Saturday, September 28, 2013

The Mourning of the Broke Hustler

Here were are- together again. it is me and you. This is how I planned it. That feeeeeeling coming over me. But this whole journey is not what I wanted from a day. I just wanted this feeling.

I woke up this morning. That is always a good start to a day. As I open up my eyes, I see the clouds overhead. The orange and yellow beams of light are smearing with the streetlights. My eyes are having trouble adjusting to the colors. I am bolted awake by cramps. Fuck, it is happening again. I am not how the merciful Junkie Jesus allowed me to sleep but now the sick has crawled in with a vengeance. I pull off my scratchy wool blanket. I got his from some minister. They are extremely warm. Unfortunately, body lice also appreciate the fibers and nestle inside waiting for a new host.

 I am so fucking sad at my prospects for the morning.I grab some napkin and walk up a few cars. There really is an art to be a female and pissing outside. If the stream is too fast, it will bounce off the concrete and on to your shoe or sock. If you piss too slowly, it can dribble on your pants. This especially sucks because I usually have on two pairs. One keeps in warmth, the other is a deterrent against rape. Tight, thick jeans have to be cut off and most amateurs don't have the for sight to plan to cut a bitches pants off if she won't let you in during her moment of terror. I squat in between two cars. The smell of old piss combined with dope sick makes me start to gag. Fuck- I got some on my shoe. I pull up my pants and take inventory. I got $2, a syringe, and a whole lot of issues. Time to make something happen.

As i walk down, the hill I start humming to myself "Ain't to Proud to Beg...." At this point, I really am not to proud to beg. I have full dedicated myself to my life as a hope to die dope fiend. I spend my time blocking my mind. If I can only get as high as possible or at least maintain my heroin mental middle, I will be able to deal with any crisis of faith as it occurs. The dog turns on me daily but I still believe I have trained it to heel for me, to heal me.

I approach the dealers one by one "uno por gratis por favor. No mas deniro ta la noche " terrible broken, embarrassing Spanish. UGH. So fucking sick. The dry heaves are coming. Luckily, I haven't eaten since some time yesterday so nothing is going to come up. I brace myself again the wall. Fuck this shit, I am getting in somewhere. I head over to the parking lot. I see two junkies and a cooker. All I need to know is there.
"Let me put my two dollars in for the cotton." They look at me with disgust. This ten dollar piece is hardly enough for one person let alone two. "No you see this isn't going to get me well." I start leaning in. "I am not fucking leaving unless you give me that cotton. I have gotten you well a bunch of times (not true, maybe twice but oh well)". I am not leaving until I get that cotton. Plus, I am fronting them off. "Fuck!" he smirks. The girl that is with him has nothing to say. I just cut a piece out of her piece and he was not giving her much anyway.

I throw 40 units of water on that cotton and draw it up. I am too sick to fuck around and we are out in the open. I jam that needle straight through my pants into my legs. The fluid is burning my leg. "Thanks dude." I start walking away. "Hey, where is my two dollars?" I start rubbing the muscle. "I am not giving you two dollars for the dry ass cotton." I fucking win.

Next move- run credits. If I can get 5 people to buy a bag from Flacco, he will give me a free one. Trying to get a dope fiend to follow another dope fiend is the blind leading the deaf. We both are missing some sense but we need each other some how. Plus, I get a chance to see if anyone if buying some kind of quantity so I can try to get in. The best I have come up in an hour is a cotton. Fuck my life.

"He has the good shit man." "Don't go to him, that shit is weak." Not that I would actually know. All this work. This process goes on and on and on until I finally come up on my own bag. Am I planning on sharing this dime with anyone? Fuck no. I am willing to talk three extra blocks. I feel someone watching me from the sidewalk. No, I will not take you with me. Maybe later when I am well. This piece of dope is the most important thing in the universe. This piece of dope is my best friend. This piece of dope contains all my hope and love and desire. This piece of dope is everything.

As I engage in the ritual preparation, I realize that the day has just begun on a high note. I will still have to beg, borrow, steal, to get more by hook or by crook. At least we will be together. And I still have that $2.

