Eight

I’m eight years old today. I’m a recovering alcoholic and drug addict. It has been quite the learning curve. Learning to live. Having no other solution to problems and pain. Fellowship. Friends. Real talk… I suppose I never felt comfortable in my own skin. I always felt like I never belonged and lies soon covered up the handicaps. I drank early on and it worked. Alcohol turned me into anyone but me. I was alright with it. I didn’t like myself anyway. I heard a famous pro skater say, “You gotta own your shit.” True enough. But who can really do that? A dying man? I guess I should know…  I died in an Orange County hospital. Stoli and Percocet. Killed by an angel. Alright with me. Owning your shit is a tough one. Full disclosure. What it was like? I would drink to leave this planet… first spaceship off this rock. Once I found opiates: slavery.  A garbage disposal. I’d take mine and yours. I would stop for a slice of pizza on my way home from work on a Friday night and wake up in jail on a Tuesday… naked. I’d be like, “Hey! Where are my clothes?” The duty officer would look at me and flatly answer, “You pissed yourself… and that was one of the nicer things you did.” Pitiful, incomprehensible, demoralization. Once you get to that ugly place, it takes those three words just to describe how low you’ve gone down the ladder of misery. No more. So, here I am. Eight years old and hopefully wiser. I try and help people as much as I can. I try to spread stoke around and make myself available for good. Love over hate. Positive over negative. Thank you to my real friends and Melanie. I am sober and sane because of you. Thank you for reading. Thank you to MRZ for the image. Skate- Ozzie