The boy who once returned a lost wallet to a neighbor began stealing. First from big-box stores. Then from his parents. Then from his little sister’s piggy bank. The guilt didn’t disappear—it got buried under the next hit. Addiction is the only disease that tells you that you don’t have a disease. Jake convinced himself that he wasn’t a thief; he was just sick . That he wasn’t a liar; he was just surviving .

The final stage of this loss is the most harrowing: the loss of self-preservation. The boy who loses himself to drugs no longer recognizes the face in the mirror. The hollow cheeks and vacant eyes belong to a stranger. He no longer fears the consequences that once would have terrified him—homelessness, incarceration, overdose. He has traded his future for the present and his dignity for the chemical. In this state, the “boy” is a biological fact, but a psychological fiction. His parents may weep over old photographs, searching for the child who loved baseball or the piano, but that child cannot be reasoned with because, in a very real sense, he no longer exists.

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The Boy Who Lost Himself to Drugs: A Story of Lost Potential and the Path Back

But that is a lie. A dangerous lie.

The boy who loved rocket ships began to vanish in slow motion.