Whenever I mention my old life--places I've been, people I remember, stories I have to tell--I'm faced with a variety of replies that remind me I'm the only one who values my memories. There are just a few people who know about my five years as an addict, of course; two folks at work, the only ones who I consider real friends; LJ, of course; some people who knew me then, and some who knew me long before then; and my mom. My mom's reaction to these stories is, I think, the most illustrative:
"Aren't you glad to be away from THAT life?" she asks me, each and every time the subject comes up.
The correct answer, needless to say, is this: "Of COURSE I am. I would never want to go back to that life. I was miserable for every moment, I realize now what a horrible mistake I made, and I'm so very sorry for everything I put you through."
The only problem is, the correct answer is a lie.
I've moved the heroin posts to my new blog: elevenevele.blogspot.com.
I have toyed for years with the idea of writing everything down, and in 1996, living in North Carolina, I made a list of memories with that aim in mind--just something to jog my recollection. I knew then that if I was to have any hope of changing my life, I was going to have to choke back these memories from my daily life, lock them in a vault that I could only open at moments when it would be safe to do so. But like any knowledge that doesn't get used much, time is eroding these memories, and I don't want to lose any more than I already have.
No comments:
Post a Comment