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"No. How are YOU doing?"

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It was a very odd question that she asked me. I hadn't heard it said this particular way in quite some time. You see, I have been the "wife of an addict", "the girl with the ill mother" and other signifiers that I would not have dreamed would belong to me. What she asked me made me stop in my tracks. I probably stuttered and stared off for a suspicious amount of time before answering. I'm actually not sure I gave a real answer, because I don't know the real answer. My friend, as we sat at the restaurant, she simply asked, "No. How are YOU doing?" It caught me by surprise. Me? No one cares about how I am doing, they want to know how HE is doing, how my mom is doing, if I have heard from my problematic brother, you know, the usual. They want to know what's happening around me, basically, but not TO me. Not inside of me. I looked away for a minute trying to conjure up some sort of sentence that sounded kind of upbeat or hopeful, I want
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Deja vu.

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I remember the time you finally said the words, "I know I need help." I was so hopeful because I knew you wanted the help for YOU and not because I, or other people, wanted it for you. You did most of the legwork yourself and that made me so proud. You called anywhere and everywhere, trying your hardest to find somewhere that could take you in and show you some sort of compassion and guidance. I remember you crying on the phone and pleading, your eyes dark underneath, cheeks sunken. Your hair hadn't been cut in ages and you had a hole in your shirt, you looked sad and uncomfortable in your own skin. The day finally came after what felt like forever but was more like a month or two. We got in the car and started on our 3 hour trip toward what we had hoped would be your new lease on life. The day was overcast, dark, gloomy and sad mirroring how we felt inside. We didn't speak much because I was scared and you were scared and the newness and unknown was uncomfo
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My Rock Bottom.

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I don’t really know what to say or how to write it. I want so badly to write so eloquently so you can remember me as being smart or well-spoken. I want to be remembered as someone who loved deeply, and felt things so hard that it hurt, and saw the world differently. I wanted to create, I wanted so much to find happiness and passion in art. I wanted so badly to be loved, and to have fun. That’s what I set out in life to do: have fun. But, unfortunately, life came to a hault when you started using drugs. I think that’s when I actually died. When I first found out, I can’t actually describe the feeling I had. It was like, imagine a bunch of gears, cogs and wheels, just doing their thing, running smoothly, until one day someone threw a wrench in it. Imagine that the cogs fought their hardest to keep moving and keep running because they had a greater purpose than to just be regular old cogs and wheels. They scraped together and made sparks, they clanged together like the
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