There are stories about pathetic problems that plague people of all ages. They clog the shelves of every book store; eagerly consumed by angst-ridden, love-hungry teenagers who have absolutely no idea of what problems truly are. They don’t understand how bad the world is. They don’t realize what life is like, and they pretend to know when they read their sappy, fake, pitiable stories of happy endings, and family, and success, and strength. Life isn’t about strength; it’s not about how high you climb on that ladder of life. It’s about weakness. It’s about how far you can fall into that deep pit of despair. How black your world can get, how frail you can become. It’s about how you have to crawl your way out of that pit, how your fingernails will rip, and your face will be covered in filth, and you will have to fight for every little thing.

That’s life.

There used to be this drunk in my town, a regular alcoholic. He practically lived at the town bar, always hanging around, waiting till the place opened. When the neon signs lit up and flashed advertisements for weekly beer pong games, or two-for-one shots, his soul seemed to shine through his eyes. He would shamble forward, wrench open that glass door, and head straight for the counter.

“Hey Barb.” He’d murmur, grunting out some sort of thanks as she placed his first beer in front of him. The liquid would hiss and bubble joyfully as he twisted off the cap, the smell lingering in his nose. He would drown the first one in about a minute, slamming the bottle onto the counter. Barb would hand him another beer, then another, and a fourth. Then he would head onto shots.

Sometimes, if we were lucky, he’d remember to come home, and maybe, if he was drunk enough, Izzy would get to hear tales of mom, and how pretty she looked with her hair in ringlets, sun shining on her bronze locks. If we were really lucky, he wouldn’t get angry, and I could just help Izzy toddle up the steps, bouncing her on my hip while we brushed her teeth. If we were quiet, sometimes we could make it to bed without a smack, or a new bruise, or hurtful, icy words.

But we weren’t usually lucky.

That’s what Ben would tell me, after a couple of rounds, tossing stories back and forth. I met him in middle school, the class clown with brains. I’ve dated him a coupla times, but it seemed we just weren’t meant to be. After he got back from Afghanistan, we would hang out at my place. It was always a safe place for him, a place to just sit and relax, away from bratty siblings and dead beat dads. We’d recline in those cushy beanbags and he’d talk, and I’d listen, and life would go on.

I wouldn’t talk much on those nights. It’s not to say I didn’t have things to talk about, ‘cause I sure as hell had issues of my own, but it was Ben’s time. Just like when Mary would come over, tears mingling with blood as she sought shelter at my flat away from the misinformed, righteous idiots who didn’t care that it was love. She would cling to me while I half carried her over the doorstep, and sob out her story as I ran my fingers through her hair.

“Got me in an alley this time.” She would cry, her fingers shaking as she brushed away her traitorous tears. “Cornered me. It’s not wrong is it? It’s not! I love her, there’s nothing wrong with that! Right?” Her voice would be small, soft, a quiet whimper of pain and fear and confusion. My eyes would grow wet as I would stare into her swollen face, gently running a cool cloth over her bruising skin. I would hush her sobs, and rock her gently, and push away my own desire to have her as mine. Mine to love, and hold, and cherish. Mine, not Jen’s.

“Jen loves you Mary. Love is love, nothin’ wrong with it.” I would whisper in her ear. Then I’d tell her how perfect she was, how she and Jen were a thing of beauty, God’s creation like everyone else. How love was love, and no one could pick your love for you.

And when I was alone, and no one needed me, I’d curl up in a corner, and I’d shoot up, feeling the bliss that came with my dear friend heroin. I would forget that my best friend was dead, because I was stupid enough to drink and drive. I would forget the sickening crunch that came with the crash, forget the sound of tires squealing on asphalt, and I would forget the smell of burning flesh. I would forget her screams as the car exploded; forget that I left her, left her to die in flames, left her alone. Forget that I broke a promise. Forget that I failed to protect her.

Forget that I killed her unborn son, too.

I would float away, just another addict in a sea of addicts. I would drift on the clouds, curled in my corner, and my demons would stay locked in their cages. And when I came back down, I would assume my role as the best friend, the closest confidant, the closet druggie. I’d go to work every day, and I’d try to forget that I’d shot up the night before. Because forgetting was better than remembering, better than acknowledging I was slipping deeper into that pit.

I would stand behind the counter of whatever 7-Eleven I was currently employed at, and I would forget that I was a Harvard drop out. I would forget that I had been on the fast track to fame, a neurosurgeon in the making. I would forget that I had thrown it all away for some stupid bottle of jack.

I would forget, because forgetting was far easier than remembering, because forgetting pushed me deeper into the pit, which was less painful than crawling out.

And on the bad days, where I had to struggle to get out of bed; when I had to convince myself that today was not the day I’d pull out Ben’s old switchblade and hold it to my wrists. On the bad days I would remember everything.

There was one day, when Ben came stumbling over to my place at two in the morning. His pupils were dilated, his face was pale, and it was obvious he was high. He pulled out some white pills, shoved ‘em in my face and told me they made the nightmares go away, made the screams stop. I dragged him inside, punched him square in the face, and told him to straighten up. Told him he did not want to fall into that pit, that he didn’t want to do that to himself. I told him to get it together, ‘cause if he didn’t, I’d set Ollie on his a** and he’d set him right. I crushed those pills under my foot, shoved him on my couch and told him to sleep.

Then I went back into my room, crawled into my closet, and cried. Because I was a failure. I wasn’t good enough, I had done everything wrong, and I couldn’t keep my friends safe. I cradled Ben’s knife to my chest and begged to be strong enough to end it.
But I’m weak, and I couldn’t do it. So I stayed there in the closet, sobbing as my demons screamed at me, throwing my bloody past in my face, and I wished for my dear friend to help me. I wished I didn’t need the needles and the high. I wished I didn’t need to wish for everything, but most of all, I wished I could forget, because I was in the pit, and I couldn’t crawl out, and I knew if I ever tried, I wouldn’t come out the same.