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Short Story: Beautiful Disaster

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Out of all the doctors I saw, there’s only one I will never forget. For three years he continued to feed my amphetamine addiction, Adderall. I hate him for that. As an addict, I played the “I don’t notice any difference in my attention span” card and it actually worked. He was being paid three-hundred dollars an hour to support my addiction. It was all about money to him. “Will you be paying cash or credit card?” If he had cared about me as a patient, he would have realized that prescribing me excessive amounts of Adderall was only going to set me up for failure. After three years of being prescribed four times the average amount, I got smart, and it ruined my life. It all started in my senior year of high school. Everybody I hung out with was either smoking pot or cigarettes. Not me, I was snorting Adderall daily, and smoking cigarettes like a chimney. People started to figure out why I was so skinny, ninety-six pounds and five-foot-five-inches tall. My secret was out, and here was the perfect chance to see who liked to do what I did in the bathroom every day. By the end of week one, I had three people to sell whatever was left of my Adderall prescription. Within a month, I was making over one-thousand dollars a month. I was a naïve seventeen-year-old girl, who got money hungry. The psychiatrist I was seeing was making so much money just by supplying my bad habit, and I figured why not make the money he took from my family back by selling what he was prescribing me. It

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