=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= = F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. = =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Addiction or Need? ------------------ Sitting across the table from my parents, I know they are talking to me, and that I should be listening, but I cannot help but stare at my bag on the counter. In that bag, is the answer to whether or not I live or die. It is not a question if I want it, but it is a question that I need it, so when am I going to take some? Sighing, finally they finish their talk with me, and I nod my head, as if I had listened to all that they had said. As they leave the room, I take the bag and go into my room. Shutting the door, I sit down on my bed, and look out the window ... if I was somewhere else, would I be able to get this life line that I need? Opening the bag, I reach in and pull out the small bottle. Inside I can see the liquid floating around, it needs to be rolled. Sometimes, I wonder if someone shook me hard enough, I would wake up and realize it has all been just a nightmare. But, I know that it is not. Running my hand along the crease of the bag, I find a syringe and pull it out. Taking the clear cap off the end, and then the orange cap, I find myself studying the metal of the needle. It is small, and thin, why should it hurt so much? It's so small, yet it makes the difference whether I live or die? I was always told insects were nothing to fear or bother with because they were so tiny, so why does something so tiny truly define the length of my life? I know, there are ones that think I do not need it, and there are even more that do not even know I use it. Turning the bottle upside down, and sticking the syringe in, I pull the liquid out, to a measured amount. I have pain to look forward to. No, it does not hurt every time I do it, just a lot of the time. Even when I was over-weight. Though, now I weigh what I did nine years ago, that was before I even had become a teenager practically. Hearing someone outside my door, I jab myself, and push the liquid into me. Placing the orange cap back on, over the needle, I stick it into the bag, as the door slowly opens. The person peeks their head inside, and looks around. They were checking on me. I silently drop the small bottle into the bag, and toss the bag near the foot of my bed and walk out of my room. Later that night, I decide I am going to take a walk. It is dark out. A cool, crisp night, and the moon is high in the sky. My favorite time of night has arrived. The nighttime animals are in performing their rituals for the night, and I walk along the street, that is not even paved. Hearing a crunch, I can tell by the loudness and surrounding sounds, that is must be a deer. Turning to see if I am right, I meet the eyes of one of the great bucks that live in this woods. They hold a mystery, despite what others may say ... That next morning, I awake to the sound of the birds that are chirping, squawking and causing a stir outside of my window. The sun is streaming down from it's high perch, and I look down into the yard. Another day, another shot. Walking out into the kitchen, I force down the accurate amount of food, that I am suppose to eat. 80 calories down, 80 more... how can I eat more? I hate eating, but I do not have a choice. My dad enters the kitchen he smiles and nods his head in a greeting. I slam the rest of my juice down, and rinse off my dishes. 200 calories. Everything is calories, exchanges, and only what I need, to balance out what I take. If it was up to me, I would have succeeded in making my goal weight of 100 pounds, seven years ago, even if I would have ended up in the hospital. At least I would have been lighter. Though, I shouldn't complain, I am back down in weight, and that is where I will remain. I dread the thought of lunch time. Again, just more calories, and pointless conversation. Sometimes I wonder what is worse, to sit here and listen to ones with such close-minded opinions, about gays, colored people, and every other type of thing different then them, or the urge to force myself to throw up, from not wanting anything more crammed down my throat. After lunch, I run my hand across the place I always do my shots, and I feel the skins surface is different. People have always said how smooth and soft and how wonderful my skin feels ... little do they know, I hate all the scars I have, and I feel the coarseness, of where I insert the needles. I hate it! I wish I could stop ... really I wish I could. But, I cannot. If I did, I would die. That little bottle is what keeps me alive ... how could I live without it? Am I addicted? No, I am not, I need it to live ... I know that is what my friends have said that have been on things before ... that they are not addicted, that they could quit any time. But, the difference between them and I, is that I cannot stop, and I know that. If I would stop, I would either go one of two ways. Either way, is not the way I wish to die. Though, maybe it is wrong for me to ever think of how I wish to die. It's not like I will have a total say in it, or will I? - Kamria It's not an Addiction, it's a Need. I'm a diabetic, and I need to take insulin injections. Two shots a day, no matter how I feel, or if I want to eat or not, I have to take them and I have to force food down my own throat, or have someone else do it. I suppose it really has saved my life, because otherwise I would have probably died from lack of food or whatever ... but sometimes I think it truly is a curse. Not a blessing. But, either way it is supposedly something I never had a choice in, nor a say in ... excercise and diet are not enough to keep my bloodsugars in the normal range, since my pancrease does not produce the insulin it needs I need to take the shots. I take them in my stomach, and every day I swear they hurt more and more ... Bruises, calloses, and then sometimes not a change at all. A choice is shooting up yourself, full of heroine or something else ... but, insulin is not a choice. It is a need. Because without you would die, literally. Why anyone would ever voluntarily shoot themselves up, I will never be able to fully understand. Maybe it's the fact of wanting to feel control over your own body, and life. But, sometimes you do not have control over it. But that does not mean that you need to continue it - it's up to you whether you live or die. Whether or not you do what you do, not any one elses. It's how you want to live, or how you want to die ... having a say or going down without a fight. The difference between right and wrong, wanting and needing an Addiction or a Need. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= = Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions = = Mail: jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) = =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= = To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with = = "subscribe fuck". 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