Saturday, October 25, 2014
Friday, October 17, 2014
Monday, October 13, 2014
Around 7:30, my vegetative meditation would be broken by the sound of a car in the driveway. I could feel a chill go up my spine. I held my breath with anxious anticipation as my father turned the door knob. I never needed to look up from the tv but I could tell within three steps if he was drunk. In fact, I already knew he had been drinking today. I saw him at the bar on my way to school. The bus passed by the pub where he swore he ate his morning breakfast. I suppose it was more like hair of the dog. It was always silently humiliating to me to know that he was drinking before 8:00am. As if he was on auto pilot, He would come home in the afternoon, sleep it off, then go back to work. His command of the alcoholic arts was truly masterful- up until he got fired for being drunk on the job. He had "hid" it for years, or at least they had tolerated him. Now he was home from another job. It was too late to try to hide in my room.
As he walked through the door, I sensed the extra stagger. There was always an extra step on the end when he was tanked. I exhaled my frustration into the universe. With a silent glance, my mother insisted I say hello to him. She said it "made her life easier" aka he would continue to put his check in the bank as long as I was nice to him. I knew his routine. He just wanted to get food, go upstairs, smoke a few pall mall gold 100s and pass out without incident. Normally, there would be yelling as I scurried away. She had her heating pad on so she wasn't up for an argument, not tonight.
I took a sip on my beverage, a sprite and peach schnapps. I had started stealing from the bottle and adding water here and there. This was a Christmas bottle from a few years back. If my mother smelled the alcohol on my breath, she never let on. Maybe she thought it was better to have me drinking in the house than out with my "friends". As I sip the syrupy relief, I resolve to myself that this will not be my life. NEVER. I cannot wait until I leave for college in a few months. I cannot take these feelings.
Between the cutting and the laxatives and the alcohol and the vicodin, maybe I can be thin and normal. I think to myself would rather be curled up with some drugs than stuck on the couch with my fucking heating pad waiting for my drunk husband.
When I look back now, it was so easy for me to judge them. So easy for me to feel superior to my hard working parents. I left Cincinnati Ohio with my college money that a traded for an arm full of heroin. As I puked from one end of the public bus to the other, I thought to myself "this is the fucking life". I never wanted to be like my parents. In fact, I wasn't like them. I was a spoiled self indulgent asshole that only thought about myself. A heroin addiction, I believed, was my cosmic punishment for being so ungrateful for the life I left.
The truth is somewhere in the grey area. I am sitting on my couch tonight with a heating pad wondering what my children will think of me someday.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
Friday, October 3, 2014
I had more important things to do. My work at the time was filled with near pornographic material on my love for opiates. I loved the burn of the needle, I dreamed about when heroin and I would be together again. Drugs were my sex, my romance, my joy in one place. I never had to look beyond the plastic bag or bottles of pills. As I licked the blood of my hands, it was as if I was embracing life when that needle came out of my skin. My foreplay consisted of two hours of waiting for a dealer. I was in that phase when heroin WAS love and we were happy.
And then the years passed, they inched along at a snail's pace. The life of an addict and the life of a user are two totally different things. A few mornings spent broke on a toilet in withdrawal let you know that opiates are in charge and you are their bitch. There is no love anymore. There is simply the absence of pain. Remember that first time you slipped money out of someone's wallet, or shorted someone on a bag, or slept with some dealer, or worked some ugly girl for some drugs. Or maybe you are one of the unlucky ones that puts your paycheck up your arm and your stuff in the pawnshop. The servers, the drivers, the workers who are hooked one day at a time.
I had planned to spend my time writing but I spent a lot of time with my youngest child. Having kids was a dream I had given up on. Now these kids are my everything. They are my hope for the future. They tell me every morning with their soft hugs and laughter than mine is a life worth living. I am more than a scumfuck junkie. I am capable of love.
I don't know if my book will get published but in the game of life, against the odds, I came out ahead. These days I have with no needle hanging out of my arm have taught me my dreams were so small, my vision was so narrow. My life is filled with ups and downs but they are no longer held in powders and delivered at the cost of my dignity.
I'm just going to sit here and watch my son play with trains because that deserves my attention. I am living my dreams and casting aside bad memories
Monday, September 29, 2014
Friday, September 26, 2014
"Life..its not meant to be easy and sometimes you may feel liked you are locked in the same everyday routine that never ends. There comes a time where you will have to "push" yourself a little harder, Take the things you normally do, with a firm grasp, grab ahold of your emotions and "twist" them in the opposite direction... and you will be surprised on how some doors open to reveal the "fix" you have been needing all along.
