Friday, May 22, 2015

Not today

I used to firmly believe that drugs were not my problem.
I believed the lack of drugs was my problem.
If I only had an endless supply of drugs, I would be fine.


It was a scorching summer morning, a rarity for San Francisco. It had been impossible to sleep the night before. The heat of the approaching midday made me feel as if my eyeballs were going to explode. I felt as if I was going to have a seizure. My legs were twitching so hard, they felt as if they were going to rip off my body. Speed will help, he said. Just try this, he said. Complete and utter misery was what I was calling it.

My friend and camp mate had given me an ultimatum. I needed to kick heroin or else. Everyone was "sick of my shit" or whatever that meant. We camped in a perfect spot between an empty lot and a restaraunt that was closed. The only cars that were parked up here were the occassional guy jacking off before he went home to the wife. You would see the bundle of tissues stuck to the sidewalk after he left. He had pulled them out of the tissue dispenser shaped like a chihahau his old lady had mounted to the dashboard. I felt sorry for these guys. Their women had them so pussy whipped they couldn't even keep their dirty magazines at home. They would dump them next to their pile of dna and occassionaly we would find a half used bottle of vaseline.

Sick of MY shit, I thought to myself. It was so hot out, I was sticking to my blankets. It was day two now. I wasn't able to go anywhere, do anything. If the cops came to ask us to move, I would be unable to pack up my gear. My friend and I had an agreement. He would give me a hit of speed every eight hours until I was done kicking. There was one, small, painful catch. Fuck speed. Seriously. Fuck this shit. Plus, he wanted me to smoke it with him. This means I had to sit and listen to him talk and talk and talk and talk. My friend had been to rehab before so he was the fucking expert on being clean.

"What you need to do," he told me as he puffed on the glass dick "is go to some meetings after you quit."

I laughed to myself. "Meeeetings. yeah right," I told him "I went to a meeting when I was 17. My friend and I went to a meeting. Then we got the beers out of the trunk and drank in the parking lot. Fuck meetings."

I was laying here with fucking leg cramps that felt like I was kicking myself in circle. I was twitching like a fish out of water. I leaned over and dry heaved into the street. I didn't have the energy to get up. My eyes were starting to water when I heard a voice. It was the voice of HOPE. Not a person named hope. This was the voice of an angel. I heard the voice of someone who I know does heroin. He was asking for a syringe a few shopping carts down.

"TOM!" I screamed. I didn't hear any movement.

"TOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!" I screamed even louder. That made him move.

I heard footsteps then I heard someone moving my tarp. I saw him there. In the hot morning sun, he looked like the angel of mercy. There was a light behind him. He was illuminated like the patron saint of junkies. He was delivered here to save me.
I rolled over to my side.
"Tom," pleading with him "Please help me. Dude, I am so sick."
"Buttt," he stuttered "You are supposed to be kicking."

I gave him the stink eye. I curled myself in a ball. "Tom," I told him "please fucking help me."

He plopped himself down. "Okay, Okay." he assured me. "I don't have much." He was fucking lying of course. I knew him. Plus, he owed me one. When he got out of prison, I fucked him, just because. It was a welcome home present of sorts. He owed me and I was collecting.

He ripped the plastic off the top of a ten pack and started getting busy. Tom was a fucking tight ass with his drugs. Seriously. He irritated the fuck out of me but I needed him. We were both in deep shit if my friend came back. I needed someone to blame. It would be all Tom's fault. He tempted me.

Tom gave me the medicine which I took in record haste. I felt human again for a split second. Tom was fiddling around next to me. I could see he had lost most of the muscle tone he had gained in his 16 months in prison. He still had the semi skater boy six pack and a tan. He wasn't even old enough to grow a real moustache but he was old enough to go to prison for breaking into too many cars. Isn't that a bitch?

"TOOOOOOMMMMMM," I heard a voice call "What the fuck dude?!"

There goes the neighborhood. My camp mate ripped off the sheets. Tom was exposed mid-register for God and everyone to see. There it was. That look of fucking disappointment. My camp mate was pissed.

"Fuck you Tracey. Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU!" he yelled.

"It was only a rinse," Tom told him as he threw the dirty needle over the adjacent fence. "I'm out of here."

That cheap bastard had only given me a rinse. Dick. My camp mate started throwing some of my shit over the fence. It wasn't long before he started crying and yelling at the same time.

"Fuck y,y,.." he couldn't get the words out. He flopped down next to me with two tall cans wrapped in a brown paper bag.

"Is that for me?" I asked. I perked up immediately. Saint Ides. My favorite. A nice cold beer on a hot fucking day. Yes!

My camp mate wiped the tears and sweat from his face. He smelled like a combination of nail polish remover crossed with stale beer. He had been up a few days. The heat was getting to him. He was too tired to watch over me. He was too tired to worry about my drug problem. He had one of his own to feed. He cracked open the beer. He put it against his forehead. He smiled at me.

"You are such a fucking bitch Tracey," he told me. "I love you but you are a total bitch." He crushed his beer in one long gulp then curled up next to me. It was going to be a long ass day. I cracked open my beer. I leaned back against him. I was fiending now. I needed more drugs. I needed to fill this empty tank. There would be other times for me to quit heroin. Not this time. Not today.




6 comments:

  1. Hello Tracey! Greetings from Virginia! I enjoy your blog, reading your life experiences. It is amazing what all you have went through and turned your life around. You've come a loooong way. You've stood by your convictions and stayed true to yourself which deserves utmost respect. I want to buy your book. When will it be out? I'm very much looking forward to it. Best wishes to you and your family!

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    1. The new book is coming out in March. That book focuses on my recovery

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  2. Replies
    1. I have a PDF of long form addiction/blog stories that I did first and sell/sold to raise $ for harm reduction

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  3. Lack of drugs is definitely a problem when you're addicted..
    Kicking heroin through the use of meth has always been a baffling concept. Wouldn't it make you feel sicker and make your mind spin around even more?

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    Replies
    1. It does. In the short term, you don't feel it. It metabolizes the opiates left in your system at a faster rate but makes you insane

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