Everything begins with some sort of purpose or so I’ve come to believe. Whether I was born with my disease or it’s a manifestation of my youth, my life was ignited with a wildfire. Burning down everything the flames licked. What started out as entertainment led to the confinement of my being. What began as a small hole in the dirt to weather the inevitable, oncoming storm became my home in the earth. But I wasn’t ready to just settle down and get my bearings. My feet always fumbled beneath me as the world around me grew larger and expanded into an unknown abyss. I had to go deeper. I kept digging. I was searching for peace, some connection with god. The moments of heaven-sent calm were fleeting by every use. I kept digging. Above me the light was dwindling. The air was thick as every short breath became the only familiar noise. Regardless, I was still breathing. I kept digging. Friends and family became unidentifiable monsters. By now my lungs were getting used to being short on clean air. My body ached, my bones felt fragile. I kept digging. My skin hung loose on withering bones. Food wasn’t important, it always came back up anyway. I kept digging. My meetings with death became more frequent. The mistress death hung around my convulsing body waiting for the time to lift my soul away. I had to keep digging. I wasn’t done yet. Now I was the unidentifiable monster. The wretched thing of nightmares. And I didn’t care if my lungs were still working. I had a singular purpose, and that was to lose myself. It wasn’t to find peace. God, whatever it’s defined as, wasn’t down five feet, eleven inches in the earth.
Maybe I’m better now. But I can always dig deeper. Addiction knows no depths too deep, no chasms too wide. I can always dig deeper. With help, I just learned how to dig up.