It was a dark time in my life. I had burned myself out, going in and out of little temp jobs to feed my addiction, squatting in filthy motel rooms, avoiding my family and friends because I couldn't stand to face them. I remember the day I got the message. I was sitting on a lumpy mattress with creaky springs and dark, mysterious stains. I stared blankly at the ugly piss-yellow and bone-white striped wallpaper while I held a small .38 pistol in my hand. I was doing this thing where I'd put the gun to my head and put a light squeeze on the trigger before I'd change my mind and lower the gun. ...