As I sit here getting high I stare at the top of the pill bottle. The white cap with the blue letters marked "PUSH DOWN AND TURN" stare back at me. I think back to the hundreds, if not thousands of pill bottles that have crossed my path. From the great ones like the original OC80's, the roxi's, the xanax bars....down to the norcos, the vicodins, somas,percocets,flexeril....then the tylenol 3 and 4's, neurontin, marinol....the list goes on. Then there are the pills that arent fun, but they are needed, mainly due to the psychiatric issues I have chosen to admit it. My "issues" just didnt appear one day...I just was never willing to admit that my mind wasnt right, and chose to spill my guts to a doctor one day. Then comes the pharmacuetical version of musical chairs...the cocktail wheel of fortune...the trial and error method that doctors have to use to try and find tbe right mix to fix you. So on came Zoloft, then prozac, then wellbutrin. Xanax finally came to the party as well, my salvation and savior to 75% of my issues.
By no means did I have an easy childhood, I was exposed to way too much ...way too fast. I learned lessons in life as a child that are normally reserved for the years that would come much later in life. Now I am not saying my life was worse than anyone else's growing up....every one of you has a story, this is just mine and it wasn't easy for me. It could have been a lot worse, but it should have been a lot better.
So in a sense, I will be a drug user until the day I die...and these pill bottles will be a constant companion and part of my life. Ive grown to accept this fate. Some of these drugs I should part ways with, while others are mandatory to keep me leveled out. The bottles themselves will always be a reminder of my love for heroin..since these little bottles are what I use to turn my black tar heroin into powder..
The sound of .75 cents rattling in a pill bottle is as distinct of a sounds as a gunshot or police siren....like the sound of loose change to a panhandler.. No matter where I hear it, no matter how far away or faint the sound might be...I know exactly what it is. It soothes the evil baboon on my back like a lullaby to a sleepy baby. When hanging out with my other associates that use, if I hear that sound coming from their pocket. I know there is a good chance I wont be sober for long. The sound is part of my "ritual" when getting high...similar to the sound of a razor blade on a mirror chopping lines, or the sound of a drivers license crushing meth chards into dust..I'm sure you get my point. At the same time, my method of use is different from most heroin users, especially those in the east coast or anywhere else where that good powdered dope is common. Black tar heroin if definitely the shittiest form of such a wonderful drug, but at time I am glad that I have no access to ECP (east coast powder) because I wouldnt just have. a monkey on my back.
No, I would be a full blown fuckin crazed ape with an endless appetite for destruction...there would be none of the control I have now, and I only would be referred to in past tense where anyone would speak of me. I still fear dying from my usage, as I know it would disappoint anyone and everyone one that ever knew me...Knowing Id be remembered for being a secret junkie still hurts me inside. I know it broke my mothers heart when she went to wake him up that morning and his body was cold and unresponsive. It was my second day, just got off work at a new job and I called my brother to pick me up from BART and he wasnt answering his phone...I called one of my female friends for a ride and she said she would come get me...I asked her if she had seen my brother that day and the line went silent...I asked her again, "where's Tone at?".....and then I heard it
"wait....nobody told you ?...Tone's gone"
Im thinking his ass got arrested again ....he was always into something and it was pretty common.
Thats when the clock stopped, the atmosphere around me went completely silent...all I heard was
" Im sorry baby, but Tone passed away, he died in his sleep last night"
It didnt hit me right then, it didnt seem possible...I was just with him less than 24 hours ago...it was 5pm, we had kicked it until almost midnight the night before..he was waiting to pick up one of his scripts for a shitload of Roxi 30's. He texted me at like1:30 in the morning with "i got those"...
When I left him he was sippin on a pint of hennessy, just chilling, we smoked a blunt or 2 and were just trading war stories. He gave me a few valium, and popped a few himself. I left and went to my sisters house, I was sleeping on her couch at the time.
When what she said hit me I fell to the ground, I couldnt breathe, I couldnt think...I just disconnected from reality. Then the tears came and they didnt stop...when she arrived to pick me up ...all I could do was cry and tell her to take me to the liquor store, and I bought the same bottle we were drinking together the night before, I drank it like water...I had no feelings in my body, I became numb to the world.
And I write this and relive the pain again from that day, I reach into my pocket and pulled out my old familiar friend, the orange bottle with the blue writing on the top.
That day ...I was pushed down harder and farther than I had been in a long time....and it turned me.
I pop the white cap off and dump a pile of brown sugar into it...and snort away the pain that his death brought.
Deep breathing is only relaxing when you have a pile of powder and a rolled up dollar bill to go with it.
When life hands you lemons....fuxk everything else and grab the Salt and Tequila
We've all been pushed down, and we all turn at some point...some just turn in different directions than. others...