You sit in the silence of the early morning, wondering how your life came to this. You were supposed to do more with your life than this. Living in a one bedroom rundown apartment, you try to reclaim the past by the photos around your apartment, trying to make this shack look more like home. You were the one who was going to take the world by storm, making sure everyone knew who you were.

Instead, your life has come to this. Sitting alone, in an apartment, trying to avoid what your life has become. Your friends have tried to pull you out of what they call "this self-isolation," but you tell them to save their breath, you won't remember the conversation that you had with them coming morning. You look at the walls, the shaggy carpeting, you hear the way the silence mocks you.

You take a drink of what keeps you safe up high, the high that gets you through the long, lonely nights. You never wanted your life to come to this, but this is the hand that fate dealt you. You were going to save the world, make changes, but yet your life has become empty and meaningless. Your party ended at 13, when everything changed in high school. You look back on your childhood and wonder how your childhood could be so idyllic, yet as an adult, everything came crashing down. Your party is over, your friends have abandoned you to greater and nobler causes and people, leaving you alone and desolate.

You take another drink, not even wincing at the burn as the alcohol goes down. You light your umpteenth cigarette of the night and listen to the night, whispers at it says to you "come and play," but yet, you feel yourself falling, and as much as you would like to blame everyone else, you have no one else to blame but yourself. You know as well as everyone else, until you're ready to get help, there is no help for you. You are the only one who can help herself.

Is this become of the one who was supposed to change the world with her causes? Who was going to protect the environment and be an activist for the rest of her life? No, this isn't what your life was supposed to be. You weren't supposed to spiral into this, into a former shell of yourself. Yet, you have, and now you wonder what is left for you to do when the morning light. What would it be like to be sober? To not be afraid of the darkness and the silence? Is this how you really wanted your story to end?

You throw the bottle against the wall, watching it shatter and the amber liquid rundown the wall, which in the early morning light, looking like blood dripping down the walls and you make a decision then and there that this is not how your story is going to end. There are other chapters to be written, and this is not how your story is going to end.

You pick up the phone and make the one phone call you know you can always make. The person on the other end says groggily "Hello?"

"Mary Anne? It's me. I need help."