The first time I ever used heroin was the first time I ever saw someone overdose. Well, I had not even used mine yet. The two experienced junkies took turn hitting us suburban pupils up with the same barbed rig. Within seconds, I saw my friends eyes roll back in his head. Before anyone could scream in fear, I saw him grip the table with so much force I was told it was called the death grip. That split second when his body clung to his diminishing life force in such a way it made an impression on me for the rest of my life. The body, it seems, does not want to die despite the ill advised efforts of the host within.
In the life cycle of the junkie, there is a period at which your body is your worst enemy. Every minute of every day is a struggle to stem the tide of misery. The goal is a dreamlike state balanced somewhere between I don't give a fuck and at this moment the world is perfect. Except it isn't. The house is burning.
The real enemy of life is the mind inside the struggling body. The mind that is never satisfied, constantly reaching for the next thing that might allow for fleeting happiness. That mind churns and spins with a riptide pulling the body under on a daily basis. Heroin is the beautiful siren, calling at the rocks until the user navigates the body back into a familiar spot until it crashes again.
As you lay on your bed curled in a shape constructed by fear, feel the heart beating inside your chest willing you to continue. As your mind seeks answers to the same tired questions, the body silently goes about the business of living.