Friday, September 27, 2013

Care and Concern

I have had a lot of people contact me privately (and on my blog) because they are concerned about me. My writing is not always about me. It is not always written in the present tense. In the present tense, I am doing very well. Tomorrow is my daughter's birthday. Hard to believe she will be six. She is my little sweetie. My husband and I are planning on taking our first vacation with out the kids for our anniversary/his birthday. My kids are enjoying multiple sports. I am the treasurer of the PTA. I have been taking a month long break from my book. The stress was a little too much. I would rather wait and have it be proofread then tweak elements that try to have all types of things going at the same time.

My personal recovery is in a good place. I am saying this mainly because i am going to a meeting tonight. I am still working individually with some folks in all stages of recovery. I do some pro bono counseling work. I also moderate a few online communities and have made many friendships.

Finally, I get a great deal of satisfaction from underground projects expanding access to clean syringes and naloxone. These projects are high impact and low cost. $22 pays for 4 care packages and i have built a good relationship with a pool of donors and volunteers.

Thanks friends. I will provide you with more tales or horror and redemption soon. Love T.

Thursday, September 26, 2013

Today is the day

Today is the day I can't deal with it anymore. Today is the day I can't be nice anymore. I have to focus on my life now. Today is the day.

Loving you hurts me. You will destroy me. Mr says he will do one things and cums when he pleases. I am so sick of your face. I can't stand to see you tilt your head as you lie to me again. No no. No no more. Today is the day. 

I am taking charge from all your wreckage. Blinking and slinking and hating and skating around you. 

Pulling out the screws. Saying goodbye to you. Today is the motherfucking day. 

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

I need more

I need more. More food, more love, more sex, more drugs, more validation. I want someone to hold me and brush the hair out of my face. I want them to tell me everything is going to be okay. Most of all, I want to BELIEVE everything them. FUCK- why did things have to turn out this way?

I destroy everything I touch. It is as if I weigh the world down like an anchor around the neck of hope. I try to get out of bed but turn over in disgust. How is today going to be any different than another? I bring my anxiety like a toy in my pocket that falls out at the wrong time revealing that I am a child. I am nervous in you presence. I kissed you and I needed more.

I have a purse full of syringes, a briefcase full of straws, and a heart full of holes. Fill me. Feel me. Plug the holes in my memory where love use to be. I want to be next to you. The drugs can't fill the empty space as you withdraw into silence. Your eyes speak volumes. The relationship ends with my bangs and your whimpers. I curl up on the bed.

I need more. More fucking more more more. Don't make me hurt again. Don't make me hurt you again. Just walk out the door. You scrape me like a bag I found on the floor. You bruise me like a hit on the back on my hand. I would hold up my head but I can barely stand. I am just fucked up and I need more.

Meme of the year

   Thanks to dopefiendthrowaway

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

My Book

I am still working at completing my book. It is 98% complete. It just needs some restructing and edits. To pruchase, contact me

Sunday, September 22, 2013

Anonymous from US

A couple years ago I had a little bit of a habit.  It's something I've struggled with since i acquired my first one way back when. I had come into $30 early in the day, going to breakfast with my mom.  Returning to the apartment where I was crashing with my running partner, I got right on the search.  Just our luck his friend was over and she could get it.  She just had to ride the bus across town and pick it up.  She'd be right back.  I was already getting sick, but this seemed like the best option.

Well, as you guessed she was gone ALL FUCKING DAY.  At the dude's house, waiting on him to give her a ride back to us.  She left at maybe 11am and got back around 6pm, but at least she had our black.  I couple of points of what they were calling the "pure".  It certainly wasn't, but at least my buddy and I got well.  As it turned out her guy was a good friend of my sister, so feeling bad about leaving me and my friend sick all day, he offered me a 20 of meth.  I had just gotten well and my friend didn't really like meth, like once in a blue moon he would smoke a little bit.  So I do my due diligence as a friend and ask if he wants to smoke some.  Nope.  Right into my arm it went.

Fast forward to about 8:30 the next morning, I'm the only one awake, geeking out on my phone.  Somehow, I got to looking at the m4m ads on Craigslist, don't ask I guess I was just trying to look at the WHOLE internet.  I came across this ad for young men who would be willing to do a bondage photo shoot. Says they will be compensated nicely.  Now, I'm a pretty open minded guy, tolerant, some of my best friends are gay.  So I send the guy an e-mail, thinking I might hear back from him in a day or more likely, not at all.  Well not ten minutes later, I'm texting with him, he's telling me that he's free that morning.  Having spent the entire previous day (and a lot of the ones before that) dopesick, with no recourse, I figure fuck it.  If he's a serial killer at least I won't have to be dopesick all day again.

