

Unlike many people, I liked that my mental health was in shambles. I highkey liked that I had demons around me. I could see them, I could hear them speak. Very clearly, and I liked it. I keep saying I had no friends you know, Hannah was just so far away. And you can’t really trust strangers.

I had voices in my head, they were my friends and these voices threw me into a spiral less sane than a whirlpool. I was dying. I knew it. Yet somehow I wanted to die. I wanted it to go on. I wanted to push my limits and see how far it would go.

First, sex and obsessive impulsive relationships. It was never about the guy. No. Never. The orgasms, the fact that I could be comfortable and away from my roommates, more comfort and probable road trips and cute stuff. The better the sex and the higher comfort, the more likely I was to latch on to you like a leach. Hence the very many “I love you”s I never meant. (If you’re reading this and I’ve ever said I love you,I’m sorry. I really didn’t. ) I do however appreciate the leg shaking fun and late night rides and what not. I still don’t know what Love is. Commitment feels someway to me but I’m learning. I’ll learn. I remember one time the voices asked me to stress someone out. He abhorred commitments. And you know what we did? Told him I loved him. Pushed him away. Truth is we just wanted to be rid of him. Why not just say so? I didn’t say the voices were wise.

The only way I could mute the voices was to get high out of my mind. Or flat out drunk. Either way, being sober was punishment. I was constantly reminded of what a failure I was headed out to be. Or how excessively large my mid section was. I found bliss in intoxication. Brighter lights. More beautiful colors, deeper sound, amazing sex. I wrote better when I was high. (Or so I thought.) I mean anything but sobriety.

I’d tell people I dated I was Harley. They thought it was cute. I laughed about it. But no I was actually really crazy. Unreasonable, volatile and prone to emotional turmoil at anytime. A few of you have seen me laugh so hard and break down crying in less than 30 minutes.

Thinking back at it, I’m honestly not all good. At all. But at least, I’m not hopelessly grasping at water. I’m holding on to a solid rope, tied to a God who would never leave me or forsake me. A God who has ransomed and saved me. A God who loves me more than I could imagine.

So if you ask me, those demons can take several seats.

I’m good.

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