I was fighting a rat for the remnants of a corn dog I'd salvaged from the trash. That's when I realized I'd crossed the final line I had drawn.
I had told myself, as long as I don't shoot up, I'm OK. As long as I'm not homeless, I'm OK. But now I was shooting up and homeless, and there was nowhere left to draw. I had reached the bottom line of my existence.
I was constantly searching for something outside to fix how I felt inside. My first memory of that need was when I was about 8. My parents had divorced, and I was living with my grandmother. We had a difficult relationship. I wasn't fitting in at school, and I was overweight. I went into her kitchen pantry and ate an entire container of icing. I put the lid back on and placed it exactly where I had found it. Before long, I began to make excuses so I could hide in the pantry.
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