The next 72 hours were an emotional blur, a downward spiral that felt impossible to stop. I went to my uncle’s condo to see my mom, hoping for some comfort, but as soon as I stepped inside, I saw her standing in the hallway—visibly upset. Before I could say a word, my uncle erupted.
“Get out! You’re a junkie, and she needs to be done with you!”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Anger flared inside me, mixing with hurt and shame. I screamed back, storming out, telling myself, Good riddance! But deep down, it cut deep. In that moment, I convinced myself that if they thought I was a lost cause, maybe I would be. The insanity of addiction—wanting to prove someone right by destroying yourself.
I was still surviving, not coping. Still running from responsibility, from pain, from myself.
With nowhere to go, the van dropped me off at the homeless shelter. I stepped out, stared at the door… then turned around and walked away. A friend let me crash at their apartment, but when I arrived, the living room was littered with people using. It wasn’t a home—it was just another trap. I found a corner, snorted the last of my pills, and passed out, hoping I wouldn’t wake up.
Recovery had never felt so far away. Florida wasn’t working. Maybe it was time to go back home.