trying to comprehend addiction

When I was seventeen I became addicted to the prescription pain medication, Lortab. I had shattered my elbow while snowboarding (while pretending to be way more cool and experienced than I actually was) and my doctor, in order to to help get me through the intense physical-therapy that lie ahead, prescribed to me what seemed to be a Costco sized bottle of the pill (with no set limit on refills). After returning home from my surgery and my hospital stay, I quickly realized that the prescribed dosage stated on the bottle was not going to be satisfactory. I had become accustomed to a constant flow of morphine, and now I was somehow expected to get by on just two 7.5 Lortab pills every six to eight hours?
Yeah— No. Sorry. Not gonna happen.
Within one week I was taking four pills every six to eight hours. By the time I was done with physical therapy, six months later, I was taking six pills every six to eight hours. I leveled off at six pills. That was my max, and I knew it. I'd tried seven once. Seven made me completely immobile. I was at work "watching", "assisting", "accommodating", a group of mentally-challenged individuals. These individuals required 100% of my undivided attention, but with me being on seven pills, all I could do was lie on the carpet and watch the blades of the ceiling fan turn into spinning sabres of fluorescent light. I remember getting kicked in the ribs and in the head. I remember someone defecating in a corner of the kitchen. I remember the front door opening and several bodies going in and out. I remember sweating and laughing and not giving a shit, but at the same time wondering if that apartment was going to take my final breath.
After that experience, I decided to keep my dosage at a maximum of six pills. Six was manageable. Six was safe enough. Six made me feel somewhat invincible, which was perfect, considering the fact that my job required me to be little more than a human punching-bag. These mentally-challenged individuals that I "looked after", for the most part, seemed to have been genetically bred to administer pain and suffering upon any and all physical beings. On six pills, I could get punched, clawed, kicked— whatever, and not feel a goddamn thing.
Then one day my mom came home and informed me that my prescription for Lortab could not be renewed anymore. I was to ween myself off  by taking tapering dosages of Tylenol.
Yeah— No. Sorry. Not gonna happen.
But it did happen. The only thing that seemed to bring me joy in life was suddenly removed— Distinguished. Eradicated. Extricated. And I know that that thing was bad for me from the very start, but like a knife in the chest, it tends to feel better if you just leave it in.
I started stealing meds from the mentally-challenged (psychopaths) that surrounded me. Before they went to bed I would give them all their meds, all the while making sure to save a little bit for me. "A little for you, a little for me, a little for you, a little for me." I didn't even care what they were. Red ones, blue ones, pink ones, yellow ones, white ones, big ones, small ones, medium ones, giant ones— I took them all. What did it do to me? Well, it did lots of stuff. Lot's of fun stuff, lot's of scary stuff, and everything in between. Who knows what the lasting effects are, or will be.
Then I found out that a guy I was working with was selling pain killers. Don't ask me why, but for some reason when I started buying pills off this guy— that's when I finally realized that I had a problem, and I needed to stop. Why did it take so long for me to come to that realization? I'm not sure exactly. Denial; the inexplicable euphoria of a high; the chemical imbalance in my brain— all of these things probably played a factor in the long duration of my addiction. Nevertheless, after much deliberation, I decided to begin my ascension to recovery. I decided to do it alone, and now, looking back, I wish that I would have sought some help.
I pushed out the toxins through sweat, anger, tears, despair, relapse, self loathing, determination, perseverance, sheer will, and then, perhaps, some help from someone/something above. A year later I was pure of that vice. Unfortunately, this cleansing process did not rid me of a myriad of other problems that were tearing away at my soul. For every one thing healed, there will always be another crutch to fill its place.

The beginning stages of relationships have the same dopamine induced effects on the brain as narcotics (there are studies on this, you can look them up). Whether the relationship is a one-night-stand, or the bud of some lasting love, the brain doesn't give a flying fuck— it just wants more and more. Pretty soon your behavior spirals out of control, becoming erratic, reckless, and unpredictable— doing anything for another fix. Pretty soon you can't live without it. Pretty soon every waking moment of your life becomes devoted to this high— this high of being accepted; being admired; being adored— desired.  And just like the effects of the excess Lortab, you become somewhat invincible. You could get punched, clawed, kicked— whatever, and not feel a goddamn thing.
Then one day you are informed that this drug— this drug of intense human connection, must come to an end.  You try to ween yourself away. You try smaller dosages— longer durations between hits, but despair inevitably sinks in.
You start to seek acceptance and understanding from anyone and anything that comes your way. You take anything you can get— red ones, black ones, white ones, yellow ones, big ones, small ones, medium ones, giant ones— you take them all.
You try to go back. You try to back-peddal your way to where it all began. But nothing is the same. You're just a fool now. A fool who's been fully revealed— naked and ashamed, you have become nothing more than a lost and fallen duplicate of your past-self.
Then comes rock-bottom, swift as a knife. And this is where you are now— down on the rocks of that dark place.  So, what comes next? What's the next chapter? How do you fix this? Detox? Could you do that? Do you have what it takes? Could you handle the sweat, the anger, the tears, the despair, the relapse, the self-loathing, the determination, the perseverance, the sheer will, and then, perhaps, the help from someone/something above?

Don't think twice— just make a move towards something that makes you smile. If you can smile, then there's hope. There must be. Smiles don't lie.