Drugs: A Boy Who Lost Himself To

By sophomore year, the meteorology charts were rolled up and shoved in the back of a closet. The telescope his grandparents gave him for his birthday sat in the garage, its lens cracked. Liam’s new collection was more efficient: empty pill bottles, crumpled foil, a roster of phone numbers for people who would never ask how he was doing, only what he had. He lost weight, then more weight. His skin took on the pale, translucent quality of something that lives under a rock. The light in his eyes did not go out. It was replaced by something else: a constant, frantic calculation. Where is the next one coming from? How much money is left in my wallet? Who owes me a favor?

There is no easy moral to this story. Liam is not dead, not yet. But the boy he was is gone, and no amount of recovery can bring him back whole. That is the lie we tell about addiction: that it is a choice, a weakness, a failure of will. It is none of those things. It is a slow, methodical erasure. It is the art of making a person a ghost while they are still breathing. a boy who lost himself to drugs

The worst part—the truly cruel part—is that Liam was still in there, somewhere. On rare, terrible mornings, when the high was wearing off and the withdrawal hadn’t yet begun, he would catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror. And for a moment, he would remember the boy with the volcano, the boy who loved clouds. He would feel a grief so enormous that it had no shape, no words. And then the grief itself would become another reason to use again. See? the addiction would whisper. This is why you need me. I make that feeling go away. By sophomore year, the meteorology charts were rolled

That boy is still out there. But he is fading, second by second, like a photograph left too long in the sun. And no one knows how to stop the light. He lost weight, then more weight