They told me I was dying. They couldn’t figure out why, which meant it was surely my fault. 

Because let’s face it: doctors are never wrong and they never miss anything. So instead of listening to what me and my mother said about my condition, they accused me. I wasn’t eating right, I was purposefully skipping and/or overtaking my insulin, I was on drugs. Yes I was, no I wasn’t, and not yet. But my protests only made them more sure of it. When they couldn’t prove I’d done any of that, they accused my mother. And then they tried to send me away to a home for people who are either too stupid to manage their diabetes by just eating right or who purposefully fuck with it for attention.

For me, that was the last straw. My doctors were assholes and I stood no chance. So I gave up. Utterly and completely. I started drinking heavily every day and using X, pills, coke, and eventually meth. If I was going to be accused… if I was going to expire soon… then what did it matter. I wanted to die. I wanted the drugs to numb me to my pain (both emotional and physical). I wanted them to kill me. I’d cut myself before, but never to die. I hurt myself so I didn’t hurt others. No, I needed the drugs for death.

I got fucked up. I partied. I worked. I didn’t go to school. I’d already had to leave that place because of my condition. I had no friends. Sure, there were those I got high with but nobody who would shake me and say “stop this. Please stop. You’re killing yourself and you’re hurting me”. Maybe it would have helped. Maybe not. Jack Daniels was my best friend and when I wanted to feel loved X was there for me.

I got myself into bad situations. Into bad relationships. And into comas. I teetered the edge so many times but it never helped. I lived. I didn’t want to.

I remember when Granny died. I used to watch her, to help her out, after her stroke. But I stopped visiting all family. And then she passed. But not before I was taken to say my goodbye. She remembered me. Granny couldn’t remember much of anyone, but she said my name. I walked out. I’d avoided this emotional shit for so long I just didn’t know how to deal anymore. So I left. And when I went home I drank a bottle of whiskey. I missed the funeral.

I swore I’d clean up. At least for a while. There were still people I needed to see before I left this place. I failed. Well, that was nothing new. And by now I was the patron saint of self-hate so what was one more failure. But I switched hospitals and they eventually began to discover some of the major problems that were fucking with me and making my diabetes go out of whack. Then one day while I was in a doctor’s appointment I saw something on the TV about Bret Michaels and his diabetes. Because of passing out onstage and other events, people believed he was on drugs. Accused him like I was. He went on to discuss how he deals with all the partying around when, if not monitored right, drinking can drop your sugars dangerously low.

High blood sugars can lead to coma. Low blood sugars can lead to death. Sure, you’ll know you’re dying. But if you don’t notice right away, then it get to the point where you can barely move. You know you need to get up and get some sugar fast, but you can’t. I’ve been that low before. How I survived is beyond me.

I fought harder to try and moderate what I was doing. I fought harder to get clean. But I was still so sick and so depressed. Did I want to die anymore? I don’t think so, even if it took me a while to realize it.

To those who say music cannot save anyone’s life - FUCK YOU. I listened to My Chemical Romance and I suddenly didn’t feel so alone any more. I began to accept myself for the freak that I was. I can’t change myself and with the help of this band I realized I didn’t exactly want to. I’ve brushed death a dozen times. Of course I’m morbid. I’m sick. Of course my eyes look black and my skin looks pale. I’m not the only one who wasn’t accepted. And that was other people’s loss for not getting to know me, for judging me by my looks and morbidity and unexplained things in my life. I learned to accept myself. Then Black Parade came out… if you haven’t listened, you must. “Cancer” brought me to such tears. “Famous Last Words”… I just… I realized I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to give up and be afraid.

Still, I struggled with getting clean. Really struggled. Then two more musicians helped me out. I learned of Alice Cooper’s long sobriety and it inspired me. And then I heard Nikki Sixx’s Herion Diaries. Every bit of it inspired me. Helped me. I listened to that album on repeat for about a year. When I dealt with the DTs, he helped me remember it was worth it. When I started jonesing, he helped me remember it wasn’t worth dying. I sang right along with him. And it helped more than I can say.

I’m 23 now. For those who like to judge us younger people and say that we don’t know what pain is, that we can’t understand addiction, that we don’t know sickness, and we don’t truly crave death - FUCK YOU. I’ve been through it. I still go through it. When things get tough, when my conditions get worse, when they still can’t figure out exactly what’s wrong… I crave things. I want a fix. I want a taste of sweet death. And then my favorite men help to remind me that even with the pain, and the cravings, and the aloneness life is still beautiful. And today I can say I’m not giving up anymore.

I’m getting married in two months to a wonderful man who treats me like a queen, who helps me through the pain, who doesn’t expect more of me than I can give. I’ve been clean for 2 and 1/2 years. I’m not happy all the time, but I’m trying. Today with being really sick, I started to get emotional again. I started to feel sorry for myself. And I turned to music. If you don’t believe music can save someone’s life, then there’s not much else I can do to convince you. But today, I am reminded that it does.