At 58 stories tall stands the Avalon Willoughby Square building in Downtown Brooklyn. At 21 years old, just weeks away from college graduation, I stood at the top, wondering if I should jump. Was I trying to kill myself? Subconsciously, probably. But consciously, I believed I was being inducted into the Illuminati, and the final initiation required me to trust them with my life. As I pondered the thought of jumping, I decided to make a beeline for the door. However, it was locked. How would I get out?

There was another door across the roof, but to reach it, I’d have to crawl across an angled glass ceiling. One small slip, and I’d roll to my death. I threw my Icelandic reindeer bag over my shoulder and gripped on for dear life.

How does one reach the point of psychosis? Misuse of ADHD medication alone can get you there, but so can sleep deprivation. Stress alone can cause psychosis. Misuse of benzodiazepines and alcohol only exacerbated my situation. The mix of all the above led me to the point where I almost jumped. Ironically, two years prior, I had written a treatment for a film class about a depressed college student who moved to NYC to chase his dreams, only to find himself befriending his doorman and planning his suicide. Somehow, I knew I might come to that point. And I did. But I made it through.

There’s a large discrepancy between the active addict, the recovered addict, and the “normy.” I’m here to break those walls and give you an inside look into the mind of an addict, starting in adolescence, long before drugs entered the story.

At a very early age, I refused to sit in discomfort. Whenever I wet my diaper or pooped myself, I’d grab the wipes and a clean diaper and tap them on my mother’s leg until she changed me. My emotional regulator was broken, and I wanted it fixed. When my mom and I decided I was done with pacifiers, I had her throw them all away. She thought she got rid of every single one, but I went around the house and found the ones I had hidden, my safe havens, and threw them out as well. Even as a young child, I knew what I wanted for comfort, and I made sure I had it in excess, hidden from plain sight.

At the age of five, I had tantrums. I’d strip off all my clothes, back to how I came into the world, and cry, cry, cry. Screaming over and over, “I just want to die.” My brother would try to cheer me up or make me laugh, but I just wanted to die. I couldn’t handle the level of emotion running through my head. I was in fourth or fifth grade when I told my mom, “I’m going to die young. I’m not going to live a long time.” How in the world did I predict my future before I even became a teenager? Was I so lost that I couldn’t comprehend the whirlwind of emotions I faced daily?

As I attempt to untangle my muddled childhood through this series of essays, please be patient with me. I am shuffling through a multitude of memories that have been blacked out from my catalog for the sake of survival. Most people I talk to remember their childhood and teenage years in vivid detail. I have detailed memories too, but only in spurts. Most of my early life cannot be recalled, but through a series of exercises, I’m slowly opening those gates.

Like the day the dam on a giant lake broke, these memories are flooding my mind, making me want to curl into the fetal position under a warm shower. But I refuse to succumb to my past any longer. I’m still standing, and I will continue to fight. Not necessarily because I want to, but because I want to for others. I’ve seen what happens when people succumb to overdose and suicide, and the effects on those around them. Until I see suicide and overdose rates decrease, I refuse to stop having uncomfortable conversations with others. It’s time to speak up.