I Hate Myself For Loving You...

The lighting in my dingy motel room peaked out from underneath the stained lampshade. I sat down on my bed gingerly, brushing a strand of my stringy hair away from my face. I used to have such beautiful hair. It was one of my best features. The long, thick, Auburn, locks glistened whenever the sunlight hit it. But not anymore. I had given that up for the high. Now, my hair falls out in clumps, has an abrasive dullness to it, and almost always looks greasy. That’s what you get I guess when drugs are the only thing you can think about. They infect you, poison you, and most of all, they change you. They change you in ways you never thought you could be changed.
Throughout my whole life, I was always told that there was a right path and a wrong path. And whatever path I chose to go down, the decision was mine, and mine alone. Nobody else is responsible for the consequences of my actions. A lot of the addicts I’ve met in the past year, always have someone to blame. I never have. That’s one thing that separates me from most of the junkies. Nobody put the that dollar bill to my nose and made me snort my first line. I did that all on my own.

Excerpt From; Memoirs Of A Charity Girl.