Crispy Bacon
When the seasons change, when the days get dark early, my mind turns to heroin. Maybe there isn’t even heroin left in the US but I can’t say even at 21 years sober, I don’t occasionally get an itch. It’s more of missing numbness- numbness with flashes of euphoria. The Holiday Season reminds me of all the things I don’t have. Both my parents are dead. I have debts. My mental health goes through various stages of instability. I’m no longer in that blind faith phase of 12 step where I am fully invested in the idea that if I do x,y,z- I’ll be fine. So here I am.
Being active in a drug habit was fucking awful, don’t get me wrong. It’s cold now. A good vein is not easy to find when you are searching between two cars while your “friend” watches out for the police. There’s no joy in trying to figure out which limbs are the least infected. I often couldn’t feel my own legs because of the swelling from cellulitis mixed with dull nerves from constantly poking myself with a syringe. I’d lay under a uhaul blanket on a cold sidewalk, my nose running until I could get up at 5am to search for the dopeman. I don’t miss these particulars. I miss the instant gratification of knowing for a brief moment I will feel whatever is in that syringe.
The kids are going to be up soon. I’ll be cooking up bacon and eggs, forgetting all about this brief stint into morose sadness. I prefer my soccer mom thing. I try to identify my own feelings to articulate them to anyone who might be struggling. I think six pieces of crispy bacon might cure what ails me. I got a fridge full of food, warm blankets, and people who truly love me.
Being active in a drug habit was fucking awful, don’t get me wrong. It’s cold now. A good vein is not easy to find when you are searching between two cars while your “friend” watches out for the police. There’s no joy in trying to figure out which limbs are the least infected. I often couldn’t feel my own legs because of the swelling from cellulitis mixed with dull nerves from constantly poking myself with a syringe. I’d lay under a uhaul blanket on a cold sidewalk, my nose running until I could get up at 5am to search for the dopeman. I don’t miss these particulars. I miss the instant gratification of knowing for a brief moment I will feel whatever is in that syringe.
The kids are going to be up soon. I’ll be cooking up bacon and eggs, forgetting all about this brief stint into morose sadness. I prefer my soccer mom thing. I try to identify my own feelings to articulate them to anyone who might be struggling. I think six pieces of crispy bacon might cure what ails me. I got a fridge full of food, warm blankets, and people who truly love me.
You're a beautiful person, Tracey. I don't know you, but as a fellow human with struggles, I am proud of you. Thank you for always being willing to share. It truly helps :)
ReplyDeleteThank you for reading. I’m going to try to write more
DeleteThis entire post was me last night. Thank God for my best friend who truly doesn’t understand but God... she tries. I kept trying to explain that yes, it’s pure fucking hell when you’re stuck in the cycle, but my mind keeps going to just being numb for that 10-20 second rush and for what?!
ReplyDeleteTo throw it all away?
The only way I could get it through to her was to think of that rush as being the end all, be all best feeling in the world. Once you feel it your pleasure sensor is fucked. It wants nothing else. Sex, food, adrenaline rushes, etc. nothing feels quite like that euphoria.
Then she asked me how I felt when the doctor laid my prematurely born, healthy daughter into my arms for the first time...
Very true. It’s hard to feel things after years of heavy drug use
Delete