So I wake my buddy up and tell him if I don't call him in two hours to call the fucking cops.  He's a little taken aback, as this isn't something that one would expect to ever come out out of my mouth. ("Call the cops")   I hurriedly gloss over the situation, telling him I'm going to do I photo shoot with a dude I met on craigslist.  He's rightfully worried, but I'm basically already out the door.

I won't go into detail, but over the phone we had agreed on 100 dollars, to take some pics, and I understood that I would be nude.  Meh, whatev.  Well, it turned out dude had I nice little grow-op going in his garage, and suffice to say, I left there with $100 and 35 grams of FIRE marijuana. 

This led to me surfing craigslist for other men I might be able to make some money off, as well asking for help finding clients from every prostitute that I was a friend of a friend of.  There were a couple of guys that would regularly call, but they didn't pay as well and they basically just wanted me to suck them off.  Not my favorite thing in the world to do, but I gotta stay well.  

"Craigslist" as I called my first, was my favorite.  He was into kinky shit, and in reality so am I.  But I like to play the dominant roll when I'm doing it for fun.  So it was a nice change of perspective, and something I kind of enjoyed (except the whole cock in me thing).   And he always payed me well, cash and chron.  And he was actually a pretty nice guy, when we weren't in session.

Anyway, I started doing all this to fund my heroin habit, but in order to put the implications of what I was doing out of my mind, I started using meth heavily.  Like really heavily.  Probably a gram a day, to myself.  This quickly turned into a vicious cycle of heroin, to maintain, meth to get high, and hustling, to fund it.  I was making way more money than I had been boosting, and there was way less effort needed.  And way less risk.   This led me losing control of me drug habits and going off the deep end pretty bad.

I had a friend that was moving across the country, back to her home state, and she offered to take me along, if I wanted to get off the smack, and cut back of the shards (she's kind of a tweaker, not bad, just uses occasionally).  By this time I was just looking for a way out the situation I had gotten myself into.  So I did it.

A few months after I moved, I had found out about the road and got a quarter G of heroin.  And it was far better that I had anticipated.  I gave my friend about a 60mg shot and she almost died.  I gave her a black eye
I between slapping her in the face in between cpr and chest compressions.  I just didn't know what to do.  It scared me pretty good.  I still use heroin periodically, I've managed to keep it under control, but the fear of overdose is pretty big. That is why I was asking about the narcan...

Saturday, September 21, 2013

Who am I?

I have been writing this blog for a year in January. I have spent a great deal of my time retelling stories from my addiction. Other days, I have provided my opinions on political issues use as access to syringes and the opiate overdose medication naloxone. I give some words of encouragement to lose who might still be struggling with their addiction. I talk about many, many things. I just don't like to talk about myself as a person.

Who am I? First of all, I am insecure to the point of being almost brittle. I have always felt as if there must be something wrong with me. This has not changed all that much over time. I care much, much less that I did when I was twenty. I still feel as if I am not worthy or not capable on many occasions. It is easy to say "oh well, everyone feels like this." My sense of self awareness is frankly quite painful.

I would describe myself as being very smart. I am smart enough to know that many things that go on in this world are fucked up. So I try to change them. Currently, I am doing a little project where I mail syringes to places where people cannot obtain them. I am smart enough to know these people are going to use drugs with or without my help. I am also smart enough to know that by putting in a little bit of time and energy, I can impact the world in a huge way. Whether it is being nice to animals, supporting our veterans, smiling at a homeless person, or telling a woman she has on an awesome outfit just to make her day, I know that my junkie ass can make the world better. I have to otherwise I can not deal with the pain.

I am a stone cold food addict. I like to mention this because it is just part of my overall insanity. I used to take my mothers high blood pressure medication to lose weight. The were part diuretic. I used to give myself enemas, take laxatives, starve myself. If I only looked different, not like myself, maybe then you would like me. I was always reinvented the outside to avoid dealing with the inside.

