I’m Growing Old. This Was Not the Plan.

I wasn’t supposed to grow old. I was always going to die young of a drug overdose. Or by my own hand. Same thing.

I doubted I would make it to the 27 club, even. By my 23rd birthday I had overdosed a dozen times. After my mom died when I was 24, I held a gun up to my temple, finally done. Instead of pulling the trigger I pushed the plunger down on a heroin-filled syringe. The heroin kept me from killing myself in that moment. In other moments, the heroin was why I wanted to kill myself. But the desire to die predated the drugs. I was 11 for my first half-hearted…