To The Moon and Back

𝟏𝟎 | 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

D A R K M A T T E R

A term used to describe matter in the universe that cannot be seen, but can be detected by its gravitational effects on other bodies.

T O T H E
M O O N & B A C K

I SAT AMONGST fifteen or twenty other people, my ass fucking aching because of the old plastic chair that I had been sitting on for the last fucking hour. There were so many people, some were old, some were as young as me, and some even younger, but all of them stood up and shared their story. They were like me, some of them. They all suffered from addiction, though some of their addictions were not dedicated to substance abuse but food instead, or lack of, in some cases, some were addicted to control but those things are what led to their newest addiction: drugs.

It's mind blowing how fucking strong addiction is. It was only recently that I realized that addiction does not just apply to drug-addicts or alcoholics, but people who involve themselves with constant sex, people whom binge eat, or are addicted to being skinny, though this group is specific to drug addicts, hence the name. Narcotics Anonymous. Addiction is this terrible fucking thing that grabs people by the ankles when they least expect it and it never let's go.

Whether or not you overcome the addiction, it'll always be there, weighing you down.

Love, tobacco, heroin, alcohol, speeding everywhere that you go in hopes that you die. It's all addiction. Maybe the last bit only applies to me, though.

I don't usually come to these, I hate them, but it's just one of my mother's many conditions—to attend NA meetings. And I have this fucking sheet that I have to get stamped every time that I leave, like I'm some bloody little child, and I'm meant to attend these stupid sessions.

NA Verification sheet it says at the top. And then four columns; date of meeting, location of meeting, signature of meeting secretary, and lastly, the time that the form was signed. If only I could just forge the signature, but they don't even fucking sign it as it states, they put this distinct stamp.

Originally, I was meant to attend these meetings twice weekly, but I convinced her that my schedule is already chaotic enough between school and working at the mechanic, which isn't entirely true, I don't attend school half the time, but I do spend the vast majority of my time at the mechanic. So, now she only makes me go once a fortnight, but once again, I barely go.

They don't help, so why the fuck would I want to go? If anything, it's triggering. Hearing about how people are three months clean and they still feel like shit and how badly they want to go back, it just reminds me why I don't want to stop.

I have no patience, so how the fuck could I ever wait months, possibly even years, just to feel okay, when I can snort a few and feel it within seconds. That's why my medication doesn't work to its full extent, I know that's why. It's because I'm not patient enough to let it work. And even when it does work, I'm just going to be a zombie. So, the better solution for everything always leads back to drugs.

"You," the meeting secretary speaks, and all heads turn to stare at me, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. "would you like to share anything with us?"

I am crowded in an empty room. I suppose that it is the silence, the emptiness, the nothingness. It pushes on me. It tells me you take up too much. Too much space. Look at all these people in here getting help and all you care about is getting your next fix. You laugh at these people but in reality, you're just jealous that they were chosen for life meanwhile you suffer from it.