Thursday, September 23, 2010

Its so bittersweet

My life as a Heroin addict has always been bittersweet. On Heroin I felt like my mom dropped down her umbilical nuse and let me crawl back in. Then the drug would run out of my system and I would get sick, and I would have to go out searching for the money to buy more so I could climb back in the womb. Nothing like waking up at 3am on Christmas eve and going down to steal from the first person you see walking by. I've done some of the worst things imaginable. Just for a fix that makes me real. I can do it if I want to. I can stop if I try so fucking hard my eyeballs pop out of my head.
Sometimes, like today I'll be walking down the street, trying to get the feeling just right, and someone walks right past me. I'm in my own little world, listening to my own little MP3 player with my music on it, and this other person is in their own world. We are on different paths in this life. No intersections where we stop and meet, at least not today. They say there are plenty of fish in the sea. The fact is there are plenty of "fish" in the "sea", but you have to make an effort to cross paths with them. I'm not in the mood today to cross paths with anyone. I'm not even in the mood to answer Mike's texts. I'm in the mood to get high. Live life on the razors edge.
Step one, get off Methadone. Step two, find some dope. Step three, break my parents hearts. I just can't do it to my parents again. No matter how much the fiend in me calls out I have to resist. The fiend in me wants me isolate myself, keep everyone I know, like, love, at a far distance so when I do relapse who's gonna notice. I don't need a lover when I have Heroin. Heroin is the best lover I've been with. He takes me to the brink of death and back again. I am death when I'm strung out. The only reason I exist is to get high. The reason my heart beats, the reason my lungs fill with air, the reason my muscles move, the reason the synapses in my brain fire.
I can't say much has changed being on Methadone. I wake up for my Methadone. I don't hate the Methadone, I hate the side effects. I hate the fact that it made me fat, the fact that it makes me swollen, the fact that it makes me sleepy when I want to read all day, or write. The fact that it keeps me from getting high when I try to put a spike in my hand.
I can't change, I can't change, I can't change, I can't change. I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me.
So I'm always the one walking down the street alone, walking past someone else. Never saying anything. Just meeting their gaze for a second. A second they won't remember, but a second that today I remembered.  I remembered mainly because I was imagining my stomach was cut open and I was spilling out onto my knees. Imagining what it would feel like to take a breath after that. It was raining really hard, so I was able to feel the tears on my cheeks, my eyes swelled with tears. Imagining pain, sever pain.  I was on my way to the Exclusive Company record store to buy a Pixie Sweat Jacket. Then this black man passes me. He is caring a forty in a paper bag, walking fast to get where he's going. I was caring an umbrella, my purse, and smoking a cigarette. I saw him a block before he saw me. He was looking down the whole way, because of the rain. I kept going with my imaginary pain, and he kept inching closer. I could tell he was about 50, he had this sort of  jump in his step. I know everyone has seen it before. A lot of crack heads have it. Finally after inching closer and closer, we come upon each other. He looks up for just a glance, and I smile in imaginary pain with tears streaming down my face. He doesn't smile back. He's in a hurry. I can tell he wants to be somewhere and he wants to be there now. I'm happy to be out of the apartment. Walking in the rain, listening to music, playing pretend, shopping.
I figured from his eyes and lips he was going to do some crack. I could be just wishful thinking. The part of town is right. It took me right out of my pretend time, and I just wanted one hit off the pipe. Just one. Just to take me out of myself for a minute. I woke up at four am this morning. To help me stay awake today. I could think of million reasons I needed just one hit. Then I walked by a church I used to go to NA meetings on Thursdays at 7pm. Too bad it was only 2pm. I know for a fact there are no meetings at 2pm in Green bay within walking distance on Thursdays. It was just another craving. At least this drug I can get high on, and this drug I have used in the past month, actually I used Coke, powder form. Not crack. Instead of not going home and following the black guy, I stop smoke another cigarette, and then walk back home.
If I hadn't I would sat there all night long until the street sweepers went through and I'd be the only shit that's left behind.
Steve Smith if you get it and know him well enough. To the rest this makes no sense. Steve smith What? I know. Inside joke to myself.


Sarcastic Bastard said...

I am proud of you for not going after the drugs. I struggle with drinking, so I have some small idea how hard it is.



BMelonsLemonade said...

Bittersweet is the perfect word for heroin. I have often used this word to describe my relationship with the drug. It even tastes bittersweet. I am proud of you for walking on by.

Anonymous said...

Anna, I wish you would see the hope in Elliott's music.

tui said...

Thanks for the comment on my blog doll. I had taken a hiatus, so just saw it.

I'm so glad the 'done is working for you. It takes a lot of strength to get where you are.

I just wanted to say a quick hello. I just read your bio....... now I have a lot of reading to catch up on ;)

Glad to have discovered you.

Love from the south pacific. tui

tui said...


I see you love Burroughs. If you haven't seen the short film The Junky's Christmas, written and narrated by Burroughs and produced by Francis Ford Coppola....... you MUST. It's even on youtube now.