In the next two years, I did whatever I had to do to support my habit. I stole money and things from people and businesses. I had 27 felony charges across four countries – mostly grand larceny – and many misdemeanours against me. I couldn't live at home, so I left home and slept wherever I could. But by 19, I was tired of it – running from myself and running from my pain. I tried to end it all – to overdose and die and slip all the way into that darkness. I used the last of my heroin and my cocaine, and I filled it all up into a needle. I smoked my last cigarette, and I shot up. It was winter in upstate New York, and I went to sleep in my car in somebody's front yard. I thought I would never wake up again. I knew what my tolerance was; it was a science to me at that point.