I am a very anxious person. How do I manage my anxiety? I supplement it with caffeine and dark chocolate? But wait...You were expecting some flowery answer about how I healed myself? Fuck no. I enjoy throwing fuel on the fire until I am overwhelmed to the top. That is how I roll. Then one day, I am forced to relax. "Why didn't I do this sooner?" Because silly, I just don't know how to let shit go. Turning my brain down is like pulling the hard drive. Crazy is just part of me.

I am a very loving and caring person. I tried so hard to shut my feelings off. The reality is that I almost feel to much sometimes. When I get in my email box and read stories from addicts, sometimes I cry. I feel those feelings everyday. The confusing and the whirlwind of sadness that comes with relationships. I chose to love today. I embrace the pain of uncertainty that comes with love. I do no know where our friendship is going but I know I will be better off for opening up my heart. I must live my life in the open today. 

Heroin meant the world to me. It provided me the freedom to leave my shell. It provided me the opportunity to shut off my constant critic. It gave me a respite from the bondage of self. And then that loyal dog turned on me. It took it all and I gave it more. The drugs taught me an important lesson that I have one life to live. I could have died a thousand times over. Now, I just want to live and enjoy my life. If I don't fir somewhere, I can make my own entertainment. Just like I took some cardboard and made a house, I have the raw materials to make a decent life. 

I am resilient and so are you. An addict can do anything. If I can pull a bag out of the air and find a pill lost on a street corner, surely I can find a way to carve out some joy. Clean or using, you have so much to give this world. I believe it. This is who I am...

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Thursday, September 19, 2013

Picking at your bones

When the humanity has been sucked out of the using experience, you will know what I mean by saying people are willing to pick at your bones.

In the first tier of using hell, there are the straight up predators. These individuals are opportunist parasites looking for a chance to change their fortunes through brute force or deception. There is no easy way to pick them from a crowd. A "friend" may have copped for you 23 times but on the 24th, when you are REALLY sick, that is the moment they walk away never to return. Another creature simply provides you with sub standard product that may or may not make you sick in some way. A third type of predator will simply snatch and grab your money because they can take it. As a junkie, you are at the bottom of the food chain. You may catch up with them. The dope world is vast and very small at the same time. At that moment, you are simply another prey item with just a little less self esteem because you got burned in the game of odds.

In the race to the bottom, we find the type of person who turns a blind eye. They will pass you by while you are laying in the bed sick. They are the type of person who has a pocket full of money but is more than willing to share YOUR drugs. They will finish their own at home. Ring, ring, ring, text , ring. They won't answer your calls. They will let the dealer short you. They will get high with your girlfriend behind your back. You know the one.

Finally I have seen the scavengers pick at the bones. When I lived in the AIDS hotel, I heard stories of a man who was dying on his bed while people were clearing out his things. I have seen a person taken out in handcuffs. Ten minutes later, people were inside tossing their room. I have seen put a crack pipe to the lips of a man in a bed in a diaper- "he had money and he asked me to"- as he sank to less than 100 pounds. I have felt the pain of one hit too many and prayed "God please don't let me fall out. They will go through my shit while I am lying on the floor". Finally, I had a friend die of an asthma attack. I heard about it from someone that was there. She was gasping for air in the dope house for 45 minutes and no one wanted to call the ambulance.

Please don't let die a junkie. Please don't let this hit kill me. Please don't make my family come identify this body. Just let me get high as few moments more.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Masks part two

Here I am again. I am in the very same place. I am sitting on my couch reflecting on the day I let you in. I drove a wedge into your heart or was that the needle into my skin? I just wanted to hear you  buzzzzzzzz. The world had fuzzy edges. What is so odd, so different about me? It is hard for me to make a sentence when all you see is that I am using the wrong words.

I am sitting in the corner. I have a drink in my hand. I will have the same drink all night long. I feel the coldness. The perspiration on the glass. The bitter taste against my lips. This is not my poison.  I spend twenty minutes in the bathroom so I can sit at this table. Your conversation turns into my dream state as I slowly fade from view. I am here, and I am near but I am oh so far away

I hear your whispers. Yes, I am a fuck up. I am smart enough to know this world is fucked, so I am fucked up. Why don't I just get clean. Clean as in a place? Clean as in an object? Where do I go get some of this clean? I try and try and try and try again.

What is there behind the mask? The part than no one understands. A comfortable silence hidden just out of view. My double life is wearing out my soul. I have lost control.

