I am hoping to help addicts and their families understand each other in a way that helps them survive their fight with society as a whole. We don't have a drug problem we have a people problem so much that many of us don't want to be people anymore so we turn to substance to find the will to be alive. We have addictions to feel less dead inside and lack of compassion and knowledge about other peoples battles makes us the unknowing murders without us ever lifting a finger. Until reading my brothers journal I didn't understand my obsession with remembering things or the truth. Remembering things is just because memories are all you have when people leave and the good times are over and the truth is because once you have it it doesn't change. At the end of the day it's one of the few sturdy things that always stays the same. It's always there and it's going to stay true to itself whether you like it or not unlike people or places. Forgetting erases the truth The truth is that my brother is dead and he's never going to be undead. He isn't coming back. The Opinion that my mother and myself share is that I killed him. she believes it's because I some how got him on drugs, I assume that's what it is I'm not really sure, and I believe that the blame falls on me because I was not supposed to leave him alone that night or at all unless he was at work and even then I was supposed to be his ride. The morning of his death I didn't have a ride... Because I was not there and my overpowering guilt I've made it my mission to help at least one person enjoy the life their living enough to not want to end it. I figure if I can do that I can forgive myself for not being there. I just have to help someone live a life they don't want a vacation from. Maybe that person will help another person and in a chain of events I save humanity as a whole but if I don't change the world for everyone, I can still change someones outlook on everything. It's easier said than done while I myself hate my own existence so much that I want to do the same thing my brother did. Since he died I've been looking for my purpose or a reason I deserve to be alive. When I started writing this book it was a book of poetry, and then it became a book of letters directed towards those we've lost to drug use and those we blame for our losses. I asked a million people and everyone agreed to help and write letters but no one actually did. It wasn't until I read my brothers journals that I honestly understood anything about myself because Dougie was easy to understand. He was good but he was lost and had to much passion and not enough understanding or control over it . He couldn't handle the truth because he couldn't understand how the world could be so cruel when he himself never truly could be. He tried to act like he didn't care at all but it's something he did entirely to much of. Until I understood myself I never realized how to much truth and caring could be a bad thing. I thought honesty and compassion were two things found in everyone's chemical makeup but now I believe that half the people in the world got to much of those things and the other half didn't get enough. There's not a chemical imbalance in people's minds there's an imbalance of truth vs lies and what’s wrong and right.

poetry written during the grief of accepting that both the best and worst things that ever happened to you happen to be the same thing while dealing with mental Inability and attempting to mimic mania with meth use and hope to God that they think your just as high as they are. thereal question is of anyone gets high on meth or if they all just copy the first example of behavior which can be seen freely and obviously least with other enhancers enjoyed the numbness will also the extra feelings