Tripping Down 12 Steps Into Malibu

All Our Efforts Have Failed

Ryan was pissed. He could feel the hatred for his father radiating off of him in buckets. What the hell gave him the right? His adrenaline was being build up like Lego blocks as he stormed into the pathetic excuse for a comforting room.

Nothing could comfort him now. Well, nothing except the thing that had been comforting him for years. The only thing that had helped him get through life since his mother died.

But it wouldn't be smart for him to take any of that right now. Not when his small supply was going to be all he'd ever have here. He needed to save it for emergencies. Ration it out for when he needed it most. He'd already smoked a healthy dose of it this morning. The buzzing high was still faintly circulating his body. But he needed more. He was craving more because he knew it'd take the anger away. When he was high, all he felt was high.

He didn't hate his father. He didn't miss his mother. He didn't even hate himself when the drugs kicked in. Everything was okay.

He threw himself onto his bed. His eyes glued to the ugly, dull color of the ceiling. His mind tried to think of anything besides the scarce amount of drugs in his top drawer. His subconscious tried to find fun patterns in the sloppy paint job. The same way he used to find them in the clouds with his mother when he was a boy.

But all he saw was paint. Because he wasn't a damn kid anymore. All that youthful innocence was dead. A large part of it died when his mother did. The rest of it was killed off with every puff of his pipe. Because this was the fucking real world. And imagination didn't get you anything.

Ryan shut his eyes. Tight enough to cause soreness to his lids. He just wanted to go to sleep. Dream that he was anywhere but here. He'd never felt this weak. Because he'd never had a limit with his drugs.

It was the worry that was starting to get the best of him now. There was no way he had enough to even last him another week. What the hell was he supposed to do when it was all gone?

Get better.

A voice in the back of his head whispered out to him. Ryan mentally scoffed at it. He didn't need to get better. Because he wasn't exactly an addict. He didn't abuse the drugs because he had to. He did it because he wanted to. He wasn't dependent on it. He didn't need to be in this fucking place. If he wanted to stop, he could.

Ryan pushed his head deeper into his pillow. His fist balled up at his sides to stop himself from scratching the skin off of his arms. He was so full of shit and it was time to stop lying to himself.

Of course he needed the fucking drugs. Of course he couldn't stop. The drugs were his oxygen. They kept him going. People would understand if they lived the same shitty life he did.

Step two: We accept the fact that all our efforts to stop abusing have failed.

He could admit that. He didn't have a choice. Because he wouldn't be laid back in his bed, about to spontaneously combust if he could just stop abusing whenever he wanted. He'd failed. Big whoop. That wasn't surprise. He was a big failure. His life was one gigantic epic fail. There was no need to pretend otherwise.

Abruptly, he sat up in the bed. Wasting no time in rushing to his drawer and lifting up that familiar shirt. If he was going to fail, he might as well go all in. Go hard or go home, as his father used to say.

He walked himself and his drugs into the bathroom. Too consumed with the excitement of what he was about to feel to even close or lock the door. With shaking finger, he lifted up his pipe. Barely able to get the rock inside. His thumb pressed down on his lighter once, twice, three times before the flame ignited.

The euphoria began instantly.