I was seventeen when I first started partying. A late bloomer compared to a lot of people I knew back then. Life only started when the sun went down and I found myself choosing every bad habit. Who could I meet? What could I drink or fill my lungs with? The only goal in sight was to find that fuzzy medium which would allow my mind to stop spinning. I didn’t care what it was, as long as it took away the pain.

I lived that way for years. 
And I was convinced that’s what life was. A constant struggle. 
Nevermind that I was making my own life harder — it would have been difficult either way. That’s what I tell myself to lessen the blow.

I made bad choices, but I learned from them.

The Reality You Can’t Accept Until Its Happened

In the midst of all my questionable choices — like at 20; using up all my income tax to move on impulse from one state to another with my roommates— I learned that I didn’t care much for material items. I cared about my basic needs like shelter and food.

We arrived in the new city and I booked a hotel for a couple weeks. We spent the days walking endless miles, learning bus routes, trying to find a store I could transfer to for work. But a few bad decisions later — and money running out — the living situation turned from palm tree vacation vibes to ‘oh shit’.

We didn’t have a place to stay anymore after the two weeks expired.

Life was now grabbing me by the collar, saying I’ve failed and should give up. For a few days my two friends and I took shelter at a 24-hr McDonald’s; we bought a drink with the last of our money so they wouldn’t kick us out. But sitting in the booth with pillows and a duffel bag of clothes is a humiliation I wish I’d never experienced. It felt like everyone had their eyes on us, waiting for an excuse to call the cops and eject us from the only thing keeping us off the streets at night.

We couldn’t stay there forever though. So the road was our home again. When there were no more cigarettes left to burn and hunger took over, one roommate slipped inside a Big Lots and came back with a box of Pop Tarts. It had been a day since we’d last eaten. Stealing was wrong — except in this case. Right?