Sunday, December 28, 2014
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Monday, December 22, 2014
Sunday, December 14, 2014
This time of year the church people and the do gooders of the world take a day here and there to be kind to us homeless. 362 days in the calendar, they simply cannot be bothered. They are easily irritated if someone in front of them in line pulls out food stamps. They want to know if he paid for that steak with his welfare check. "Are my tax dollars going to buy that beer?" they wonder in disgust as they step over my feet. Compassion comes in the form of blankets, socks, and warm beverages.
The irony of public benefit is that the agony people are put through for $175 every two weeks is rarely worth the money. Welfare requires waiting in line and in hard chairs 8 hours, being finger printed, and asked to sweep the streets. The same job pays $20 to city employees but the city gets people on welfare to do the job for $15 a day. Fuck that shit. The only time I had welfare for a few months, I had a raging case of Hepatitis A. Your eyes and skin turn a yellowish color. Your piss turns brown and your poop turns white. Needless to say, my worker had pity on me and let me stay home for a month to get better. I took a week off from turning dates but could not afford much longer with a habit to feed and rent that was $120 a week. When I decided I no longer was willing to prostitute myself to keep a roof over my head, I ended up on the streets.
I lied to get in here today. My drag queen friend and I both lied. I think we were supposed to be much younger. We are not the target homeless. People have less compassion for us at 25 and 26 respectively. We didn't actually lie, we just blended in. I looked much younger than me age. Or at least I thought I did. The men used to pick me up and ask me- how old are you? I would tell them 22. They would tell me to get out of the car until I told them NO NO. I am 16. They wanted me to be 16. They were not interested in me being of age. The specifically wanted me to be younger. One guy took me to a trailer right before Christmas. It was on the side of a property he owned. Inside the trailer, he had a bed. It was a princess bed, with a canopy, like the kind a 10 year old girl would have. With dolls on the side on makeshift shelves. He wanted to fuck me on the princess bed. People wonder why I can't stop using drugs. Because I know there are men out there pretending to be normal while they take young hookers on princess beds. I tried to shut this out of my mind while I got passed the hot chocolate.
I haven't seen my family in a year? Two years? Another Christmas spent alone again. My friend tries to cheer me up by handing me a new pair of shoes. They have long tables full of donated items. We can all take a few things. These are $20 shoes from Payless that hurt my feet within 20 minutes of walking in them. At least they look nice. I would get arrested in them for selling drugs to pay my rent, the day after Christmas.
I am sitting against the wall wondering if there is something I could sell here? I don't need to steal. They will just give it to me. They can give me a few trinkets but they can't give me what I need. Can they turn back the clock on the past 5 years? Can they take the needle back out of my arm? Can they repair my self worth and restore me to a feeling of belonging in the company of friends? No one can save me. No one can help me. I am out on the street again. I am full of food with a backpack full of donated stuff. I have empty veins, A broken heart, and a void in my life than can only be filled when I fell that rush. Then, it will be Christmas time again.
Monday, December 8, 2014
I moved out of my parents house when I was three weeks shy of 18 years old. I was still in high school. It was weird to transport myself from my apartment to high school. I thought I was so grown up. My parents agreed to help me with college expenses. I had such a bright future. I was such a bright kid. I was taking vicodin here and there. Some acid from time to time. Smoking weed every day. Drinking until I blacked out. You know how it goes.
It wasn't long before I saw a different side of the world. I lost my virginity to my first serious boyfriend my last year in high school. I thought it was true love always. Within a few years, I would be trading sex for drugs. Because that is where the drugs lead me. I had always wanted someone to love me. I grew up an overweight smart girl with glasses. I always wanted someone to love me most of all. When I took those first few pills, I saw myself the way I had always imagined. I was thinner, more confident, and most of all I did not give a damn what anyone thought. Until the next day.
I remember getting drunk and beating up my roommate. She had left rehab and seemed to always be whispering about me. I had confided in her and she abused my trust. One night, in front of a room full of people, I snapped and kicked her door in. As I was hitting her, I realized all the anger of my 18 years of Earth was coming out. I could have killed her. I stopped myself. I couldn't take my emotions. It wasn't her, it was me. I pulled her up and told her to get the fuck out and never come back. I destroy everything I touch.
