I put on the biggest front when I walked through those doors. Like, I wish a nigga would type of face on. Meanwhile, I had just come off a run and probably weighed like 140lbs. Not intimidating at all. I really acted out in that place. Locked myself in a staff member’s office. Stole the faculty’s coffee. It was the first treatment center I went to. First of many. I didn’t participate. I didn’t try to make friends. I didn’t give a fuck about getting sober or changing my life really. I just wanted the pain to stop and I wanted to get my family off my back. It wasn’t real yet. It wasn’t serious…
…yet.
But in and out of treatment centers, detox’s, jails, mental wards of hospitals, shelters, people’s floors, cars (some mine, some not), apartments and vacant’s I went… for the next like 7 years. And you better believe over that time period shit got very real. It got very serious. It got deathly serious on multiple occasions. The weirdest thing about that was, that I didn’t care anymore than when I walked through those first treatment center doors. That’s the thing about me; I’m pretty comfortable with being stuck. For the most part at least. Pro’s and cons are weighed and if the situation looks too difficult to change, I just won’t. I’ll get locked up or die first. That’s how I’m wired.
I wish I could say I never wanted to die during that time because I did. Trust that. All the time actually. For some reason tho, I’m still alive.
Today I know why. They’re in the other room right now playing.
I recently lost a very close friend of mine. Not only me, a lot of people lost a close friend. A mother is without a son today. A brother is an only child. A father is without a son. A grandfather is without a grandson. I feel like I am on the bottom of the list of close people to him, but I am hurting over it. I can’t even imagine what those other folks are going thru.
When you run in the circles that I run in, you see and hear of people dying a lot. Young people. Good people. It happens all the fucking time. It’s tragic every fucking time. But what I’m about to say might have you judge me as an asshole or a heartless fuck but it’s the truth.
Most of the time that someone I know dies from the illness I have, I’m not even really bothered. I chalk it up as part of the game. These people knew death was a very real possibility just as I do and they played anyway. They took the risk (just as I have many many many, fuck…countless times) and they lost.
But this boy that just died I helped raise into adulthood. I poured my heart out to him and let him do the same with me. I invested all I had into him and he got happy. He got better. He loved and was loved.
BY A LOT OF FUCKING PEOPLE.
He was was one of the good guys, for real. His smile was legit and made me smile every time I saw his goofy ass. My kids loved him. I can’t really say enough about how important he was to me. But he took that risk.
And I will never see him again.
I went past that first treatment center I went to this afternoon on my way home. It’s vacant now. All the buildings around it are vacant. It’s a fucking memory. A memory that I won’t ever forget. Just like the memory of my homie that just passed away. I put that in the vault and I plan on trying my best to help as many others like him as I can until I die. Maybe one will see things the way I do. Maybe one will be able to raise his kids like I’m doing. Have a career like I have. Chase dreams, be a son, a friend, a brother.
Maybe. Maybe not. But I will try.