drug addiction recovery nonfiction selfhelp relationships depression mental illness relapse

mind of illness: r e l a p s e

The new year is right around the corner and I have left you all with nothing regarding my complicated life. I apologize for that. I wish I at least said “goodbye” before going on a months long break from this blog. I wish I could say things have been great for me and for my recovery, but I’d be lying if I did. And you are the few people I cannot lie to.. ‘you’ as in my readers of course! The few people who care enough to sit here and waste your time reading about my life, my opinions, and my eroding mental/physical health!

Okay, so where should I start?

As some of you may recall, the love of my life, the woman whom I had seen myself marrying and dying with, had left me. She left me alone. Left me to die. The love I thought she had was not enough… even after I had gotten clean. I used to think that she deserved the world because she was the only one stuck by my side…

Yes, I hurt her.

Yes, I was a terrible boyfriend.

Yes, I tore her apart as she would me, as a form of “revenge.”

But how could I have known? Addictions become a persons sole reason of living. Okay, obviously they can still tell what’s right from what’s wrong but their moral compass and consciousness is beyond corrupted when under the influence of their vice. For me, I loved getting high. I loved the excitement I felt from calling my dealer, driving to him, then preparing whatever dosage to whatever drug I’d use that given day… I even loved that somehow my favorite drugs made me feel loved. As if using gave me some sort of twisted purpose.

But alas, that love turned into obligation. My body grew more and more tolerant and I inevitably turned into a mindless zombie. One whose sole purpose was to lie, cheat and steal until I got whatever amount of drugs I needed for the day. Of course, I still loved my girl and my family but they came second to my addiction.

There were times where I couldn’t even move if I didn’t use. Which meant I wouldn’t function unless I had my regular dosage in my system. When you’re an addict, you know that you’re doing wrong; you know that your loved ones are being hurt by your decisions. For that reason I would justify their insults and their eventual lack of support on myself.

I would say,

“It’s completely my fault

they feel as if disrespecting me is

their only option. I deserve their

mental, verbal, and emotional abuse.”

I was a new addict at the time. There was even a time before my addiction where I would look at all the homeless people on main st, or all of my high school friends-turn-addicts, and I would judge them for their choices. I was ignorant. I now see that my girl, her family, our friends, and anyone else who’d find the need to judge me, were also ignorant.

Yes, I hurt my girl with my actions. But she was my only victim. No body else had any right to say anything. Yes, my girl stood by my side. But now that my mind is not as clouded as before, I can see clearly how she would really act towards me.

From spreading my business, to physically assaulting me every time I’d fall into a drug induced coma, even verbally and emotionally abusing me for the choices I’d make.

“I hope you overdose.

I hate you and who you’ve become.

You disgust me.

You let yourself go.

You’re going to be alone forever.

You’re a junkie piece of shit.

This is why I don’t love you anymore.

I’m going to take my kids away from you so you could die alone.”

Only a short version of what she’d say whenever she felt superior to me. Yes, I made a choice to fall in love with prescription pills. With opiates. With numbing myself from the world. I would do the impossible to make sure I don’t suffer from the painful/physically punishing withdrawals. I made her life hell by being a junkie and embarrassing her…

But did I deserve to be dragged by my hair every time I’d spend $200 on drugs? Did I deserve to have my name stained by her and her hypocritical brother/friends who’d go around telling the world of my flaws? Tell me, did I deserve to have the one person I turned to for support tell me how terrible of a person I was?

I understood my faults. I saw myself as garbage. I was alone. And I now see that I dealt with my addictions alone. Yes, we lived together but she no longer stayed at home. She would leave me and my son while she’d go out with other men all day, all night and come home to nap in another room. I convinced myself that she was being supportive. I convinced myself that I had hurt her. When I’m reality, she was never there to help me. She was only there to judge me and assault me for being so disgusting and ugly.

I never wanted this for myself. But my eyes are open. My mind is open. And finally, my heart is open.

No I am not a victim because every choice I made was my own. I may have blamed her for my own negative feelings, I may have used drugs every time she was abusive or unfaithful. But now I can see the truth in my flaws and actions.

I am human. I am an addict. And all I needed was to be loved. Almost two years have passed since she left me and now I’m stuck on another woman who also left me due to other flaws I have, but I will not deter from my path. I will not deter from my recovery…

No matter how many times I want to give up…

So to my readers; I thank you for waiting so long. Here is my next piece for my “mind of illness” collection: r e l a p s e.

mind of illness: r e l a p s e

I can hear you…

Your deep breaths and your sinister laughs at my attempts to ignore you continue to flood my mind.

