At the end of my using, I was sitting on a bed in a squalid house, dog sh*t all over the floors.

I had to go buy from someone else because the old man wasn't around to give me any.

I was filing the barb off of a needle with a match book cover. I had no idea who had used the needle before me, and I didn't care.

I was pregnant, I weighed 109 pounds (I'm 6' tall), and I had blown out most of the veins in my arms.

That was the last time I used meth, and when I did that shot, there was no high, no euphoria, no rush.

I went straight to raw screaming pain and self-hatred a thousand times over.

My ex is dead. That's something you can't recover from.

Today I'm alive, and clean and sober, and so damned grateful it's hard to put into words sometimes.

There are no frigging medals for going down with the ship.

How precious is your life to you?