The entire senior class looked around the auditorium, wide-eyed and eager to find out why they were called out of classes that day. The principal approached the stage with a sad look upon his face and bags under his eyes. This was a rare occasion for the students—the principal had always been optimistic and had such a positive outlook on life, and I guess that’s why they loved him so much.

“Look around you,” he started. “I mean it, look at your peers.” The room was silent as everyone looked around at their friends, teachers, enemies, boyfriends, girlfriends, secret crushes, and more.

“A year from now, five years from now, 10 years from now, some of these faces will no longer be with us. Some of you will succeed. Some of you will not. Some of you won’t make it to see your 21^st birthday, some of you will make it to your 100^th. Some of you will have amazing careers and a beautiful family, some of you might die from a fatal accident. I know the people in this room have the power to change the world and I also know that some of you will have the power to burn this place down,” he stated this as he seemed to look in the eyes of every student in that auditorium.

I was one of those students sitting in that room, wide eyed and all. I was naïve, innocent, and unknowing of what this world had in store for me. I sat there, tearing up, looking at my best friends, in disbelief and denial at what he said.

“What does he know anyway?” I would ask myself. But little did I know, he was right. Over the past three years since I graduated, I have had friends and classmates pass from car accidents, medical conditions, and especially addiction.

In elementary school, they always asked us, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Not one person answered, “An addict.”

In college, they ask us, “What are your hopes and dreams?” Not one of us said, “To become an addict.”

That’s because we all saw ourselves in the future being doctors, teachers, nurses, lawyers, astronauts, whatever it may be. No one thinks they’re going to end up addicted to drugs and stealing money from their families to support their habit. But it happens, and sadly, quite frequently.

People who aren’t addicts or who don’t know an addict, don’t understand. I don’t understand; I can’t wrap my brain around it, and neither can a lot of people. I can’t understand how one of my best friends, someone I trusted and told everything to, kept the biggest secret ever from me.

It really is true when they say, "You don’t know the life anyone lives until you’re living it and there’s nothing you can do about it." However, there is something you can do. You can learn, and you can learn how to help and understand.

I’m sick of hearing another tragic case of someone passing away from addiction. Each one needs to know he or she is not alone in this world and there are people everywhere willing to help. Here are some very courageous people—just like me and you, who survived his or her addiction and their stories.

*All names have been changed for the sake of privacy*

Matt's* Story

I was addicted to heroin. I would never have asked for help, I didn't want people to think I was just another statistic, just another loser rich kid addicted to drugs. I didn't even know I was addicted until I tried to stop. I was too embarrassed to admit I had a problem and too ignorant to care. I woke up every single morning hoping to die, wondering if maybe today was my last day on this planet.

A couple years ago, I met a girl. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever laid my eyes on. She was mysterious, brilliant, and so beautiful. She came from a broken family and carried her broken heart on her sleeve. I gave her the love of another human being and in return, she gave me the love of getting high.

I was once was on the football team, an honor roll student, and had many friends. But I became obsessed with her and obsessed with all of the highs that came with her.

To what meets the eye, I had the ideal, perfect family. A mom who cared a little too much and a dad that pushed a little too hard. I didn’t feel in control of any aspect of my life. All my dad focused on was pushing me to do better in football, get a scholarship, and attend an Ivy League school. He never asked how my day was and didn’t remember the names of any of my friends.

Getting high was my savior. It was the only thing that I had control of in my life. I could get high before bed, before class, before a big game and no one would ever know. It was my secret and no one could control me on it.

After a short period of time I lost a lot of weight, my faced started to cave in and I wasn’t myself anymore. My secret was out, and my friends cried to me over and over and encouraged me to stop. But the more they pushed me to stop, the more drugs I wanted to consume.

“Don’t tell me what to do. I have it handled, I know what I’m doing,” I would yell at them.

It started with some weed, then it was “just pills.” From there it escalated to cocaine, and I finally hit rock bottom when I started heroin. I dabbled with everything, even crystal meth, but nothing did the job quite as well as heroin. It was a high that was literally out of this world, nothing could take me where heroin did.