My parents dragged themselves across town a few days later. This was only one of two times they ever visited my apartment. They shook their heads in disappointment. How could I have done such things? How could I be such a monster? I didn't know either. I didn't know why I did anything. All I knew is that I grew up with my father drunk and my mother crying on the couch because she couldn't save him. All I knew was that I tried drugs at 7. All I knew is that there were all these things inside of me and no one cared, least of all myself.
Why did I want to try heroin? Why not? The feeling, the absence of pain, was what I craved. That feeling of fuck it and numbness that rolls over you. It is the only thing that can push crippling depression into the backseat and tells it -let me drive for awhile. Heroin is a drug for people that think to much. Heroin is for sensitive people who have trouble relating to the world. Heroin is for the person whose words get stuck in their throat. Heroin is for the person who sees the world and wants to watch it burn. That was me.
I used to sit and dream of home. A home that never existed. I imagined a home where I felt safe. People loved me there. I was okay within my skin. I did not need to use drugs. I would nod out after injecting a half gram of infectious poison into my body withering of starvation and dream of a place where I could be accepted for myself. I never found that place until I quit using.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
THAT'S BECAUSE IT IS COLD OUTSIDE. I yell in my mind.
I hate dealing with amateur hour. When you are a user of a year or more, you should at LEAST know how to hit yourself. C'mon. This girl is in the same situation that I was. When I started using, I didn't know how to properly use a needle. I was always depending on others to stick me. What is even more troubling is that, you are putting you life in their hands. You are trusting them to make sure enough is not actually TOO much. This person you rely on is both a doctor and a chemist. They have to mix up the precise dosage. Otherwise, they may kill you.
I think 22 year old girls all seemed to have learned from older guys with prison tattoos and a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He is quick, he can whip the shoelace out of his boot in less than ten seconds. He has a stab wound next to a faded cross on his muscle that is slowly softening and drying up as the days between him and his last prison term get wider and wider. He walked out the gate that day with the best of intentions. He was not going to use, only drink a little. Now, a couple weeks later he is convincing his new girlfriend that snorting that shit is a waste. He is creating a new vampire like his uncle made him. Death is better shared among lovers and friends and misery loves company. What starts out as a gift becomes a curse.
We are sitting between two cars in a parking lot. She doesn't trust me enough to take me to her apartment. She didn't say it but there is absolutely no reason we should be out in the open committing a felony through injection except she is too afraid I might steal a bottle of her Calvin Klein perfume or ten dollars from her coin jar. She doesn't trust me to come to her apartment but she trusts me to jab a fucking needle in her arm.
"Look" I tell her "Just hold still."
Her boyfriend left her with a mess. Well, he didn't actually leave. He was taken away in handcuffs. He had found himself some innocent girl he met at the bar. She was going to school for art before it got a hold of her. Her parents think she is just taking a semester off when in fact she is using their money to support both their dope habits. She loved him so she wanted to try it. A little bit here and there at first. Well he created a monster. She is strung out with no ability to care for her needs. In other words, a victim searching for a crime.
Her smooth white skin reveals little in the way of veins. I suspect he has been watering down her shit the whole time so I did the same. She brought enough for a quarter but a gave her much less than half. She is depending on me for everything. I won't disappoint her. I promised her that I would go second. But now this bitch is getting on my nerves. Have you tried to hit a no vein, whiny, underweight, entitled newcomer between two cars in the wintertime when every piece of blue is hidden underneath goosebumps?
I give up. I smile at her to let her know this fucked up situation is okay as she turns her head with dry heaves. She said she was sick. She wasn't lying.
"I am taking off your shoe" I tell her. The only warm place left on her is her foot. We have been out here far too long.
Bingo! With the speed of skillful opiate inoculation, I hit my target on the top of her foot. She winces and cries until I start rubbing her leg. I see the warmth travel up, up, up. And then she briefly grins as she falls backwards. Holy fuck. I've killed her.
Did I mention I haven't even fixed yet an I am fucking sick too. Now this fucking girl has gone too far falling fucking out in the parking lot. In a split second, I have to debate my options. Do I fix then save her? Do I save her then fix? Do I leave her? Do I fix, then leave her? Do I fix,then leave her, then call 911? Do I see is she has more money before I leave her? What the fuck. I don't even know this bitch. Her boyfriend just asked me to look out for her. And she won't even let me in her apartment. UGH.
