Seconds after withdrawing from heroin my dog looks me dead in the eye and growls. I knew I was in trouble

The world’s worst heroin addict sat on his couch and thought things couldn’t get any worse. Nah, I take that back. At 155 pounds of pure shit and with a fist full of heroin, things couldn’t get any better. I’ve been clean for 5 months. I put the needle down, deleted all my contacts and figured I could start fresh. I felt amazing. An addict never feels amazing. I just wanted to get high again. I missed it. I hadn’t shot heroin in months but it felt like years. I missed the feeling of my bones turning into gelatin, the feeling of my muscles turning into jelly. I hated heroin, but loved what it did for me. I had a past. I had been through unspeakable trauma. I was kidnapped as a child and held captive for months. The pain of being a sex slave left me with physical and mental scars that I saw no way out of. As a heroin addict, I didn’t want a way out. To me, there was no way out. I didn’t want to be sober. I just wanted to be high. The high was my escape. The high was my happy place. The high was my identity. It took nothing to get a hold of a small bag of heroin. I didn’t get it from a street dealer. I got it from a junkie. The guy was a few years younger than me, but looked ten years older. Our eyes told it all. Neither of us were strangers to heroin, and the stranger didn’t even need to ask me what I was looking for. I looked like a junkie. He looked at me, looked at my arms, and handed me a small bag of heroin. I didn’t ask how much, I didn’t ask how strong it was. I didn’t care. I didn’t even care if it was heroin. I would have slapped on a needle and shot up rat poison if I thought it would make me feel better. I slapped on a needle and shot up. I gave myself a big ol’ fat shot. The world went dark. Seconds later I woke up in cardiac arrest, vomiting blood all over my floor. Seconds after withdrawing from heroin my dog looks me dead in the eye and growls. I knew I was in trouble. I was in trouble because my dog didn’t growl. I took my dog from the shelter because he was abused. My dog wasn’t even a dog, he was a service animal. My dog was trained to sniff out seizures, and had a service vest to prove it. I needed my dog. I needed my dog more than I needed heroin. But my dog could see the demons in my eyes. My dog could hear the satanic voice that told me to kill myself, to drink, to smoke, to shoot. My dog hated the devil that lived inside of me and for the first time ever, he growled at me. I knew I was in trouble. I got up, took my dog to the car and drove to the nearest hospital. I had never felt so scared in my entire life. I knew I was in trouble. At the hospital I got my stomach pumped and a serious conversation from a doctor. I didn’t need to hear it, I already knew. I was a heroin addict and I needed help. I asked to speak to a therapist. I asked to see a counselor. I asked to go to rehab, but nobody answered. Nobody cared. Nobody but me, that is. Nobody but me cared for my well-being. Nobody but me cared about my life. So I cared for the first time in a long time. I got my phone and googled “rehab centers near me.” There were a lot. I saw a lot of them. They all had a lot to offer, some good and some bad. I saw a lot of them, but one stuck out in particular. The treatment center in particular caught my eye because it had an in-patient program specifically for sex-trafficked victims who struggled with drug addiction. It was nothing short of a miracle. I had been a sex slave for years as a child and struggled with an addiction to heroin. It was the answer to all my prayers. I thought nothing could make me feel better, but I was wrong. I thought I was alone, but I was wrong. I thought nobody cared, but I was wrong. There was a whole treatment center that cared. I was blown away. I called them. The woman on the phone sounded like an angel. She told me there was a slot open and I could come the next day. I got on a plane the next day with nothing but my dog and a fist full of heroin. I was so stupid, but I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I had never been to rehab before. The only thing I knew was that I felt like I was going to get my ass kicked. I was a heroin addict, and heroin addicts don’t do well in rehab. I remember the whole ride being nerve-racking. I thought about drinking, I thought about smoking, I thought about shooting a whole damn gram of heroin. I thought about a lot of things. I just wanted to get high. I just wanted to feel better. I just wanted to be happy. At the end of the day, I just wanted to be happy. I didn’t want to be a heroin addict. I wanted to be a father. I wanted to be a son. I wanted to be a brother. Most of all, I wanted to be my dog’s owner. I thought about killing myself. I thought about going back home. I thought about getting off the plane at a different stop. I thought about a lot of things. I just wanted to be happy. I felt a hand tapping on my shoulder. “Sir, we’re going to start landing.” I didn’t believe it, but I smiled. I got to rehab. The whole ride sucked but the woman at the desk smiled at me. I didn’t believe it, but I smiled. I started treatment. The classes were educational. The food was good. The living arrangements were nice. The therapist was an angel. I didn’t believe I could be happy, but I smiled. I started to feel better. I started to love myself again. I started to see I wasn’t alone. I saw myself, a little heroin addict with a bad past, but a good heart. I saw I wasn’t alone. I was around other people who struggled with heroin. They weren’t just heroin addicts. They were mothers. They were fathers. They were sons. They were daughters. They were friends. They were heroes. They were the epitome of human resiliency. They were recovering heroin addicts. I saw myself as a recovering heroin addict. I saw myself as a survivor. I started to smile. I started to laugh. I started to live again. I started to learn again. I started to think again. I started to put the pieces back together again. I started to feel again. I started to love again. I felt like I could do anything. Nothing made me feel better than feeling better. I felt amazing. I started to feel like I could be a dad again. I started to feel like I could be a son again. I started to feel like I could be an owner again. I started to feel like I could be alive again. I started to love my dog again. I started to see my dog again, not the bottle of whiskey. Nothing made me feel better than seeing my dog again. Nothing made me feel better than seeing myself again. Nothing made me feel better than feeling better. I graduated from my 90-day inpatient program and felt reborn. For the first time in over a decade, I knew I was going to be okay. I felt indestructible. I felt like I could overcome anything. I started to live again. I started to be a dad again. I started to be a son again. I started to be a dog owner again. I started to be alive again. I stopped using heroin and started using my voice. I felt like an iron man, invincible and impenetrable. It took five months to get there, but I finally felt like I could do anything. It didn’t take long for me to find out how wrong I was. I was in a meeting when it happened. I went to meetings a lot. Meetings were a part of my newly sober life. They were a way to connect with others who needed help. They were the wrong place to be when my phone rang and I saw the unknown number flash across the screen. I picked it up and answered it. I heard nothing but breathing on the other end. “Hello? Is anybody there?” “Yeah, I’m here. Who’s this?” “You know exactly who this is. I’ve been calling you for months.” “I don’t know who this is.” “Yes, you do.” I hung up. I knew who it was. I knew who it was because I tried to ignore it. I had been trying to ignore it for months. I tried to ignore it because I didn’t know what to do. It was a call from my ex-boyfriend, the guy I dated for two years and the guy I think I genuinely loved. We had ups and downs. We were toxic. We were abusive. We were addicts.

Seconds after withdrawing from heroin my dog looks me dead in the eye and growls. I knew I was in trouble

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