An Attempt Was Made

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I know I said this story was gonna be about me, but it's also about Enzo. It's also about... us all.

What truly brought me here was not substance abuse (or so I like to think). Instead, it was years of depression, trauma, and heartache, the cumulative result of which was my desperate attempt to clutch at something, anything, I didn't care. It could be a cig, vape, drugs, sex, even. I wanted to escape reality so bad that I had reached the point where I was prepared to do anything in order to just live. Stay alive. Survive. No, not survive, because I was surviving already, going through each day trying not to die, physically. All the while I was dead inside.
Which is why I wanted to truly live, feel alive and not just survive.
Alcohol and sex are two things I feel a strong repulsion towards. However, the thought of a haze in my lungs sounded good to me. And so began my downward spiral of drowning in distractions, along with the delusion that the vape and VALORANT, cigs and clonaz would revive me, make me feel alive again.
But none of it worked, as expected. Yes, indeed, these things will temporarily numb your pain, only to come back to bite you. And not to mention, I was losing- no, I had already lost interest in doing the things that I loved: working out, reading, watching TV, or movies. It was then that I started to believe that life wasn't worth living. They no longer brought me any joy, although I was still passionate about exercising. My attention span had reduced to the point that I could no longer study. But I was able to still enjoy ONE thing.

Music. (And traveling too, but that really wasn't an option at the time.)

Music kept me going. It kept me sane, alive and did a satisfactory job of blocking the intrusive thoughts. It was like therapy, maybe even slightly better than that. I suppose it's a shame I cannot play any musical instrument at all, nor can I sing. My voice isn't pleasant much.

Here in rehab, as I'm writing this, I have zero access to any kind of electronic device or musical instrument. But I'm doing okay, because of two things:
1) My brain is my friend in need. I could press play on any tune in my head.
2) Medication.

A good number of people turn to religion during crises. For me, music was part of my religion.

And yet I overdosed on acetaminophen. And yet I didn't die. And yet another failed attempt.

And I don't think my psychiatrist or any of the duty doctors here know this. If that's the case, my days truly are numbered, because my liver won't tolerate some 10-15 tablets that they feed me here per day for long.

Maybe I really should change the title of this novella to "Rehab days". The only reason I'm not doing that is that it sounds too cliché. It also reminds me of "Goodbye Days" by Jeff Zentner.