Letters to my younger self; my early 20’s

By the time I had reached my early twenties, I could count on two hands, the number of times God had stepped in and protected me or spared my life. I often find myself asking “why?” I never thought to be “special” or “important” in God’s eyes. Why did I matter? After a while of abuse towards myself, self loathing and living off the pain of all that I was familiar with, you’d think God would have cut the strings long ago.

But God was with me when a awful man put his hands on me when I was five. God was with me when I swallowed the contents of every bottle in my grandmother’s cabinet. God was with me when I didn’t stop running a razor across my wrist, arms and legs; preventing any infection from the open wounds I freely gave myself. God was there when I used alcohol to drown my pain; driving off from some bar not realizing how I got to where I needed to go. And God was with me on both occasions when I was foolish enough to want to understand what my mother found so appealing about reaching some kind of high off whatever drug of her choice was available.

Elena had a very cool friend. He wasn’t conceited, wasn’t too good to hang around with. He was actually very funny and very sweet. He also knew who to contact when he wanted something to make him feel good. One night, while visiting this friend, we were enjoying a few beers and having some laughs, when he brought out his stash. Cocaine was his candy and he asked us if we wanted to try it. And there I was, filled with angry curiosity. Without hesitation, I said yes. We all said yes. And five beers and 4 lines later, it felt like the end was near. There was this wave of exhaustion where I just wanted to close my eyes and drift off to sleep; for days. But the scary part was I couldn’t because my heart was pounding so loudly and so fast; scaring me to death. Was it an anxiety attack? Was I having a heart attack? What an idiot I had been. Thankfully, hours later, I was calmer; my heart rate just a bit slower. I had stopped crying and freaking out halfway through it.

That was the last time I had tried cocaine.

On our next outing, our wonderful funny friend, brought out speed. This time, we did not partake in drinking beforehand. In my mind, I made it a reasonable enough excuse to try something new. Maybe this would be different. Maybe this was what my mother was on when she was up all night rearranging the kitchen. On a cold fall night, with speed in our system, we decided to drive up to the canyons. It was exciting; cold air in our lungs and hair. Exciting until we rounded a slippery corner too fast and almost went off a cliff. Here I was, again, thinking to myself “what is wrong with me?” I promised myself I’d never be like my mother. My anger turned to stupidity as I made the worst decisions during this time in my life. When the night was over and we took our time driving home, we returned to Elena’s home where I spent the night. It was the worst night as we couldn’t sleep; hyped up and fidgety. Exhaustion was teasing us; so far away from rest. I couldn’t stop thinking about life and all that I had been through. So many thoughts became torturous and painful to remember. I believe we fell asleep around noon the next day.

That was last time I had tried speed.

Pot was the only other drug I tried. Thankfully, it made me paranoid and restless. I count myself lucky with this one as well. You see, I tried this after finishing my first semester of college. A group of students in my english class met up and the host (a guy I really didn’t know that well) brought out a bong. After a few hits, the paranoia crept in and so did this wave of tiredness. I remember most of everyone leaving later and our host informing me to sleep it off in his room. I count myself lucky that nothing happened to me during that time. I woke up a few hours later, said goodbye and didn’t look back.

If I could return to that time, I’d slap my younger self; so hard, so that the point would come across. But in reality, I’d talk some sense into her; hug her tightly; letting her know there was a better way, a smarter way. I’d point out the journals stacked in the corner of the room, press her to keep writing, to hang on to this outlet, rather than use the anger for foolish reasons. Instead, I sit here, thankful to a God who held on close; not letting it all end for foolish reasons. I am lucky. I am thankful. Most of all, I am loved and have always been. If not by physical people, than at least by my Creator. That should have been enough back then, but I allowed pain to swallow me whole. Not anymore. They were lessons; frightening and regretful as some may be, but I am still here. Making better choices in some regards (not drinking and driving for one and leaving my curiosity of drugs back in the closet where it belongs). There is a plan for my life and I am on the road to discovering it.