Disclaimer: I don't own anyone in this story. The timeline is authentic to the best of my knowledge. The theme of this story is based loosely on real events, though creative liberties are obviously taken. This work of fiction isn't to be considered a statement of fact on the real lives of anyone mentioned.
Lyrics credit: "Here to Stay" by Korn

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Spring 2003

This time, taking it away
I've got a problem with me getting in the way
Not by design
So I take my face and bash it into a mirror
I won't have to see the pain
This state is elevating as the hurt turns into hating
Anticipating all the fucked up feelings again

I take another pull from the bottle and roll my head from side to side, trying to loosen my neck.
Fuck this shit.
I got home less than eight hours ago and, when I dig the clock out from under a pile of dirty clothes, I see that I have to leave again in less than 18. Barely a full day to wash some clothes and try to sleep, and I can't even think about relaxing long enough to ease some of this pain. Just fucking great.

Glaring at the bottle, I urge it to work faster. If this fucking vodka would just kick in already, maybe I can play a little. Another deep drink, reducing the liquid inside to the halfway mark. Half a bottle of vodka and my back still feels like this. I should be surprised, but I'm not.

"Welcome to my life," I mutter aloud to the empty house, raising the bottle in a toast to no one. When I don't get an answer, I slump back on the couch and stare into the darkness.

Another hour passes, and the pain is barely dimmed.
What am I doing to myself? I'm twenty-fucking-five years old, and I've been wondering that very thing for at least the last three. Maybe more. I'm too young to feel this old.
Fuck this shit. I'm not wasting the next 18 – no, wait, 17 hours drowning in a bottle.

With a grunt, I haul myself to my feet and gather an armload of laundry. Might as well get some of it done while I can, huh?

Once the clothes are tossed in the washer, I head to the fridge and glance inside. Beer. Ketchup. Ew, those Chinese leftovers have been there for like two weeks. Fucking gross. That milk, too…that's totally disgusting.
Ignoring the leftovers, I upend the rest of the gallon of milk into the sink and let it drain. When the spoiled remains are firmly en route to the sewer system, I draw a glass of water from the tap and set the gallon jug under the stream, letting it fill. I chase two pills with the glass of water and set about cleaning out my now-empty milk jug, letting it fill with cold water once I'm sure the last bit of sour milk is gone.

After a little more rummaging, I clear a spot on the floor of the art room and take inventory; all my art supplies are at hand, an old sweatshirt is nearby, the laptop's switched on and iTunes is ready to go, my gallon of water is cold…yup, I'm all set.

Let's rock.

With the non-business end of one paintbrush between my teeth, I dip another in blue paint and, trying to ignore the pain, start painting. The music helps me zone out some, and my kneeling position over the canvas on the floor actually seems to loosen my back up a little. I actually lose myself in the painting, until a telltale tingling in the small of my back draws me back to reality.

For the first time in three days, I smile a real smile.

A glance at the clock – almost sixteen hours 'til I've gotta leave again. I stand and stretch, enjoying the tingling in my back; it moves as I move, traveling side to side and creeping up some. Finally, finally the pain is fading. And now the more I stretch, the less I'll hurt.
It moves further up my back and into my shoulders and neck, and at the same time the tingling starts behind my eyes. I lean back and smile again.

The hurt inside is fading
This shit's gone way too far
All this time I've been waiting
No I cannot grieve anymore
For once inside awaking
I'm done, I'm not a whore
You've taken everything and oh, I cannot give any more.

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I know what's coming.
I knew what was coming the second I got popped for a piss test. I knew I'd get the call to come in for a "meeting."

JR looks at me, seeming almost sad.
"That's the third time you've come up positive for amphetamines," he tells me, like I don't already know.
I'm too tired to care. I look back at him, not saying a word.
"I have no other option; it's rehab or the door," his voice drops a little. There's no one else in the office with us; I don't know why he's acting like he's being discreet. "Will you go to rehab?"

Drug rehab…or the door. Happy fun group meetings with lots of "Hi my name is" for using X on what little personal time I have? Or the door, which leads to a healthier back, a normal schedule, and time to sleep? Wow, tough one there.

"I don't need rehab," I finally tell him, doing my best to keep my voice level. I like JR. I respect him. I won't be a bitch about it.

JR sighs, and this time he really does look kinda sad.
"I'm sorry, Jeff," he shakes his head slowly. "I wish you had a different answer for me to that."

I keep watching him, not saying a word.

"As you are in violation of the company's wellness program, your contract is considered voided as of April 23rd."
He pauses, giving me a chance to say something. I have nothing to say.

I'm done, I'm not a whore
You've taken everything and oh, I cannot give any more.