I got a new phone. I haven’t had a nice phone since I sold my Blackberry to Valentine for blues. It feels weird to have a nice phone. Like, it’s too nice. I don’t want it, like, I don’t deserve it.

This girl at school came up to me and said that at the restaurant, Ashley wanted to talk to me. I’m pretty sure she’s mistaken. I kind of just laughed. Yeah, right.

I’m almost done with this journal.

I feel better than I have in my whole life.

I’m starting to feel that thing that Scott was talking about. That thing that “can’t adequately be explained in words.” People tell me this is just the beginning. If I can just get through this, I know I can stay clean. Just for today. I don’t think I’m going to get high today. I’m doing well. I’m working on my fourth step. 

I have friends!

I have real friends! I’m happy! It sounds so corny, but it’s true. It’s harder for me to admit that there actually is some good inside me. I’d rather just tell people how much of a horrible person I am, but that’s not entirely true anymore… there is some good in me. Not a lot! But there’s some in there.

February 3rd, 2009

Amy overdosed on cocaine and Roxys yesterday. She’s alive though. I should have reached out to her more. I could feel her struggling, I knew she needed help. Fuck man. I fucking knew it. I know inside every addict, there’s always that tiny voice inside that cries out for help. That prisoner locked away wanting a way out. This disease is so strong that we can go to a funeral of someone we love who OD’d and go right back to doing what killed them in the first place.

Listening to Samantha’s step series at lunch helps me stay focused. I sit by myself every day in school and I listen to speaker tapes, I read my literature and I pray.

I’ve known this girl, Karla, for almost five years. I’ve seen her around high school and she’s friends with Ashley. She’s really nice. She was in my psychology class and now she’s in my economics class. I never talked to her, but recently I started saying hi to her. Today, I asked what classes we had together in middle school and she just went on and on about what an asshole I always was. She even brought up some particular asshole remarks that she still remembers to this day. Even before I lost control with drugs, I always found comfort in putting other people down because I never felt okay with myself. I was so insecure, I wanted everyone around me to feel the same insecurities I felt. “Nice pimples.” “Fucking fat bitch.” “Are you wearing granny panties?” “Kill yourself.” I was just a little asshole. Hearing her tell me what kind of person I was really made me feel bad. I can tell she’s one of those people who couldn’t be mean even if she wanted to. They may act out in anger but they don’t do it for the hell of it. I was born with this inability to feel emotions towards human beings. When I first got clean, I would do that same stuff, clinging onto weaker people and putting them down to make myself feel better. Comment after comment, I always have some shit to say. I know it’s hurting them, but I can’t stop because it feels good. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t know how to be a good person, like I’m incapable of being nice. 

I act like a fucking asshole and I wonder why I feel so alone—I push people away.

I want to text her but I don’t think she’ll respond, just like all the other times, I’ll just be left feeling stupid and I can’t deal with the rejection. I saw her out my class window walking with this kid I secretly hate. I think they’re hooking up. That’s another thing; I secretly hate a lot of people, is that weird? Like, I hate them so much but not for a real good reason. I just don’t like them. They say hi to me and I say hi to them and we talk and everything I say is really an insult disguised as small talk and I just imagine killing them when they talk and I feel all anxious when they are around and my head just keeps spinning and spinning like, why the fuck are you next to me?

I’m wearing a bulky burgundy sweater and some basketball shorts. Typically I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing this but I don’t care anymore. I feel good, on the inside. My hair is really plain and I like it — it’s easy to manage. I don’t need a haircut every five days anymore. I don’t need to get dressed up to go to school. I pretty much just wear pajamas to school now.

I was looking for my old thumb ring. I lost it in my golf bag and while I was looking, I ran into some past memories. The watch that I traded Braceface for Roxys was there. My mom had given it to me for Christmas last year, I can’t believe she got me anything, to be honest. It was the only nice present I got that year. And I sold it a week later for three pills. In the golf bag, I found my old glasses case. There were burn marks inside and scratches all over it. I used to keep my stem and pieces of pre-rolled chore, my crack rocks and my lighters in there. The lighter was still in there, orange and burnt on the bottom. The last time I held that lighter, I was smoking crack under my covers, my mom going ballistic searching my room, wondering what that smell was. She looked in the golf bag, she checked every single pocket and when she went to check the last one I screamed, “GET THE FUCK OUT!”

I know I’m not perfect, but I’m not the person I used to be.

I’m coming down with a cold. I hate it. It reminds me of my withdrawals.