The city never stops moving, you know? But there I was, stuck in a tiny apartment that smelled like stale sweat and regret. I’m Ken, just some guy trying to make it through the day without losing what’s left of his mind. I’d quit the substances—cold turkey—a few weeks back, but I couldn’t tell you if that made me stronger or just more miserable. The withdrawal? Hell on earth. Every nerve in my body felt like it was rebelling, and I didn’t have anyone to tell about it. Not like anyone would listen, anyway.

Chewed Up, Spit Out, and Left Behind

This city—New York, the “center of the world”—it’s like a machine that chews you up and spits you out. People here? They’re always on the move, heads down, focused on their own thing. No one notices a guy like me. I work at a factory, some mind-numbing job moving boxes all day, but hey, it pays… barely. Enough to keep a roof over my head and ramen on the stove. Still, coping with feeling left out is painful in a place where everyone seems to have somewhere to be—except me.

You’d think friends would help, right? Yeah, that’s the kicker. The people I trusted the most, the ones I let into my life, bailed when things got rough. At first, they were all about good vibes and hanging out, but when the drugs took over and I started spiraling, they ghosted. It’s funny how fast people pull away when you’re not the version of yourself they want you to be.

I can’t even blame them entirely, though. I made my choices. Bad ones, for sure. The kind that leave you staring at yourself in the mirror and wondering who the hell you even are. But the betrayals, man, they sting. Especially when they come from people you’d have taken a bullet for. And don’t get me started on trying to explain my side of things. Whenever I opened up—tried to tell someone how much it hurt, how lonely I felt—I got blank stares, judgmental glares, or that fake “I’ll pray for you” bullshit. Nobody cared. Not really.

Rebuilding from Ruins

After I quit the substances, the emptiness got louder. I’d wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, and every muscle screaming. I’d sit there on my mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling, wondering if I’d ever feel normal again. The idea of being homeless haunted me. I was already this close—one missed paycheck away. New York is crowded, sure, but it’s lonely as hell when you’re invisible.

I tried watching those self-help videos. You know the ones, all smiles and motivational quotes. “You’re not alone.” “Focus on your goals.” “Happiness is a choice.” What a load of crap. Sitting there, shaking from withdrawal and feeling like my insides were being ripped apart, none of that garbage mattered. Happiness wasn’t a choice; survival was. And I was barely doing that.

Then one night, when the walls felt like they were closing in, I grabbed an old notebook. It was buried under a pile of junk on the floor. I don’t even know why I started writing. Maybe I just needed to get the noise in my head out somewhere. At first, it was all angry, messy scribbles—stuff I’d never let anyone see. But as the days passed, it became more than that. I started jotting down how I felt, what triggered the cravings, and memories I didn’t want to forget. Sometimes I’d write poems. They were bad, sure, but they were mine. In that process, I found a way to navigate coping with grief during recovery, channeling my pain into words.

Writing didn’t fix anything overnight. Hell, it didn’t fix anything at all, really. But it gave me something to do besides wallowing in the misery. And in those quiet moments, I started noticing things I’d ignored before. A stranger on the subway gave me a quick smile one morning. It wasn’t much, but it felt… real. Then there was this sunset one evening, all orange and purple and ridiculous, like the sky was trying to show off. I don’t know why, but it made me feel like maybe… just maybe… I wasn’t completely alone.

Finding Light in the Darkness

I don’t even know what I believe in anymore. But those little moments—the smile, the sunset—they felt like something. Nudges, maybe. Reminders that there’s more to life than this pit I’d fallen into.

The factory job sucks, no question. Every morning feels like a battle just to get out of bed, but I do it. One box at a time, one shift at a time. Some of the guys there talk to me now, not like friends, but enough to remind me I’m not a ghost. My journal’s my lifeline, though. I write every chance I get, even during breaks at work. It’s where I dump the mess in my head so I can keep going.

I’m still struggling. The feeling of being left out hasn’t gone away, and I’m not sure it ever will. But I’ve realized that I can’t keep looking for someone else to pull me out of this. It’s on me. Writing helps. Noticing the little things helps. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.

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