Staring at Ceiling

Staring at the ceiling as the morning crawls into my conscious mind. Here I am again. The first words out of my mouth "I hate my fucking life. " I am too tired to kill myself. I am too strung out to stop . Addiction has put me In a place of suspended animation. I am frozen in this spot where my inaction is gnawing my body away with withdrawal. My flesh creeps up my neck and my legs are crawling up the sheets with twitches that would make Lazarus rise from the dead and beg for mercy.

How can I do do this again? I am too tired to scrounge the world. I am too sick to give up. Can I just lay here and be miserable. No bitch, get up. The monkey makes me cry in pain. I need a fucking fix, not a cure. I am not broken. I am just keenly aware that I am not in charge. GET UP NOW. My body resists the pull of the hustle.

I would get dressed but I fell asleep with my clothes on. I am in the special place. The fuck it place. I do not care what it takes today. I am going to get up and achieve the means to some ends. THIS is fucking happening today. If I could only get out of bed. Spin, spin, spin goes the walls. Turn, turn turn goes my stomach.

Like the Junkie Phoenix I will rise from this bed! The landscape will provide. I am both a hunter, a gatherer, and a scavenger of any tasty remnants. Let my self esteem be damned, I will go forth and and find a way score. If I could just sleep five minutes more...

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Love with out Judgement

This post is not full of horror stories. Sometimes I get myself upset when I recount my past. I was to talk to you readers about an entirely different topic. Making friends seems so easy to normal folk. When we see children in the sand box, they naturally determine some form of social order. They determine among themselves who can sit where. One wants to be close to their mother. Another child wants to share a bucket with others. When I think of my self as I child, I see my self as the child who is sitting in an area filled with opportunity, yet somehow I feel totally alone.

As a using addict, we know lonely like we know drugs. At first, we may use with a group of friends. But we are never satisfied when the party is over. We are sneaking off to the bathroom for something extra. At first, our behavior is accepted as a normal phase. Eventually, our circles become smaller and smaller. I knew I was an addict when I spent more time waiting for the dealer than in the company of friends. The only birthday presents I was receiving might be an extra hit in my package. There are no free drinks celebrated at TGIFridays. My payday is spent paying off debts incurred before the money even hit my hands.

The hardest part of being clean is finding a person that believes in your recovery. The hardest part of stopping drugs is feeling as if you are the only one. Find a friend. Find a life line. Find people who support your humanity. Yes, you may use drugs and you deserve happiness. You deserve to find a hobby, to find laughter, to find things that bring you joy on a daily basis. Our isolation pushes us farther in the cooker. The greatest crime is an addict who dies alone never understanding that they are loved by others.

I have been clean a long time. I still need people to love me just as much as I did fifteen years ago. I am an addict. I don't do well on my own. I belong in the company of my fellows. I have a purpose. I can make a difference. I reach my hand out to those who are hurting because I am that person. We all speak a language where poop, blood stains, and storage capacity in your anus are all acceptable topics of conversation. I can also talk about philosophy, literature, relationships, and programming languages.

The stigma will kill us. We need to step out of the shadows. Friendship and compassion are the highest forms of harm reduction. I hope more people will learn to love us without judgement until we can find a way to heal

Friday, September 13, 2013

Love in 40 Units

When we first got together, it was love at first bite. You left a bruise on my flesh to mark your territory. You never told me that we would be bonded in a lifelong embrace. You told me that you loved me that very first time. It was like sex and food and a warm blanket. You promised everything would be okay as long as we were together. You needed to be with me if I could just find a way. I knew at that moment, it was love in 40 units.

The next time was even better for me. I was not afraid of your love. I held on to the silky feeling of being reunited and it feels so GOOD. As I wipe off a bit of puke from my chin, you are moving in. You want me. ME! You picked me. All my friends are so clueless. The world is passing us by like a joyful dream dampened by the sunrise. I am with you. You are inside of me. We are one.

Again, again, again you call to me. Come see you. Just one more time. The sacrifices I make just for a few moments stolen for your presents. There are no longer gifts. They are stolen moments in time.

When I try to leave I am punished for my desire for independence. You pull the tourniquet a little tighter around my life. I cry in agony, my restless legs carry me. I am slipping from your grip when you invite me to cuddle. I fall into your pillow. I am so sleepy from our struggle. 

