3 years CLEAN
TRIGGER WARNING AND DISCLAIMER: This is NOT my post, this is something I saw someone on Facebook post and I messaged her and asked her permission to post this here. The credit of this post goes to Shelley Floryd. You can find her on fb, she's the pretty thing with green hair. I found her post inspiring and I see so much of people posting on here, struggling and reaching out for advice. So I thought, maybe it would be good for them to see this. Again trigger warning because it's painfully real and it can be triggering for some.
"Three years ago today, I got forced into rehab for the first time.
I'd been doing drugs for a few months, partying and drinking close to every day for more, and I had been depressed for seven years already. I was stuck in so many different self destructive behaviours - not only did I have my multiple substance addictions, but I also self harmed, starved and purposefully went to extremely risqué places and situations.
At that stage, I was certain I was going to die soon. When I was 10, I promised myself to die before I turned 15. And when I got stuck in rehab it had been a month and two suicide attempts since my 15th birthday, but I was still alive - which was wrong. It felt so wrong to be alive when all I wanted was to fucking die, to be over with the pain and misery and suffering, to get away from my depression and loneliness and anxiety.
I still remember when I got on that train to my first rehabilitation centre, how my mom sat next to me and my social worker in front of me, both surprised that I actually showed up and went. But what could I have done? If I didn't go I would have been locked up for six months if not more, but with this I still had a chance.
And they had no idea I was high as fucking kite, anyhow. My mother and social worker didn't know jack shit about the three lines of speed I took in the train bathroom, or the joint I smoked that same morning before leaving my mothers home, the same apartment I'd been kicked out from four months prior.
I remember arriving in that faraway town, where I knew no one and nothing. I remember how the people I was going to stay at picked us up at the station, how they drove 20 minutes out of town to where I was going to stay for the coming four months.
I remember crying after cutting up my wrists to the stage I felt woozy from the blood loss, and how I took 20 sleeping pills and some morphine when I realised there was no way in hell I'd be able to fall asleep unless I overdosed.
That was three years ago today. Since then, I'd been in another three rehabilitation homes. I've lived with more than 40 different people, all of them battling their own addictions, mental health issues and problems, in four different cities. I've gotten addicted to meth, ecstasy, crack, cocaine, weed, pain, pleasure, and so much more. I've overdosed another couple of times to the stage my lips turned blue and my face white, until I blacked out or got so fucked up that I can't remember anything for days upon days.
I had recently turned 15 when I got stuck in rehabilitation, forced by the state to get clean and clinically happy. I was forced to overcome my addictions, depression, anxiety, eating disorder, and so on. I was fucked to the stage that when someone else in rehab asked me what I'd done to get in, I could only reply "everything".
I was 17 when I got out of rehab. It had been exactly 2 years, 2 months and 16 days since I first got to my first home, that miserable house on the countryside where they told everyone I was doing great when I obviously fucking wasn't, just so that they'd look good on paper.
When I was 17, I had done more than anyone should do in their entire lives. I had done the alphabet of drugs, I had cut myself until I nearly saw the bone, I had starved until I passed out from hunger, I had robbed people for money, I had stolen shit for thousands of dollars, I had beaten people up, I had done so much stuff that I will never be able to even speak about because of the anxiety and guilt gnawing on my insides, I had done so many illegal things that I should be in jail for many years more.
But I got through. I stopped. I got clean, I got out of my depression. I stopped hanging out with criminals, not the ones that just deals drugs but the ones who'd actually kill a man if they already hadn't.
I went into rehab with so many problems, and I came out happy. For the first time in 9 years, I had beat my depression, and I was fucking happy. I hadn't been happy, truly happy, for more than half my life. I was ready to live my life, and I did.
It's been 9 months and 14 days since I finally moved out of rehabilitation. Today, I have my own apartment. I have two jobs, and friends that support and guide me. I have dreams for the future, plans that I want to achieve and live to see through. I have a future, something I never had when I was younger.
Three years ago, on this exact same day, I would never had thought that I'd one day be thankful with the life that I had been given, because all I wanted was to die. But here I am. Alive, standing, living.
I fucking did it. I can't believe I fucking lived through all of that and still saw the light at the end of the tunnel of misery and pain, that I still went through it after so many hardships. But I fucking did, and I'm ready to live the rest of my life.
Thank fucking god I never managed to kill myself, because I'm so fucking happy to be alive.