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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Addiction or Need?
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Sitting across the table from my parents, I know they are talking to me, and
that I should be listening, but I cannot help but stare at my bag on the
counter. In that bag, is the answer to whether or not I live or die. It is
not a question if I want it, but it is a question that I need it, so when am
I going to take some?
Sighing, finally they finish their talk with me, and I nod my head, as if I
had listened to all that they had said. As they leave the room, I take the
bag and go into my room. Shutting the door, I sit down on my bed, and look
out the window ... if I was somewhere else, would I be able to get this life
line that I need?
Opening the bag, I reach in and pull out the small bottle. Inside I can see
the liquid floating around, it needs to be rolled. Sometimes, I wonder if
someone shook me hard enough, I would wake up and realize it has all been just
a nightmare. But, I know that it is not.
Running my hand along the crease of the bag, I find a syringe and pull it out.
Taking the clear cap off the end, and then the orange cap, I find myself
studying the metal of the needle. It is small, and thin, why should it hurt
so much? It's so small, yet it makes the difference whether I live or die?
I was always told insects were nothing to fear or bother with because they
were so tiny, so why does something so tiny truly define the length of my
life? I know, there are ones that think I do not need it, and there are
even more that do not even know I use it.
Turning the bottle upside down, and sticking the syringe in, I pull the
liquid out, to a measured amount. I have pain to look forward to. No, it
does not hurt every time I do it, just a lot of the time. Even when I was
over-weight. Though, now I weigh what I did nine years ago, that was before
I even had become a teenager practically.
Hearing someone outside my door, I jab myself, and push the liquid into me.
Placing the orange cap back on, over the needle, I stick it into the bag, as
the door slowly opens. The person peeks their head inside, and looks around.
They were checking on me. I silently drop the small bottle into the bag,
and toss the bag near the foot of my bed and walk out of my room.
Later that night, I decide I am going to take a walk. It is dark out. A
cool, crisp night, and the moon is high in the sky. My favorite time of
night has arrived. The nighttime animals are in performing their rituals for
the night, and I walk along the street, that is not even paved. Hearing a
crunch, I can tell by the loudness and surrounding sounds, that is must be a
deer. Turning to see if I am right, I meet the eyes of one of the great
bucks that live in this woods. They hold a mystery, despite what others
may say ...
That next morning, I awake to the sound of the birds that are chirping,
squawking and causing a stir outside of my window. The sun is streaming down
from it's high perch, and I look down into the yard. Another day, another
shot.
Walking out into the kitchen, I force down the accurate amount of food, that
I am suppose to eat. 80 calories down, 80 more... how can I eat more? I hate
eating, but I do not have a choice. My dad enters the kitchen he smiles and
nods his head in a greeting. I slam the rest of my juice down, and rinse off
my dishes. 200 calories. Everything is calories, exchanges, and only what
I need, to balance out what I take.
If it was up to me, I would have succeeded in making my goal weight of 100
pounds, seven years ago, even if I would have ended up in the hospital. At
least I would have been lighter. Though, I shouldn't complain, I am back
down in weight, and that is where I will remain.
I dread the thought of lunch time. Again, just more calories, and pointless
conversation. Sometimes I wonder what is worse, to sit here and listen to
ones with such close-minded opinions, about gays, colored people, and every
other type of thing different then them, or the urge to force myself to
throw up, from not wanting anything more crammed down my throat.
After lunch, I run my hand across the place I always do my shots, and I feel
the skins surface is different. People have always said how smooth and soft
and how wonderful my skin feels ... little do they know, I hate all the scars
I have, and I feel the coarseness, of where I insert the needles. I hate it!
I wish I could stop ... really I wish I could. But, I cannot. If I did, I
would die.
That little bottle is what keeps me alive ... how could I live without it?
Am I addicted? No, I am not, I need it to live ... I know that is what my
friends have said that have been on things before ... that they are not
addicted, that they could quit any time. But, the difference between them and
I, is that I cannot stop, and I know that.
If I would stop, I would either go one of two ways. Either way, is not the
way I wish to die. Though, maybe it is wrong for me to ever think of how
I wish to die. It's not like I will have a total say in it, or will I?
- Kamria
It's not an Addiction, it's a Need.
I'm a diabetic, and I need to take insulin injections. Two shots a day, no
matter how I feel, or if I want to eat or not, I have to take them and I have
to force food down my own throat, or have someone else do it. I suppose it
really has saved my life, because otherwise I would have probably died from
lack of food or whatever ... but sometimes I think it truly is a curse. Not
a blessing. But, either way it is supposedly something I never had a choice
in, nor a say in ... excercise and diet are not enough to keep my bloodsugars
in the normal range, since my pancrease does not produce the insulin it needs
I need to take the shots. I take them in my stomach, and every day I swear
they hurt more and more ... Bruises, calloses, and then sometimes not a change
at all.
A choice is shooting up yourself, full of heroine or something else ... but,
insulin is not a choice. It is a need. Because without you would die,
literally.
Why anyone would ever voluntarily shoot themselves up, I will never be able
to fully understand. Maybe it's the fact of wanting to feel control over
your own body, and life. But, sometimes you do not have control over it. But
that does not mean that you need to continue it - it's up to you whether you
live or die. Whether or not you do what you do, not any one elses. It's
how you want to live, or how you want to die ... having a say or going down
without a fight. The difference between right and wrong, wanting and needing
an Addiction or a Need.
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