144 lines
8.2 KiB
Plaintext
144 lines
8.2 KiB
Plaintext
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Addiction or Need?
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Sitting across the table from my parents, I know they are talking to me, and
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that I should be listening, but I cannot help but stare at my bag on the
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counter. In that bag, is the answer to whether or not I live or die. It is
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not a question if I want it, but it is a question that I need it, so when am
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I going to take some?
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Sighing, finally they finish their talk with me, and I nod my head, as if I
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had listened to all that they had said. As they leave the room, I take the
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bag and go into my room. Shutting the door, I sit down on my bed, and look
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out the window ... if I was somewhere else, would I be able to get this life
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line that I need?
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Opening the bag, I reach in and pull out the small bottle. Inside I can see
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the liquid floating around, it needs to be rolled. Sometimes, I wonder if
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someone shook me hard enough, I would wake up and realize it has all been just
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a nightmare. But, I know that it is not.
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Running my hand along the crease of the bag, I find a syringe and pull it out.
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Taking the clear cap off the end, and then the orange cap, I find myself
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studying the metal of the needle. It is small, and thin, why should it hurt
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so much? It's so small, yet it makes the difference whether I live or die?
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I was always told insects were nothing to fear or bother with because they
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were so tiny, so why does something so tiny truly define the length of my
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life? I know, there are ones that think I do not need it, and there are
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even more that do not even know I use it.
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Turning the bottle upside down, and sticking the syringe in, I pull the
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liquid out, to a measured amount. I have pain to look forward to. No, it
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does not hurt every time I do it, just a lot of the time. Even when I was
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over-weight. Though, now I weigh what I did nine years ago, that was before
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I even had become a teenager practically.
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Hearing someone outside my door, I jab myself, and push the liquid into me.
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Placing the orange cap back on, over the needle, I stick it into the bag, as
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the door slowly opens. The person peeks their head inside, and looks around.
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They were checking on me. I silently drop the small bottle into the bag,
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and toss the bag near the foot of my bed and walk out of my room.
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Later that night, I decide I am going to take a walk. It is dark out. A
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cool, crisp night, and the moon is high in the sky. My favorite time of
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night has arrived. The nighttime animals are in performing their rituals for
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the night, and I walk along the street, that is not even paved. Hearing a
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crunch, I can tell by the loudness and surrounding sounds, that is must be a
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deer. Turning to see if I am right, I meet the eyes of one of the great
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bucks that live in this woods. They hold a mystery, despite what others
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may say ...
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That next morning, I awake to the sound of the birds that are chirping,
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squawking and causing a stir outside of my window. The sun is streaming down
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from it's high perch, and I look down into the yard. Another day, another
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shot.
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Walking out into the kitchen, I force down the accurate amount of food, that
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I am suppose to eat. 80 calories down, 80 more... how can I eat more? I hate
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eating, but I do not have a choice. My dad enters the kitchen he smiles and
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nods his head in a greeting. I slam the rest of my juice down, and rinse off
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my dishes. 200 calories. Everything is calories, exchanges, and only what
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I need, to balance out what I take.
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If it was up to me, I would have succeeded in making my goal weight of 100
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pounds, seven years ago, even if I would have ended up in the hospital. At
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least I would have been lighter. Though, I shouldn't complain, I am back
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down in weight, and that is where I will remain.
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I dread the thought of lunch time. Again, just more calories, and pointless
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conversation. Sometimes I wonder what is worse, to sit here and listen to
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ones with such close-minded opinions, about gays, colored people, and every
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other type of thing different then them, or the urge to force myself to
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throw up, from not wanting anything more crammed down my throat.
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After lunch, I run my hand across the place I always do my shots, and I feel
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the skins surface is different. People have always said how smooth and soft
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and how wonderful my skin feels ... little do they know, I hate all the scars
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I have, and I feel the coarseness, of where I insert the needles. I hate it!
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I wish I could stop ... really I wish I could. But, I cannot. If I did, I
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would die.
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That little bottle is what keeps me alive ... how could I live without it?
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Am I addicted? No, I am not, I need it to live ... I know that is what my
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friends have said that have been on things before ... that they are not
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addicted, that they could quit any time. But, the difference between them and
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I, is that I cannot stop, and I know that.
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If I would stop, I would either go one of two ways. Either way, is not the
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way I wish to die. Though, maybe it is wrong for me to ever think of how
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I wish to die. It's not like I will have a total say in it, or will I?
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- Kamria
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It's not an Addiction, it's a Need.
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I'm a diabetic, and I need to take insulin injections. Two shots a day, no
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matter how I feel, or if I want to eat or not, I have to take them and I have
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to force food down my own throat, or have someone else do it. I suppose it
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really has saved my life, because otherwise I would have probably died from
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lack of food or whatever ... but sometimes I think it truly is a curse. Not
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a blessing. But, either way it is supposedly something I never had a choice
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in, nor a say in ... excercise and diet are not enough to keep my bloodsugars
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in the normal range, since my pancrease does not produce the insulin it needs
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I need to take the shots. I take them in my stomach, and every day I swear
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they hurt more and more ... Bruises, calloses, and then sometimes not a change
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at all.
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A choice is shooting up yourself, full of heroine or something else ... but,
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insulin is not a choice. It is a need. Because without you would die,
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literally.
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Why anyone would ever voluntarily shoot themselves up, I will never be able
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to fully understand. Maybe it's the fact of wanting to feel control over
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your own body, and life. But, sometimes you do not have control over it. But
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that does not mean that you need to continue it - it's up to you whether you
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live or die. Whether or not you do what you do, not any one elses. It's
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how you want to live, or how you want to die ... having a say or going down
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without a fight. The difference between right and wrong, wanting and needing
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an Addiction or a Need.
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions =
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= Mail: jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
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= WWW http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
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= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author. =
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