As I started pushing more and more drugs, they eventually lost their effects. My girlfriend pressured me to try heroin. At first, I was so against it. But she told me that if I snort it, it was no big deal, seeing how I had been doing coke for months now—so that’s how it started. Of course, eventually that lost the effect, and the only way for me to get high anymore was to inject it into my body, and boy, I hated needles.

My girlfriend and I would cut class, go missing for days and rent out sketchy hotels looking for places to get high. I stole money from my friends, my family, and even my job—resulting in my termination, and essentially losing all my friends. I shut them out and I didn’t even care. The only thing I cared about was getting high and not getting dopesick.

My girlfriend and I would lay in bed, just talking about life and the life we hoped to share when we were older, nodding in and out of the drugs. We could sit there all day, content, as long as we were getting high. We shot up and held hands, upping the dosage, little by little—with the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the pain would finally go away.

About a year later, she died from a deadly car accident. Was she high? Of course, she was.

This tragedy destroyed me. When I looked into the mirror, all I could see was my dark brown eyes with noticeably blue bags underneath, and my pale, sickly skin. I no longer saw myself. Instead, I saw a distorted version of somebody I used to know.

After months of shutting everyone out, I finally agreed to go on a trip to NYC with a friend. I promised I was clean and would be on best behavior, but I knew I was lying. At that point in my life, I was trying to wean myself off the drugs by lowering my dosage. I needed to do heroin to live at that point; the withdrawals were so intense I felt like I was dying. I had never been so sick in my entire life. I needed drugs to survive—what an oxymoron my life had turned into.

About every hour or so, I needed to “use the bathroom.” After about the third bathroom trip, my friend followed me into the bathroom and slammed open the bathroom stall.

With tears pouring out of her eyes, she caught me red-handed, shooting up in a McDonald’s bathroom stall. This was one of the lowest points in my life.

She stormed out and told me that she would not continue to be in my life until I got help. I had been to rehab before, but never for long. I always knew that as soon as I got out, I would start using again -- I had to.

Weeks went by with us not talking. One day, I overdosed and almost died. I woke up in the hospital, looking over at my mom who had spent the night there, checking my pulse every 10 minutes. She looked like a mess, she must have been crying for hours.

I knew I had to fix my life or I actually would die. I got on the computer and did some research, I found one of the best rehabs in the country. My parents willingly sent me out and told me not to come home until I was completely sober for at least a year—with proof.

I’ve been sober for about five months now and doing better than ever. I appreciate every day that I have and I regret all the time I wasted being caught up with bad people and bad habits.

I needed to come close to death to realize how bad my addiction really was. I was in denial about how I could be living such a terrible a life. It needed to be a reality that this thing could actually kill me. I needed to make the decision on my own, without the pressure of everyone else telling me what to do.

With addiction, people need to know they’re loved and that they matter in this crazy world. They need to feel that the decision to get help was their own.

Eric’s* Story

My brother, Eric*, didn't start off doing heroin, as most people don't. He played almost every sport our high school had to offer, always had a girlfriend, and had a great group of friends that I'd always looked up to.

Nobody just wakes up and decides to try heroin.

It all started with pain pills. They were popular at the time. People would do them to get a nice high because everybody says they're not going to get addicted if they try it once. They were wrong.

One time becomes two, two becomes three and before you know it, you're addicted. I had seen my brother doing pills, but being my older brother, someone I looked up to, I didn't speak up to him or call him out. I was ignorant and scared, and I didn’t know the danger or the effects that the drugs had on people.

I knew people that did them occasionally and it didn't seem like a big deal, they could still function with his or her lives. We were close, but I was in high school and he had graduated already. He was older, and supposed to be wiser. He started hanging with the wrong crowd, and once you fall in with the type of people that do and sell pills, it's only a matter of time before you do it yourself. Eventually, you will be introduced to heroin.

He told me that it was just a cheaper version of pain pills and a better high. Not many people can afford to continuously do pills, so heroin seems logical. You're already addicted to the high. One day he did it in front of me like it was no big deal. With disbelief in my eyes, he said, "It's not worse than pills, don't worry, I'm not going to get addicted, only weak people get addicted."