I miss you..

You know I do…

But I don’t want you anymore…

I can’t want you anymore…

You stole over six years of my life. Six years I can never get back. I closed my door and locked it in hopes that you stay on the other side.

Yes, I know you’ll always be a part of me.

I know we must share this body and mind. But please, stay on your side and I’ll stay on mine…


I can hear you…

Your deep breaths and your sinister laughs at my attempts to ignore you, right outside my door…

I keep my back against the door and squeeze my hands together. My weight is starting to shift and my head turns to your direction… I know I must stay vigilant.

But your scent…

Your taste…

I miss it all. I miss you.

Though, what you gave me was not love. It was an obsession. It was pain. It was everything my demons needed to roam free… While my conscious did nothing and stood silent.

I’m stronger now.

Your tricks won’t work on me this time around…

I’ll prove you wrong…



I can hear you…

Your deep breaths and your sinister laughs at my attempts to ignore you will not break me.

I am strong. I am strong. I am strong. I am strong.

I know I am strong. I showed my strength to the world the second I shut that door. Now I must show you that I am do not need you to live.

I do not need you to love.

I will open this door and show you that I am not the same boy you once manipulated so easily.

I will open this door and show you that I am not as weak minded as I once was.

I don’t need her love to give me strength. I don’t need her to validate my stance as a man.

I will open this door and use my own hands to show you my strength.

I will open this door and I will tear you apart…




I can hear you…

I can hear your deep breaths wrapping around my neck, warming me…

Your laughs were never sinister, they were cries; begging me to give you the love you craved…

The love you needed…

I do love you, baby…

I will never let go of you again, I promise…

I’m sorry for shutting you out…

She never loved me, but you did.

This isn’t me relapsing. I don’t care what anyone else says…

They left me the second I shut you out…

But you stayed…

You stayed on the other side of that door, begging I let you in… Begging I give you love.

This is me allowing love to overcome.

Because you loved me when no one else would…

– r e l a p s e

drug addiction recovery mental illness nonfiction relationships schitzophrenia selfhelp Uncategorized

mind of illness: s e l f h a r m

Happy Monday to everyone! These past few weeks I’ve been thinking so much about my state of mind… I’m currently at peace, and I’m so happy that after all of my years of pain and addiction, I could finally reflect in a constructive manner. I used to sit back, high as a kite, thinking about how much of a victim I was, but not once did I think about taking back control of my life and making a positive change.

Instead, I’d rely on destroying my body. With drug use and through self-harm. I’d find myself cutting my wrists, and writing across my torso with the same knife I’d sharpen each week.

Which brings me to my fourth piece of my “Mind Of Illness” collection. I really hope my readers can find peace in knowing that you’re not alone in the world! I’ve met so many people that feel as if they have no one and resort to self harm and destructive tendencies. Self-isolation can be very harmful for oneself but I also understand that sometimes we don’t have a choice. Escapism is something we all practice.

With that being said, we all have different needs, and we all respond to support differently. Shit, I used to have my son’s mother as my only source of support. But now I’m alone. I’m just happy I was able to find myself, because I would’ve killed myself the second she left me if I still had the same mentality I did back at the peak of my addiction and distraught state of mind.. I hope those that suffer from mental illness and addiction can also find peace and realize how precious their lives truly are.

So again, thank you all for reading, here is my next piece;

mind of illness: s e l f h a r m

I don’t even know what day it is anymore…The sun and moon are all I have to even guess what time of day it is. The lack of feeling has become too overwhelming, so I tally the rise and lowering of both sun and moon on each arm, just to feel something… Even if it is pain, I just don’t care anymore… I need to at least pretend I have some sense of control over this life of chaos. Shit, I used to cry just to remind myself I still have a heart… but my tear ducts are all dried up. I don’t even know if my heart still pulses.

I’ve spilt every single emotion from the tip of my pen to the once blank paper, now covered in heartbreak, hate, and blood. I’ve filled over three notebooks within the span of a week and not once have I gone back to reread what I’ve written… I just can’t handle the reminder of how broken I truly am… I’m running out of ink but my emotions continue to overflow. If I can’t let them out onto paper, they’ll only drip out of the slits on each wrist. Staining my floor with a puddle of hopelessness mixed within the blood.

I constantly ask myself why I even bother to write. It’s not a passion, I don’t expect anyone to read it, majority the time I don’t even know what I’m trying to say… what picture am I painting for my tiny, tiny audience?

Am I sober?

Am I happy?

Am I sad?

Am I on the brink of death?

