The Man on the Bed

I remember sitting in a rehab in Austin, Texas. I had come in there broken and beaten; the bottle had done a good number on me this time. I had lost my job, my family, my place and a lot of close friends. I was disorientated and lost, and I was not sure what I was going do with my life. I couldn’t seem to get over the self-pity. All I saw was an endless cycle of alcoholism. I just wanted to die. “Please Lord, kill me,” I remember praying. “Please end my suffering.” I was 22 and had never led a normal life. Just foster homes and poverty. I had lost both of my parents from alcoholism by the time I was 17.