That was a lie, and I wasn't comfortable with it. But my fear of making him mad and the fear of losing my brother’s trust made me close my mouth.

Life continued on. I saw him less and less, and when I would see him I started to notice changes. They happen quickly. He started to lose weight, looked pale, and seemed to be tired and short-tempered all the time. He wasn't hanging out with his friends as much and would usually only hang with people that were doing drugs too.

Snorting it led to injecting it, as it took more to get him high. He told me that shooting up was more intense. It seemed like my brother had become a completely different person. He worked all the time, but never had money because it was all going to support his addiction.

My parents were worried because they saw the change, everyone did. They questioned me about it, but I was too scared that he wouldn't forgive me for telling on him, so I played stupid. He's my brother, how could I betray him?

But it only got worse. He cut off his friends that actually cared about him because they would tell him he that he had a problem and that they were willing to do whatever it takes to get him help. An addict doesn't want to hear that they have a problem; they surround themselves with fellow addicts so it doesn’t seem as bad. I, myself lost friends because I was so determined to believe that he was still my brother, that he could still be saved. My friends came to me saying they didn't want to be around him when he's doing it and that he's not himself anymore, I defended him and cut them off for saying bad things about him.

I knew he had a problem but I couldn't just abandon him, I couldn't even admit it to myself how bad it was. I stayed up countless nights wondering what I could do without telling my parents and without losing him. The problem was, there is no other option. We just didn't get along anymore.

Heroin had consumed his life. The only "friends" he had were the people that would get him heroin and I couldn’t just sit there and watch his life spiral out of control anymore. He must've lost at least 30 pounds, dark heavy bags under his eyes all the time. He was always irritable and quick to blame everybody else and he got angry when he couldn't get his fix. No one could talk to him when he was high because all of his reactions and motor functions were slow or he'd be nodding off, barely able to keep his eyes open.

Then, finally, the best and worst thing happened. He got arrested and charged with buying and using heroin. I went with him to court, still without my parents knowing, and the judge's decision was clear; go to rehab or go to jail.

I spent the entire day with him, watching him get violently sick because he hadn't gotten high in 12 hours. It felt like the world was crashing down on him. I thought he was going to die.

He had to tell my parents. I will never forget their reactions. The denial, the anger, the relentless tears. It's my biggest regret that I did not go tell them the second I found out what he was into. I think about it every day. I know now looking back on it that I would have lost my brother, that I had already lost him for the six months that he was doing it.

Six months may not seem like a long time but even one day is too long. I learned too late. He went to rehab and that was the toughest time of my life as well as his. Not being able to see and talk to him, or even know how he was doing, all combined with the immense feelings of guilt and self-loathing was unbearable.

I can't even imagine how bad it had to be for him coming to terms with everything, while not being surrounded by the people that love him. But I cannot express the feeling of joy that I felt the second I saw him again, and how obvious the change was. I couldn’t believe how healthy he looked; the happiness that I once saw in his eyes was restored. He was determined to put his addiction behind him and move forward with his life.

I have my brother back. If I had stopped it in the beginning I would have had him back much sooner. If he hadn't gotten arrested, who knows where he'd be right now, most likely dead.

My best advice I can give to people, if you know a loved one is doing drugs, immediately find help and do whatever it takes to help them overcome it. Do not disown them or let it happen because it takes perseverance and a strong support system to help them overcome it. Do not be afraid to speak out because they will thank you and love you for it eventually, just like my brother has.

Heroin ruins lives. It turns people into lesser versions of themselves and it only gets worse and worse every single day. Do not make the same mistake I did. I was weak and conflicted with my loyalty to my brother and his actual wellbeing. My biggest show of loyalty would've been to do everything in my power to stop it, even if it meant him resenting me for a period of time. But what happened is done, and I couldn’t be happier to have my brother back.

There’s a lot of pain and danger in the world, but there’s also a lot of bravery, perseverance, and the will to keep fighting.

If you know someone battling through addiction, do whatever you can to lead them to get the help they need and let them know how much you love them. Everyone’s fighting some kind of battle, and the best thing we can do for each other is to offer our love and let them know we’re always there for them.