As I bend down on two newspapers to get near her head which fell with a soft thud on to the concrete, she slowly opens her eyes and asks "Why are you on top of me? I was just meditating."
Now, I truly have heard it all. This chick just ODed on less than a half a bag and thinks she is meditating. Your boyfriend got you strung out, took all your money, took over your place, got you to drop out of school, and has been watering your stuff down so bad that you fell out on half a bag and you think you are meditating?!!!!!
I tell her "let me help you up" because I am fucking out of here. I prop her up so she can "meditate" for another minute meaning nod till her eyes cross. As I stab myself in the leg, I realize yet again that the easiest of hustles are never easy. All "free" dope comes at a high price.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
My reality is quite different. My prince charming isn't so fucking charming this morning because he is sick. He is laying curled up under the comforter with cigarette burns while I pull on my dirty socks. He is tall, around six feet, and probably weighs 145 pounds. The only scales around here weigh out points and grams. Next to his side of the bed, he has a picture of GG Allin and a plastic figure of THE TICK from the comic books. I can't really use him as a pillow because he is so bony. Some times he rests his head on my lap so I can hit him in the neck. The only time my head seems to go against his chest is to see if he still alive.
"Are you almost ready to baby?" I ask him as I shake his foot.
Our pet names for each other seem so ridiculous at this stage in the game. I love this man. I do. I love him as much as my heart will allow. But every single day, there is a constant wave of criticism that comes from living with an addict that is unhappy with themselves. Neither one of us minds the term "Junkie". In fact, I think we both embraced it at first. We started down that path separately and now we trudge down it together.
I try to pull him up but realize this is something he has to do on his own.
Neither one of us has had a fix. That means, we have to get moving. We saved some beat cottons but that did nothing but leave a scabby hole and a feeling of regret. Trying to get him to save a wake up for the morning is an exercise in futility. Once he gets going on the crack, he wants that landing gear. I hate crack. I hate the smell. I hate the way it makes people act. That's why I sneak off and do some speed here and there. So much cheaper. Crack is like a money pit. You pour $20 dollar bills down that hole and wake up on the carpet six hours later.
He pulls himself out of bed and wipes the dust out of his puffy eyes. "Okay" he tells me "Let's do it".
It is hard getting warm when strung out. There is a feeling of cold that seems to seep into your very core. It is even harder when you are dope sick. The feeling is just creeping up slowly like a flu with a timetable. I know exactly how I am going to be feeling if we don't hurry the fuck up. This scheme is his idea. I would much rather be trying just about anything else. I find standing on corners literally begging for people to get me well more effective than his ideas. But we are supposed to be a couple and he pretends to have some self esteem left. We are dressed exactly alike- hoodie, socks to our knees, cut off shorts, two or three shirts, canvas shoes. He helps me navigate the streets because my glasses are fogging up in the drizzle. At least, it isn't a full on rain when we get up the hill from Ellis.
The line is already snaking down the block. He could read my mind thinking fuck this when he drags me forward. He looks at me to say "no we are in this together". This would be the hustle of the morning as he had declared last night. We would be waiting for hours in the drizzle in this line at the church to get groceries for Thanksgiving. I had never tried this before despite living in the city for a few years. I sold my Christmas presents for drugs one year. Another I got arrested an Christmas eve for prostitution. He promised me this year would be different. We were told they will give us a frozen turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and everything we need to make a dinner "at home". This idea is laughable as we live in a hotel with no cooking facilities, a room with no microwave, and barely eat. Then we can walk right down the street and sell our $80 worth of groceries for $10 cash. Seems like a bargain.
I see the Christmas lights in the windows of the Church. It makes me wonder what human beings do this time of year. Being part of the normal world seems so long ago. Eating turkey on the special table, with the special dishes, with the smell of roast bird filling the house for winter days to come. I miss laying on the couch full of food watching football with that feeling that everything is right with the world. Instead, I am shivering in line to get a box of food I will sell for $10 to get my morning fix while life passes me by.
