Statistically I should be a junkie. I should, at this very moment, be passed out with a needle in my arm. On the dirty floor of a trap house with no running water and man-eating roaches crawling on the walls. I should be outside of the liquor store begging for change to buy my next bottle. Drowning my trauma in tequila. I should be begging that my next fix is the one that finally does me in. But I’m not. I have worked since I was 15 years old to build the life opposite of what I grew up in. I have also watched as that life fell apart. And…