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It's sick. It's utterly fucking sick, it makes me mad at myself to remember the person I once was. To remember the things I did, the people I hung around with -- the people I "thought" were my friends. Like, what was I thinking? I guess what it comes down to, is that I wasn't really thinking at all... is that fucked up? Does that make me a bad person? I constantly worry about what my brother would think of me, wonder what he thought when he was looking down at me seeing all the shit I was doing and how I was turning out just like him. Drugs destroyed me. But for a while, they made me feel whole. They filled the void in me that came when my brother died. They took away the pain of having no one, they took away the pain of my broken relationships, of my fucked up thoughts, they took away the pain of my reality... and I saw everything as just so fucking worthless and retarded... I didn't care about anything and anyone and that was my life for a long ass time... moving here changed my life. It changed ME . It made me a completely different person, and I am living proof that not every addict needs to go to treatment in order to better their lives. Warner, big bro, I fucking miss you everyday, I fucking love you, and I did this for you. I swear I did. xox