I don’t know…


I have no idea, but the soothing sound of my pen sliding across the paper keeps my mind tranquil…

Even though, I can still feel death looming outside of my room. Waiting for me to open the door. Waiting for me to go in search for the source of that light gleaming under its threshold. Truth be told, I know that eventually, I will meet death once again. For our dance is a predestined ordeal. Yet, I do not feel a sense of fear, because out of the many faces it has, I look forward to meeting the next.

See, I am a realist, and I acknowledge that freedom isn’t written in my book. The fate of a sinner cannot be changed. Though, lately escape is all I’ve been seeing at the end of the tunnel. I do not search for that light beaming under my door, I have no interest in glamour. Instead, I desire a way out. I yearn for an escape from this tedious life of numbness.

I want to believe that my blood is more than just my emotions overflowing. I need to feel more than just pain and a severed connection from the world I once dreamed of seeing. Perhaps a meaningful bond is the cure to this self-inflicted isolation.

I hold on to a tiny spec of hope that there is more to my life than just notebooks filled with stories others never enjoy, songs that no one will dance to, and poems that have no end… In my mind, I know that my emotions are more than just a transfer of ink to paper… Those notebooks are a passage that will lead readers into the depths of my heart. Similar to how each scar depicts the most intimate details of my life.

-jay. “mind of illness”

depression drug addiction recovery mental illness nonfiction relationships schitzophrenia selfhelp Uncategorized

mind of illness: s c h i t z o p h r e n i c

To those of you who have been keeping up, thank you so much! I hope we can all get to a point where we understand the severity of mental illness and do our part in spreading awareness!

This next piece I was a tad hesitant on sharing, but it’s been a while since my last post and I want to be more consistent with my work.

Also, I decided to go back and reread my first book “The Fruits Of Addiction: A Pernicious Love” and I can understand why none of you were willing to read it 😂😂😂 God, yes everything depicted is accurate but my writing was TERRIBLE, ugh I ugly cringed after every page. So I decided to rewrite it and aside from my 2nd and 3rd book, I’ve been doing that on the side as well.

Btw yes, I’m writing a 3rd book 😂😂 it’s a book on poems, which I will be sharing here and there, for feedback. I’ve never been much of a poet but it’s so calming!!

Anyways enough of my personal updates, thank you for those who care!!! And on to part 3 of my “mind of illness” collection! I hope you like it!

i was once told that i was loved.

the person who told me that, was the same person who told me i would never amount to anything.

a lost soul with dreams to one day reach the heavens. born into mediocrity, domestic abuse, and mental trauma.

what does that make me?

am i loved?

am i a failure?

the scars patterned all over my body and my mind left a unique sense of trauma. all while the sound of a loved one’s voice resides in the deepest crevices of my brain, repeating each affirmation and censure faithfully as if it were a religious hymn.

“i love you!”

“i hate you.”

“miss you.”

“fuck you!”

“vete pa’l carajo, muerete”

“vos eres mi cielo”

Todas estas voces inunda mi mente…



my mind has become so overwhelmed, constantly racing between thoughts and topics.

i meant to say… all of these voices flood my mind everytime i find myself deep in thought.

what if i told you that i am nothing like the others?

What if i told you that i am not just another slave with the sole purpose of pleasing?

i crave a profound love, i crave spiritual connection, i crave peace. You don’t know how much i crave peace…

Peace of mind,

peace amongst my people,

peace when i enter my dreams,

but i know that is just another empty notion…

yet when i close my eyes i see the face of another tormented soul. another pained individual who shares the same moralities as myself. tormented, plagued with the same curse.

Whose demons haunt her at every sign of silence. tortured by the hand of her own mentality… yet full of love and hopes for prosperity and absolution. both of us calmed by our favorite drugs, leaving us temporarily numb, silent, &addicted.

the sins of our forefathers are what define us. &although we are destined for failure, i am pleased that i am no longer alone. i am pleased to know i was never alone…

but as i reach for a kiss, a symbolization of the mutuality forged by our predetermined fates, i finally open my eyes and realize:

there isn’t anyone there.

there never was.

the face of that beautiful poor soul whom i had fallen in love with was nothing more than a myth i had forced myself into believing.

no matter how much i pray, there is no silence, there is no salvation; solitude is where i reside.

i wish i could vow that it gets easier. that it will one day become manageable. but i developed a powerful habit, one that rivals my addiction to the euphoric numbing:


the realization that there is no hope, the realization that there is no escape, and the realization that those voices weren’t of loved ones, they were my own.

the voices of the many identities i oppose.

or better yet, oppose me.