In fact, after he gets a fix he is leaving me to visit his mother. I will be pursuing the next leg of my hustle on my own. He swears he is going to ask her for $50. I suspect he will come back drunk and sick instead. In a few hours, the streets will be empty. The only thing left out here will be me, my habit, and painful memory of another holiday spent strung out.
People put so much emphasis on the holiday season. Don't fall into that trap. Do what you can to take care of yourself. If you use, take steps to be safe. If you are in early recovery, avoid expectations. Make your own joy and reflect on how far you have come.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
What am I supposed to do? Let him sleep? Wake him up?
Dope is supposed to be this cure all pain killer but what happens when the pain is so deep nothing will make it go away, not even your dreams.
He rolls back over away from me. "Crying" he tells me "I was fucking crying" I can see him wipe his face.
His brown hair hits the pillow in a way that I can his eyes slowly close. I know he isn't sleeping. He is not escaping whatever penetrated him when he had no defenses.
This moment would almost seem normal if it did not involve us. Two young people in bed, the light streaming in through the window hitting the bare skin on his shoulder. I am in his boxer shorts and t-shirt snug under his comforter. There is food from last night at the edge of the bed from snacks we devoured. Our clothes are strewn about the floor. As soon as we hit the door at 2:30 am we ripped them of our longing bodies. We could not wait for that moment when we could be alone. Just me, and him, and his drugs in my veins.
A few hours earlier, I was wrapping my thighs up with a shoelace while he was doing pushups in the corner. He needed me to hit him in his chest. He made his money with the illusion that he was straight and healthy. He still had just enough muscle tone and clean arms for the dates to pay extra. Joe and I hooked up from time to time, but it never was what I expected. He was a businessman with extra ordinary skills from what i was told. He did his best work at bars, when the horny queens felt a sense of victory as they walked away with a young stud that showed zero interest in anyone but them ( and their bulging wallet). I never asked what he did with them but I certainly understood why. I was in my sleeping bag when he approached me with a few warm hundreds in his hand. The money involved things he did not want to discuss and I was more than happy to stay silent. I would crawl out of his blankets and follow him wherever he wanted to go.
He looks so beautiful in the light. I curled up behind him. When he comes and gets me in the alley, I know what he wants from me. We go through this routine a few times a month. He wants to do his half gram shots and feel normal. I never see him nod, only the tiny pupils in his blue eyes tell me he is high again.
I could get used to this feeling, except it came at a high price. He will walk out me sometime before dark. No sex, no commitment, and no expectations. He tells me that he isn't attracted to me yet repeats this cycle over and over. There won't even be a hug goodbye. He just sends me out into the world like I left it, cold and alone.
I don't know what happened to Joe or the dozens of other hustlers I knew just like him. I suppose some got clean. Some died. Some went to prison. I don't know if he ever thinks about me or the quiet nights we spent together trying to feel something and nothing at the same time.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Friday, November 7, 2014
It all happened so fast. The dark became even darker. I was dead even before feeling nothing. I was feeling cold on a 79°F night. My face, a face without any expression was getting lost inside a mirror, without reflection. I felt the last beat of my heart, and later on I felt the cold of this burned concrete field. After quite a time, a pulse. Covered by a astonishing sobriety, I only visualized that fucking addict smoking all my crack while I nodded off one more time. Helpless, I recovered myself from a overdose just like a corpse fighting to live again.
There I could guess that there was nothing, but the few remainings that was left for me to be anything. I stood up and went off dragging my feet on the asphalt into the darkest side of the street.
The fear of walking on the light was not just for not having to face the reality, but it was also due to the fear of the contrast between the external clarity and my internal murkiness.
11:50 PM. I recovered my mind with a liquour shot to be, one more time, the God of my miserable world and restless remake the lights that turn off everyday.
Faça-se a luz!
E num riscar de isqueiro
manifestavam-se minhas obsessões, flutuantes em um entardecer transcendental, como silhuetas, sozinhas vagueavam para um emaranhado de sombras no abater do dia. Abraçado pelos muros úmidos da cidade acizentada, esvairecia do meu ser a essência que preenchia a lacuna de seus becos improvisados por um amontoado de casas, que em degradee, com tons de melancolia, borravam a rua desde o plúmbeo opaco dos blocos molhados e mal erguidos até a última matiz amadeirada do último barraco, de onde ainda se podia ver o lívido amarelo da luz do último poste luminescente ainda aceso.