I am leaving you. Not today. Not this moment.

this is a pic a reader took of his drugs right before he ODed and almost died

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Anonymous from Atlanta

I’m afflicted with a disease that takes the greatest dreamers amongst us. A disease stigmatized by society and punished with ferocity.  I'm forced to live in a shroud of secrecy and deception.  I don’t think people really understand what it takes to be an addict.  A heroin addiction is not a fun or glamorous. After a brief honeymoon period, it is not even an enjoyable thing.  No, a dope addiction is a fucking chore.  A time suck.  A money pit.  A trust destroyer.  A soul stealer.  

People try to talk to me about how stressed they can be about life in general.  Perhaps it is their job, maybe their kids, or, more likely, some menial bullshit they’re placing far too much stock in.  Obviously, they’ve never dealt with the stress of a dope habit. I'm not trying to marginalize the lives of earthlings, but the stress of a habit contributes to one if the most intense experiences I've ever encountered, and it occurs on a regular basis. Dealers aren’t exactly the easiest people to deal with, nor the most savory, and dope isn’t really a regulated commodity either.  You’re gonna get ripped off.  You’re gonna get shit product.  You may get something cut with fent and OD likely going out on the greatest high you've ever experienced. You’re gonna wait five hours for your dealer when he said it would take one.  You’re gonna race through traffic on your lunch break to score, do a fat line, and finally ward off the sickness so you can get some work done.  You may even get a gun pulled on you.  You’re going to lie to love ones, destroy relationships, and manipulate those most important to you. You may be rolling in enough dough to finance a few days worth of habit at a time.  Enjoy, it won’t last long.  Eventually it’ll  be a daily thing because you’ll need to scrounge up the cash then and there.  The drugs will always run out.  There will never be enough.  If there is one universal truth for a junky, there it is. 

Sometimes I just want to say “Fuck your stress,” but I nod my head, smile, and sympathize with them as best I can.  I wish I could spill about the stresses of my life, but I refrain, afraid of the judgement that would come to pass over me.  So I’m silent.  The friends I once used with no longer hang around me because I’m trying to clean my act up.  I don’t know if they feel guilty about using around me or it forces them to confront their own use or they just don’t have any interest in hanging out with a clean me. Some ask me how things are going, but I can sense how disingenuous their act is, and I often feel as though they are just waiting for me to slip up further than I already have.  Fuck ‘em.  At the end of the day, I'm alone.  Alone with my affliction.  Alone with my demon, this crude little bastard that sits on my shoulder and whispers in my ear leaving me feeling like Theoden under the spell of Wormtongue.  Alone with myself; an individual I hardly know anymore.  Even in a room of thousands, I’m still alone with the secret that is slowly destroying me. 

When people think of addicts, the general picture isn’t a pleasant one.  A google image search results in hundreds of photos of gaunt looking individuals who appear as though they’ve lost every single last bit of hope they’d ever known.  Fortunately (maybe unfortunately?), I’m a junky that has managed to maintain some control over my life throughout the periods of active addiction. If you asked 10 people if I were an addict based on looks and surface information alone, all 10 would take one look at me and say there is no chance.  I take pride in my dress, keep my appearance up, and spend a few days a week in the gym. I have dated beautiful women and broken their hearts. I hold a wonderful job at a well known company, and excel in my position.  I’m totally self-sufficient and rely on nobody else to provide me with anything. I may be an addict, but I’m sure as fuck not going to use that as an excuse to let my life go to hell.  Granted, there are many mornings which I show up to work and sound fluish, but miraculously return from lunch looking like a ray of sunshine (and still hungry).  Nobody really pays any heed to me, though.  Most folks are way too wrapped up in their own lives to notice the subtle hints of my sickness. Still, I feel as if they all see right through me. I wonder what they’d think if they knew.  I wonder if they do know, and just don’t have the balls to say something about it.  Whatever the case, they’ll never understand my struggle, even if I did sit there and try to explain it to them.  My family cautiously watches from a distance. My mother worries, but I do my best to abate her fears. I've destroyed my fathers trust repeatedly, but I've started to be honest with him, and we've begun to foster a new relationship together. He may not be pleased with a lot of my actions, but at least we have a mutual respect for one another.

