Now, people in recovery reach out to me, thanking me, and it trips me out because in my book, I’m just a f*cking f*ck-up. But if talking about it out loud keeps some kid from eating that same poison, then at least the scars are worth something. We’re all connected in the dirt. You never know who’s in the crowd drowning in it — and if my wreckage can help someone else pull through, that’s all you can ask for. That’s how we survive.