-Jay. “The Fruits Of Addiction: A Pernicious Love”

a side note:

Just wanted those of you who may have taken anything I said offensively for whatever reason. Maybe because of my own depiction of schizophrenia, my take on mental illness, or how my work highlights the negative aspects of each illness.

Regardless I wanted to take this time to say that I am in no way romanticizing mental illness, or demonizing it. I have hundreds of pieces prewritten, from scholarly journals and studies to personal views and opinions. With that being said, I am using this tiny platform to hopefully portray the mind of those who face these issues and give my readers a glimpse of what their loved ones may be feeling. Maybe it’s not you who ever feels this way, but it is certainly me.

. Thank you for reading.

depression drug addiction recovery nonfiction relationships selfhelp

mind of illness: d e p r e s s e d

For those who have been keeping up with my work for as long as I’ve been writing, i appreciate you all so much!! As long as I enlighten or at least provoke a thought or two, I am happy. As you all know, my goal is to spread awareness on the many issues that revolve around addiction and mental illness.

With that being said, here is my second part to the little collection of excerpts I decided to start writing.

I wrote this for those of you who have been- or are- depressed, can understand the isolation and the darkness you feel from this seemingly never ending prison. I’ve been stuck for so long that it felt as if I was no longer myself, i eventually hated myself more than usual.

With that being said, I hope you enjoy part two of my “mind of illness” collection!!

The soul. So powerful, so deep…

So beautiful, yet so fragile.

The soul craves a sincere commitment that is reciprocated through affirmations. If the soul is deprived of that, it will grow weak thus leading to reticent behaviors. For a soul with no love has no purpose;

Upon that realization, I looked towards a quickly dimming light. One that felt familiar but I could not recognize at first.

As I approached what had resembled a dyin sun; I was stripped of everything that had once defined who I was.

See, my soul had lost the vitality of a vibrant love;

a vibrant love that had also shaped who I was so long ago….

The laughs, the smiles, and the kisses I was once showered with had become ephemeral memories. They turned into cries of pain and glares consisting of hateful eyes looking up and down. I had become the sole reason as to why my future suffered.

I was unwilling to embrace this new change and ran towards that dying glint. The constant running tired me and I began to lose track of the purpose I looked to secure…

After a while, the sweat became tears, and the tears then dried into an empty stare. The light grew more and more distant until I could no longer see it. Any trace of purity I held onto had disappeared along with the very light I valiantly yearned.

I changed directions, accepting what my fate had become. Accepting the darkness, accepting the poignant embodiment of this dismal self-identify; a reminder of who I was never meant to become. Where I’m heading there aren’t any more smiles, there aren’t any kisses or laughs.

Once I reach my destination, I promise you one thing:

who I was will cease to exist,

and who I will become will no longer hold any recollection of this past life.

• • •

So leave me be, don’t try to find me, for I can no longer find myself. This darkness is deep and chaoticly captivating, the light I held on to is now a visage of the hopes I will eventually lose.

I am no longer reachable, for the darkness has no time. It is unvarnished and it has no urgency. Once one is lost in here, the only thing one can see is the memories of a past life, the only thing one can feel is the silent caressing of the cold.

I breathe out the warmth, releasing any notion of approbation. And I breathe in the cold, the reaffirmation of a desolate stay… For depression has no friends, no family, and no love… All of which I gave up, the second I began running.

-Jay. The Mind Of Illness:

d e p r e s s e d

The Fruits Of Addiction: A Pernicious Love

drug addiction recovery nonfiction relationships selfhelp Uncategorized

mind of illness: a d d i c t i o n

There are many factors when discussing mental health. As a result of my many experiences with mental illness and addiction, I’ve decided to create a few excerpts that highlight my mentality and my thoughts when going through each issue. The deep thoughts I’ve had, the life-changing epiphanies I’ve contemplated.

When I fall asleep and relive each trauma, and every sin, I can’t help but think, what would I say to my younger self?

“Stay away from drugs??”

“Go to that military school you were accepted to, fuck what mami says about the distance??”

What can I say to someone who also experiences what I do?

Although I’ve tried to describe my experiences with addiction, the “Jay” who wrote and published that book isn’t the Jay who’s been updating my audience this past year and a half since starting this journey. I grew, I succeeded, I failed and I digressed from my original goal. Whether I stayed on the path or not, I still would be a different person. I’ve had a set of issues that now influence my decisions and although this path to recovery is never-ending, I believe that the key to staying sober is accepting who I once was.

So here I am; writing another post. The first excerpt in my “mind of illness” collection. In a way this is what I wish someone told me before I decided to take that first little pill that turned my life upside down..