Over the years I have written this blog, I have told numerous unflattering stories about myself. This is one that still makes me cringe.
I fell in love with with a beautiful junkie boy. It isn't hard to see why. He gave me these looks, his blue eyes pinned in such a way that I could see the gold flecks that peppered them. I wasn't thinking about any kind of relationship when I met him. The only thing I was concerned with was dope. Period.
A little over seven months ago, I was arrested trying to mix up a half gram of tar in an alley. It wasn't one of my brighter moves. Of course, when you live outside and look like a dirty junkie, that lives you with imited options in terms of places to shoot up. In a case of even worse luck, I was unable to inject in my hands, arms or feet. This made a speedy process impossible. Despite being outdoors in front of God and everyone, I would shoot up in my legs. Legs which did indeed look like I had fallen asleep and been chewed on by rats. The dope I got had a vague smell of instant coffee and reacted as such once it was placed inside my body. I was ravaged by holes. Like some kind of junkie abscess golf course, the purple and black bruises roped across my pale flesh like a the scar landscape of the moon. I had multiple infections going the day they arrested me, one so bad it stank. I was decaying inside and out. Jail, it seemed, my actually save me from myself.
I had just done a six months stretch in jail. The fifty pounds I had stacked along my stomach and thighs were melting away with my ample titties. I was wearing a 2xl in those polyester blend orange pants and sweater the jail had so graciously given to me. They gave you two sets and some used panties, some with the prior female's period stains still on them. If you got a good set, you would wash them out in the sink and let them air dry at the end of your bunk. I had zero interest in recovery during those six months. In fact, my mother had tried to arrange my transfer to a rehab. I refused. I knew I was going to get high. I was dedicated to this losing game. I did drugs in the jail. In fact, I had bought some methadone straight from the mouth of a woman who backwashed it for me into a cup after she dosed in front of the nurse. I had some dirty syringes in my locker for a few months. I had made pruno in there, alcohol made from bread orange juice and sugar among other things. I had smoked crack that had been extracted from a young girls pussy. I did draw the line on doing dope someone had dug out of their own shit. Yeah, it was wrapped but really, how much shingella got through the plastic? Fuck that noise.
I met him and he would be my whole world for a brief time. He loved me. That was what mattered. I needed to be needed. I wanted to be told that I was something more than the fucked up soul I hated in myself. We would sit next to each other and read books. We cuddled together, we shared every bag. Well not EVERY bag. You know how it is...right?
There was this one night. He had gotten some money from somewhere, probably his mom. He always had to do MORE. More as in "I need 50 units, you do 30 cause you need less" or MORE as in "I am going to do it all." In other words, a greedy fucking dope hog. They top it off with klonopin. Then I would have to watch him to make sure he didn't die of an overdose. He eventually did. Years later. But that night, he passed out with some dope in his pants because he did not trust me. He wanted to ratio it out in the morning. Then, as he slumbered in his black out, I got sick, sick, sicker. I kept looking at the bloody hit he couldn't get earlier because he was cross eyed from benzos. I took that shot out of the medicine cabinet. I gently reheated it. I strained out the blood clot. Then I drew it up and injected it. Love is blind and dope will make you stupid. It did that day.
The next morning, it was as if nothing happened because in reality, nothing really had. It was just another day in the life of a low bottom user- that user being me.