Depth

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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.

I was.

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.

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