heroin.

Heroin Took Me Places

Heroin took me to places I never meant to go.

Waking up sick on the cold sidewalks of Skid Row, stomach twisting, bones aching—every breath was a reminder that I was owned by something I couldn’t see but felt in every part of me. I’ve had county nails digging into my wrists, been locked behind bars with nothing but time and shame, and watched pain fill the eyes of people who once looked at me with love.

Every day started the same: sick. Hustling for the next fix, just to feel normal. And when I finally got well, I was already broken all over again.

Withdrawal? That’s a hell I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It's not just the vomiting, chills, and muscle cramps—it’s the soul-deep emptiness. It’s the guilt, the regret, the hopelessness. Heroin stole who I used to be and left a shell that I barely recognized.

But I didn’t die.

Somehow, I made it through. Not because I was strong—heroin doesn’t care how strong you are—but because something inside me refused to let go. Maybe it was the memory of who I used to be. Maybe it was someone praying for me when I couldn’t pray for myself. Maybe it was grace.

Recovery didn’t come in one big moment. It came in small, quiet victories. Making it through the morning without using. Showing up to a meeting. Calling someone instead of copping. I met people who didn’t flinch when I told them the truth. People who’d been there too. They didn’t try to fix me—they just stayed. And in their presence, I began to believe I could stay too.

I started rebuilding, one broken piece at a time. I made amends where I could. I learned to forgive myself for the things I did when I was just trying to survive. I stopped running from the past and started owning it—not as something that defines me, but something that shaped me.

Today, I don’t wake up sick.
I wake up free.

I don’t need a fix to feel whole.
I’ve got peace.
I’ve got people.
I’ve got purpose.

If you’re out there, still in it—sick, tired, afraid—I see you.
You are not alone.
You are not beyond saving.
There is a life after heroin.
Ask for help. Reach out. Cry if you need to. Crawl if you have to.
But don’t give up.

You are worth the fight.
And if no one’s told you yet today—
I’m proud of you for surviving.
Now it’s time to live.


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