Talvez de longe, somente por alguns instantes, eu pudesse tomar uma forma clara novamente, diante daquele fascinante fulgor que dançava para o vento frio, como um vestido alaranjado tremulante, reluzente à noite.
Rapidamente meus desejos derretiam como palavras que estalavam com imperativo tom que ia despindo a claridade do meu ser perante o olhar abissal do escuro.
As ruas calavam-se como reféns da paisagem mórbida do subúrbio de São Paulo. Era tudo tão silencioso que meus passos pareciam ranger com voracidade para o vazio que devolvia em ecos selvagens a paranóia de ser perseguido pelo atrasado som que fazia o descolar do meu solado, batendo entre o chão de concreto queimado e a planta dos meus pés, gradativamente.
Sentia ódio de mim memso por fazer daquela pequena chama as trevas daqueles poucos segundos que perdurariam como cárceres eternos de uma lúgubre vida. Temia aquele soturno breu desde os buracos dos meus sapatos até o limbo das minhas pupilas dilatadas. Então já não mais sabia se era noite ou se era o céu da manhã coberto pela fuligem. Eu me perdi dentro de mim. Entre toda aquela fumaça que me cegava, eu tinha apenas uma única certeza : seguir a maldita luz.
Meus olhos varriam incessantemente o panorama por debaixo dos meus pés, naquele metro cúbico, entre um degrau e outro, deslizando as mãos até a limiar do campo acimentado, procurando resquícios do que em mim era latente, obducto em meus bolsos.
Provavelmente, haviam em números nos meus bolsos mais pedras de crack do que eu tinha de idade.
Quando eu tinha 7 anos, minha inocência cantarolava sonhos para o meu obsoleto futuro. Enquanto eu desenhava com um pedaço de lápis quebrado em um papel amassado a família dos meus desejos, imaginava usar terno e gravata aos 20 anos, enquanto apertava os passos pela Avenida Paulista,sem rumo, simplesmente apressado e indiferente como todos os adultos. Logo meus sonhos eram interrompidos por socos vindo dos punhos grandes do meu pai, envoltos em uma mistura de tabaco barato e álcool, e as súplicas da minha mãe, mulher que vendeu a independência pela tola promessa ilusória de um Martini com cereja.
Mergulhado nas circunstâncias exteriores das minhas razões justificadas pelas frustrações de uma infância melancólica, frustrada e estarrecida,cada trago trazia à tona amargas lembranças.
Aos 3 anos de idade eu era espancado pela babá. Com o corpo cheio de hematomas eu enfrentava a pré-escola submerso na frase "se você contar para alguém, mato você e seu irmão". Aos 5 anos comecei a tomar conhecimento das desavenças e do alcoolismo do meu pai, que desesperadamente minha mãe tentava esconder sem sucesso. Aos 7 anos eu era obrigado a me alcoolizar quase todas as noites nos rituais da religião dos familiares do meu pai. Aos 8 anos eu passava as madrugadas acordado, ouvindo do outro lado da parede o choro da minha mãe, enquanto meu pai à estuprava sem piedade a noite inteira. Aos 9 anos foi a minha vez de ser estuprado. No mesmo ano tentei suicídio, porém, sem sucesso. Aos 10 anos tentei esfaquear meu pai enquanto ele dormia, porém, também sem sucesso. Aos 12 anos, lentamente comecei a abandonar os estudos. Aos 13 eu comecei a usar drogas ilícitas.
Caráter lapidado pelas frustrações na infância, cego pelo crack, os únicos sentimentos, claros como a velha chama ininterrupta eram o ódio e a dor.
Próximo dos meus 18 anos, que passaram como 18 séculos, ainda sofria calado, ouvindo os gritos de desesperança e agonia dentro da minha cabeça.
Enquanto bêbado, quebrava as pedras de crack com os dentes e o outro viciado do meu lado esticava um guardanapo de bar, cheio de marcas de dedos sujos enquanto o preenchia com maconha mofada.