I never intended to get myself hooked on heroin.  It happened slowly.  The drug covertly altered the chemical makeup of my brain and it now says yes to drugs before I even have the opportunity to comprehend my actions. I often feel as though I am fighting a losing battle, that the deck is stacked against me. 

Addiction runs in my genes.  Two aunts on my fathers side are alcoholics (one in recovery), three cousins from that same side are either drug addicts or alcoholics, and my mother comes from a family of hard drinking rednecks. It’d be easy for me to just say fuck it and give into the whims of my impulses.  

I’m tired of this game, though.  I can’t keep hiding. I can’t keep lying. It has worn me out and I can’t keep it up.  I’m slowly slipping and eventually I’ll make that grave error if I continue along this dark and foggy path. Jails, institutions, death.  If you’ve been in the thick of it, you know those are the endpoints. So that’s it.  I’m giving it up.  I’ve gotten myself this far despite rampant substance abuse issues, and now it is time to see what is possible if I live to my full potential.  I’m excited about that, but I’m afraid of getting to know myself.  I’ve avoided building that individual relationship for so long that I’m frightened I won’t like what I find, but there is hope.  Sometimes it may not feel like much, but it is there.

I’m grasping to that sliver of hope as a child would clinch their mother’s hand in a crowded street. Sure, I’ve got white knuckles right now, but that is better than blue lips.   

Monday, September 9, 2013

What are the Words

If you have never been strung out on drugs, it is nearly impossible to explain what it is like to novice user. When someone tells you they are dabbling opiates, you first reaction may be one of panic. Oh my God, please do not do it! We are not sure if we want to hug this person for being so innocent or slap them for being so foolish as to play with literal fire. That warm fuzzy feeling of a few vicodin quickly was played out for many of us. We simply needed MORE. More please- do you have any more? Can I get some more? Do you need some more? Opiates set off the more center of our brain.

Sometimes I watch my husband drink a beer. I see the difference between a person like me and a person without any addiction issues in those moments. He pours a beer. He enjoys the taste. He selected the beer based on taste not price or alcohol volume. He looks at it. He studies it. He enjoys the taste. The beer may even sit there for an extended period of time while he has a conversation. In fact, he may sip on that same god damned beer for a whole dinner. Drink it. Drink IT!!!! He actually he enjoys the whole things appropriately while I am left puzzled by this behavior.

To me, a beer is the gateway to a few more. Then some crack or heroin or whatever is going to get me THE most fucked up. In fact, why even bother with that god damned beer. Or dinner. Or being social with another human being. I could take all that money and buy a hit. Fuck it.

Being an addict is a combination of MORE and FUCK IT. If I get some more, i am definately going to say fuck it. And by the way, fuck it, I am going to get some more. As the consequences pile up over time, we are left with a pile full of pieces that need to be picked up and rearranged into a workable life. Help me Junky Jesus. Help me find a way out of the fuck its, passed needing more, into I actually care about some thing, and let me rest on I am ok. 

Friday, September 6, 2013

Chewed at by Rats Circa 1995

I am rubbing my finger tips. I burnt them. I could not drop this cooker. Everything in my existence is in there. The burning of the lighter , the boiling of my fate. I see my dreams go up in vinegar smoke. I'm burning now. My skin is burning now. I am burning on the inside. My veins are fucking burning up from this shit. A hundred and something degrees of joy and sorrow up from legs to my brain. I burnt my fingers holding on to this cooker just a little too long. Fuck. Another injury.

Let me take some type of inventory. A miss here, yes, a big rope like collapsed bit of bruise over here.Hold on I still have my pants down as I am feeling the effects of my daily remedy. Let me pull my pants up. Did I realize how bad it really stank back here? Why did I decide to fix in the same alley where crackheads go to take a hurried shit. I brush my hair back into my baseball hat. I am sweating now. The heroin makes me sweat. I collect my accouterments of my use- a cooker, a lighter, i only had to use ONE syringe this time, cotton must be saved for later. I lick the plastic wrapper just in case. Coffee and vinegar go together like my morning. The sun is starting to come out. I shuffle away from the light. I find a shady wall and slide down. I am not going anywhere right now. The edges are just too fuzzy.

