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It is interesting how addiction is usually referred to as a result of drug abuse. I would have laughed at this ignorance, but it is not funny. There is nothing funny about addiction or drug abuse, and yes they are not always related. I would know because I am addicted to drugs, but I don’t abuse them. I have never abused them and I never will.
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Before I share my story, let it be known that those who abuse drugs indirectly mock me and it hurts to see an important part of my life being abused and being misused.
I was born addicted to drugs. Yes, you heard right, I am a born addict and I have never abused any drug, instead, I take them to survive. The day I don’t have my fix, I just might die. I say might, because none of us has been bold enough to see what happens after I go unconscious when attempting a withdrawal.
Apparently, my mother was a junkie before she got pregnant with me, but she refused to let some fetus interfere with her way of life, so she kept taking her drugs. She probably figured that her life was already miserable and there was no need for her to attempt to preserve it or the one growing within her.
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My grandmother would later tell me how afraid she was when she heard that I had been delivered. She knew that there was a long list of what could go wrong through my developing months in the womb. I could be born without some body parts, I could be born with an unknown condition, I could be many things, but she was grateful to see that I was complete; ten fingers, ten toes, one penis, two working eyes, a complete nose and a loudmouth crying a storm.
But something was wrong.
I shook uncontrollably and no one could tell what was wrong with me. Tests were carried out, but nothing was discovered as wrong. My shaking and crying continued and I was going unconscious when a nurse murmured in wonder that, though a newborn, I was acting like I was on drugs and my grandmother quickly asked the doctor if my mother’s activities could have affected me.
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I got my first shot outside the womb on my birthday.
I was given just enough to keep me sane and conscious. Subsequently, they would try to wean me off the drug, but it almost killed me and so I remained an addict. I have the required doses I take at specific times of the day.
I know that my mother’s drug abuse caused my addiction, but it doesn’t always happen in that order either. I know of an addict who only took a sniff and his life was never the same. He became instantly addicted. Others have sniffed and sipped and swallowed different hard drugs, but they don’t suffer withdrawal symptoms if they take a break.
My mother got to a point where she had to always be on hard drugs. She almost killed me in the process, as she took my dosage to maintain her high. It was bad enough that she got me addicted, yet she wanted to kill me by stealing from my dose.
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She ODed on my tenth birthday and died.
Okay, the truth? I killed her. I gave her enough to make her never want it again. I almost died too, because I gave her all I had and went crazy from withdrawal symptoms.
I’m a murderer, I’m an addict, but I don’t abuse drugs. You shouldn’t either.
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@Djoi Writes
This is fiction. All of it.