Só de pensar em não fumar eu sentia náusea. Dentro das crises de vômito, minhas alucinações esquizofrênicas misturadas com a realidade que me circulava, sussuravam que eu provavelmente morreria alvejado por um policial da Ronda Ostensiva, extremista de direita, frustrado por não enclausurar viciados em cubículo de 3 metros de altura por 3 metros de comprimento e se divertir alimentando o seu sadismo de me ver sangrando no fundo de uma cela cheia de tuberculosos.
Eu não conseguia fracionar o tempo entre um chewy com 4 pedras de crack e outro. O ar era denso, o clima tenso, a fumaça era prateada. Incessantemente segurando a respiração entre um trago e outro, extinguindo o tempo estritamente, enquanto preparava mais um chewy com 4 pedras, aguardando sem saber se estaria vivo, apenas para fumar todas as bitucas de chewy em um cachimbo, a caminho do ponto de tráfico pra comprar mais drogas com dinheiro roubado. Essas eram as minhas preocupações, enquanto me drogava ferozmente, com a obsessão de um carnívoro dilacerando sua árdua caça.
Tudo acontecia tão rápido. O escuro ficava mais escuro. Eu estava morto antes mesmo de eu não sentir quse nada. Sentindo frio em uma noite de 26° C. Meu rosto, um rosto sem expressão ia se perdendo dentro de um espelho interior, sem reflexo. Senti a última batida do coração, depois o frio do campo de concreto queimado. Após um tempo indeterminado, uma pulsação. Recoberto por uma lucidez atormentante, visualizei apenas aquele viciado fumando todo meu crack enquanto eu apagava mais uma vez. Sem a ajuda de ninguém, me recobrei de uma overdose como um cadáver que arriscava viver novamente.
Ali eu pude deduzir que não havia nada, a não ser o pouco que me restava para nada ser. Me levantei e saí arrastando os pés pelo asfalto, no sentido mais escuro da rua.
O medo de caminhar pela luz não era simplesmente por não querer enfrentar diante da própria luz uma realidade há muito explícita, mas implicitamente era o medo do contraste que tinha entre a claridade do exterior o brumo do meu interior.
23h50. Recobrando a consciência com um copo de conhaque para novamente ser o deus do meu desprezível mundo e refazer incansavelmente a luz que se extingue todos os dias dentro dele.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
Thursday, October 30, 2014
I try to lean up when I notice my arm has gone completely numb. I must have "slept" on it the wrong way. There is no light in here. Someone has covered the only window with cardboard. The room smells like sulfur, butane, and the faint smell of ass. That old fart smell. I know There is a light around here somewhere if I could only wake my arm up to grab my glasses off the nightstand. As I reach up to scratch my nose, I my glasses are on my face. I can't see because I am having trouble keeping my eyes open.
I am bolted awake by and alarm. What the fuck is happening here. I hear something slam again the wall. No more alarm to worry about. The light is on now, blasting into my face. He took the shade off the lamp, but I don't see him. I notice something in my mouth. The fucking cinnamon roll. I never did finish chewing it. God damn. Ugh. I see it now, smeared across my lap. I must have fell asleep half propped up, while I was eating the cinnamon roll. Everything is slowly coming into focus.
My eyes travel to the side of the bed. Ah ha. There is the culprit right there. I see the pill bottle and pick it up with the tingling arm. Whatever was in here is long gone. "May cause drowsiness". Ain't that the truth. The only thing that would cause a night like this is a klonopin, or 2, or 4. Oh my. As my gaze gets adjusted I see the blood on my arm. It looks like I was hacking on my arm while I was dipping on some benzos. I have a softball sized bruise near my elbow.
FUCK. The alarm goes off again.
"SHUT THAT OFFFFFFF!" he yells.
I hear a voice. Where is that coming from? I lean over to the other side of the bed. There he is. Above a torn piece of carpet, I see a sweaty man. He is around 20 years old with bad skin and darting eyes. His fingers are red. His shirt is off so I can see the greasy layer of ribs leading down to his belt. I am not sure how long I have been sleeping but apparently my host never got any rest.
Without so much as giving me a sideways glance to break from his carpet surfing he hisses "Can you turn off that fucking alarm?"