"WAKE UP"! I feel a kicking on my foot. I am bolted awake. The police? No. A Store owner is kicking me awake. Apparently they are not too happy I am blocking their doorway. Bad for business or something I suppose to have a junkie passed out as your store marquee.  My purse filled with all my drug stuff has spilled on into the doorway. I am picking up the pieces of my life. It is all here on display. No money, no ID, no pictures-just some drug essentials and a few numbers written on a napkin. 

Where does my hustle start and where does it end? I am not sure any more. The only thing certain in my life is that I need drugs. I NEED them. I need these drugs to live. I need 25 cents too so i can get a nutty buddy from the corner store. I am craving something with sugar. Great a do-gooder wants to stop and talk.

"Not every junkie day is filled with some type of existential moment where I am forced to ponder the meaning of my life. Yes, my life may be fucked but I am living it the way I want to live it. I want my fucking heroin, my freedom, a god damn snack. My destiny is entirely in my hands. Now hit me up in twelve hours when I have no money, no dope, no action. THEN we might be able to talk". I am so itchy this guy must think I have bugs.

"Are you going to buy me a snack or what homey? I am pouring my fucking heart out here." 

He brings me out my prize. My honesty has been rewarded for the first time in years. I wave a quiet thank you. My day is full of possibilities. I might go to jail. I might OD. I might make five hundred bucks and go inside for a week. My life is entirely in my hands, the same hands that I burnt on the cooker.  
This is what it was like...

My legs look like they have been chewed at by rats

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

The Queen of my Heart

Have you ever loved some one so much they "made" you do crazy stupid things? I loved her. I loved this woman. She was the queen of my heart. Love can take many forms. There is a familia love. That is the love you have for some one close to you. They do not have to be your blood but they feel like family. There is a sexual love. This is a love where two people become entwined in a physical embrace that leads to spontaneous declarations. Then there is junkie love. Junkie love is the strongest force behind the pull of a strong blood register in a full syringe. 

 Junkie love is a mixture of sex, drugs, mystery, and insanity. Without even so much as an orgasm, you are intrinsically bonded to another human being. THEY understand me. This person knows me from the bottom, to me lying on the floor and up. The blood, the love, the pain, the  struggle just to maintain my sense of normal. 

She was the queen of my heart. She made me crazy in a way I never felt until that day. Those eyes saw right through my trembling facade. You see me. I am more than all the things I do to muddle through my habit. I am alive with your recognition. You love my misses and my tired old veins. The drop of blood on my pants doesn't turn you away from the narrative I construct with you my heroin(e).

I am completely fucked with out you. I cried naked in the hallway outside your door. You make me crazy. I make you miserable. I wish I could have held on to but I loved my dope a little more...

Monday, September 2, 2013

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Can I get a hit?

I am sitting in this bathroom searching for a vein. I paid $5 to get into the hotel. They let me up without ID. This is the only place I can go and take my shoes and pants completely off of me. I wonder what the workers think when they catch my bare legs out of the corner of their eye. Do they think I am picking at myself? Do they think I am insane? Do they wish that they had the type of freedom I enjoy as a homeless junkie living in an open air sewer known as the Tenderloin. Do they cover their child's eyes and silently pray that this will never happen to them.

The blood, blood! A register is a welcome addition to my miserable morning. FUCK. I can see the miss as it happens. The pain in the foot. These veins are just too damn small for the size hit I need to make me feel better. It is clogging- the rig the rig is clogging up with my precious drugs frozen in 50 units of purgatory. I am going to have to switch rigs again. CHRIST! Can not catch a break.

People are pounding on the door. They have the verve to want to get in here to take a bath. Ha. I am in here now motherfucker. I paid to get in here. I have blown through almost a whole ten pack and I still have twenty bloody units. How long have I been in here? I lean back against the bathtub. The porcelain is cool and inviting to my weary head. Maybe I can just sit here for a few minutes. Maybe I can rest here. The dope was good this time. The floor is covered in bloody alcohol wipes, my pants, my socks, eight syringes, my shoes, two cookers, and a the not so sterile water. Ah, let me just rest here.

I open my eyes. SOMEONE is banging on the door. Fuck. It is dark outside. How long have I been asleep. What that fuck is going on here? Look at this! I still have the rest of this hit. And I paid five dollars to get in here. I might actually take a shower.