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What We’ve Lost
My eyes flutter open, everything blurred and swimming in and out of focus, like I’m surfacing from a dream I can’t quite leave behind.
The first thing I notice is the brightness—harsh fluorescent lights burning overhead, sharp and unforgiving, making my head throb.
I blink slowly, my senses creeping back, though everything feels heavy, distant.
The room is cold, sterile—white walls, too white, as if they’re trying to wipe away what’s left of me.
The sharp smell of antiseptic clings to the air, mixed with the faint metallic scent of blood.
But beneath it all is the stench of my own sweat—thick, sour, and rancid, the kind of smell that only comes from detoxing off drugs.
It clings to me like a second skin, thick and unbearable.
It’s the smell of every toxin I’ve pumped into my body, pouring out all at once, and it makes my stomach churn with nausea.
The steady beeping of the heart monitor hums along with the slow drip of fluid through the IV, the rhythm almost hypnotic, dragging me deeper into the haze.
My body feels frail—cheeks sunken, skin pale and clammy.
I try to move, just a twitch, but my limbs are useless, heavy and numb.
Even breathing feels like work, my chest rattling beneath the oxygen mask strapped to my face.
I glance down at the IV taped to my arm, the needle somehow threaded into a vein that shouldn’t even exist anymore.
I can’t believe they found one.
My arms are wrecked—track marks, bruises, and scars where veins used to be.
But here I am again, hooked up to machines and tubes, kept alive when I shouldn’t be.
I shift my gaze to the IV bag hanging above me, the clear liquid dripping slowly down the tube into my arm.
It’s so cold.
It’s probably saline and electrolytes, I think.
Maybe some glucose, if I looked bad enough.
Definitely naloxone—can’t let the junkie die.
I almost let out a chuckle.
God, when did my humor become so dark?
I squeeze my eyes shut against the glare of the lights, and the first words slip out of me without thinking.
“I’m not going back,” I rasp, my voice barely more than a whisper, hoarse and raw.
“I’m not going back to the crazy house.”
A scoff cuts through the silence, sharp and bitter, like a blade.
“Seriously?”
The hand holding mine trembles before slipping away, the warmth disappearing instantly.
Jaw clenched, tension radiates from every movement, the effort to stay calm just barely held together.
“I’ve lost everything,” comes the crack in the voice, raw and heavy. “We’ve lost everything.”
“Baby,” I whisper weakly, the word scraping painfully from my throat, barely audible.
A hand drags down a face, frustration pouring into every movement.
Shoulders sag under the weight of it all.
“No. Do not ask me to watch you wither away any more than I already have. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t.”
A shaky breath follows, knuckles curling into fists.
“This person in front of me… this isn’t the person I’ve loved since I was 17.”
Time stands still as the figure turns toward the door, each step deliberate, heavy, as if leaving requires more strength than what’s left.
A hand hovers over the handle, and for a moment, it feels like the entire room holds its breath with me.
“No! Please!” I shout, the words ripping from my throat, raw and jagged.
Pain shoots through my chest, and I wince, curling into myself as the effort drains what little strength I had left.
“I’ll stop,” I gasp, desperate and frantic. “I mean it this time. Just don’t—”
“Stop.” The voice comes out low and broken. “You are not the same.”
Those words hit harder than any needle or overdose ever could.
I want to reach out, to leap off the bed, to beg and plead, to hold on—but I can’t.
I’m stuck, trapped in this useless, broken body that won’t respond.
All I can do is lie here, helpless, as the door softly clicks shut with a finality that echoes through the room.
Gone.
And I am utterly alone.
Fuck.
Why can’t I just die?
The thought settles deep into my bones, cold and absolute.
I just want to be with him.
The ache in my chest deepens as my mind drifts to the son I lost—the one I never got to hold, never got to name.
I just want to be with him.
I lie there, numb and exhausted, the weight of the oxygen mask pressing lightly against my face.
How bad is it this time?
The question lingers in the back of my mind, gnawing at me like a splinter I can’t pull out.
I know it’s bad—worse than before, maybe worse than it’s ever been—but the edges of my memory are hazy, blurred by whatever they pumped into me.
I try to remember, try to trace the path that led me here, but everything is tangled—just flashes of chaos and fear.
Someone screaming.
Maybe me.
Someone crying.
A needle, a blur of faces, then nothing.
Just the dark.
I close my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the questions.
What did they see when they found me?
Did they have to break the door down?
Was there vomit, blood?
Who called 911?
I hate that I don’t know.
I hate that this isn’t the first time I’ve woken up in a place like this, wondering what damage I’ve left behind.
The panic creeps back in, sharp and cold, slithering beneath my skin.
I try to shake it off, but it clings to me, dragging me under.
How much worse can it get?
How many more times do I get to wake up like this?
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the tears back, but they burn anyway.
Please, not again.
Not this bad.
Not this time.
But I already know the truth—this time is different.
I can feel it in the way my body aches, the way every breath feels borrowed.
Subject Index:
overdose, addiction, recovery, grief, trauma, detox, withdrawal, hospital, relapse, survival, mental illness, depression, loss, heartbreak, drug use, isolation, self-destruction, healing, pain, memory, forgiveness, emotional collapse, codependency, drug withdrawal, raw prose, autobiographical, hospital stay, near death, hopelessness, love, writing, creative nonfiction, prose, lyric narrative, mental health, recovery writing