I step over his back and grab it. It is the least I can do. He let me stay the night.
I pat him gently on the shoulder "hey man, I guess that means you aren't going to make it to work this morning."
I crawl back into his bed. I am not sure why he invited me here. He said it was because he didn't want to be alone. I can understand that, I can understand him. If I can get him off that floor, I might want to cuddle ESPECIALLY since I ate up all his comedown. In the meantime, I will catch a few moments of sleep. Soon, it will be check out time and I am not sure of he has any more money. We are living the dream, the dope fiend and the rock star.
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...
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Anyway, that particular day I was sick out of my god damn mind. A female hustler has a tendency to gravitate towards hard luck cases. Deep inside, we wish we could care for pets or children, so we care for adult men with dope habits. In this case, I had picked a real winner. The man was a vet. I could not imagine it, but that was what he said to me. I imagine he was kicked out of the military for being a sissy. I don't just mean gay I mean he was a flaming queen yet so hideously ugly, "queen" does not seem the correct term. I imagine he wasn't sucking any random cock in his current condition. He had long unkempt hair that was a rusty red like ginger Jesus. He had long dirty finger nails and broken glasses. The worst part was his green teeth. I am not even sure how teeth got that color. I had never seen any thing like that in my life before or since.
He used to tell me about how fine he was in his youth. I found that claim to be somewhat dubious. But then, I had to think about myself. How would I look with ten or fifteen more years on the street. I was relatively young at 24. I would see the progression as people came to the city. They got chewed up and spit out by the streets. The beautiful young men became shells of their former selves. Maybe he was telling the truth. Either way, I felt safer with someone then being alone in the world. We would sleep in the doorway at night reading books and dreaming of the great come up that was never going to happen for us. My life was filled with characters that came in and out of my life. This one was a cross between a troll and leprechaun with a monkey on his back.
He irritated me but at least he made me feel safe. He wasn't going to rape me in my sleep, that is always a plus. He did give me a wicked case of body lice from sharing blankets with him. I liked him because I hated everyone else. Most of all, I hated myself. He would tolerate my suicide as long as I was willing to share a bag or two with him. Since he had no looks, no hustle, no charm- that was enough- to listen to me. Well, I guess he did have a hustle. He worked the shit out of me.
I was sick that day- so motherfucking sick. Most days I *tried* to save myself a wake-up. Try was the key word. I never was one of those "Let's do it all and fuck tomorrow people". Those people got on my nerves. Those people were poor planners. I was more of a heroin maintenance type. I wanted not to feel anything 24/7, not just feel numb a few hours a day. I needed this hit. I had taken me allllll day to hustle up money for a half gram.
We went behind the jack in the box. The Alley was a mixture of food garbage, broken crack pipes, socks that had been used to wipe dirty asses, and human waste. This was the closest place. I trusted my little troll friend to get my shot ready for me. He was generally quick. I also found it EXTREMELY irritating that he could find a vein in two seconds while I struggled in some door way with a shoe lace and my leg over my head trying to find a vein. Time and Tar had been cruel to my dope pathways. These bitches had shut the fuck down.
Then, the impossible happened. It really did. The trollmaster was gently swaying the lighter under the cooker when he screamed "OUCH" and dropped the fucking cooker into the ocean of filth that lie on the concrete. If you have never seen a junkie cry spontaneously, imagine the look when your hopes and dreams went into the gutter with your $50 and your chance to get well.
"WHAT THE FUCKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. I am sure someone dropped their Jumbo Jack from the volume of my high pitched squeal. My God. The agony I felt that day. It took every ounce of strength not to beat his fucking ass. I had no strength. UGH. I turned to the side and dry heaved into the street. And then- you know what comes next- I picked the cooker out of the gutter to see if ANYTHING could be salvaged. One pathetic rinse was left. He had the nerve to ask me if I would share it. Fuck to the no. Kick rocks troll man.
That was the end to a great friendship. Ok, Ok, not really the end. He ripped me off for my last $19 on Thanksgiving. Walked off with my money went I sent him for a bag. If it wasn't for bad luck, i wouldn't have any at all. Just the daily grind of a heroin addict that rolled on for a few more years before I finally got clean.