It was a blustery day, the first of December, and I could feel the freshly chilled wind nipping at my face, flushing my cheeks to the shade of newborn infant pink. I had only crawled out of bed moments before (it was a quarter to eight when I walked out the door on my way to a nine o’clock appointment) and really wasn’t all that embarrassed by my ragged, bohemian suit jacket and faded out Levis. This outfit was complete with knitted scarf and sailor cap, unkempt hair and that surprisingly flattering rose-water complexion of cold skin.
I suppose my lack of self-consciousness had quite a bit to do with the fact that I was on my way to see my corrections officer, not the kind of appointment one gets gussied up for. Yes, that’s right, I’m a felon. The American dream doesn’t bottom out much lower than that. Once I was a free man, or at least I possessed that vague label of freedom that gives Americans a certain sense of security.
Farcical or not, that security is missed when you become an outlaw. Why? Well, why does anyone want what they can’t have?
By now anyone reading this might assume I’m a terrible person. I mean no harm; I just view life differently than most. Anyone challenging traditional ideas should expect to be met with hostility. Remember, even Christ was an outlaw. Besides that, I’m not the one reading someone else’s private journal.
So felon or not, I’m actually a pretty nice guy; funny, charming, wildly creative and truly, deeply passionate about life and all its surprising and wonderful idiosyncrasies. Still, I’m the victim of many demons and when we collide head-on they always leave deep scars. Every hardened face with empty eyes was once alive and sparkling.
I haven’t quite given up but I will say that there’s a frailty in my features that was never there before. I’m tense and depressed to say the least.
I was given yet another UA today and while an impending prison sentence prevents me from taking mind altering substances, my anxiety and intermittent bouts of despair make this nearly impossible. I took two Klonopin just before the test (prescribed). Benzodiazepines are not terribly euphoric, but a Xanax or Klonopin will certainly relax me. Then there is the writing issue; I simply can not write without stimulants (usually a little Adderal, Dexedrine or Vyvanse will do the trick). My writing means the world to me and I am nothing without it.
I could always snuff myself. Most people are shocked and repulsed by the thought suicide. The average human being is equipped with a biologically implanted determination to survive. I guess I’m simply missing that particular apparatus, having considered suicide a viable option since I was a child.
I suppose I’ve hated myself since birth, though I understand what an extraordinary person I am. Still, it’s all too much. I’ve always felt I was dancing madly, faster and faster – yet no matter how fast I go I can’t escape the cavernous emptiness inside me.
And of course dancing to life’s ever-changing rhythms can be quite dangerous… But danger is the point, right? Are we not supposed to live, no matter what the cost? I clawed out of the womb hell-bent on living. Ever since then I’ve been dancing endlessly on the edge of an infinite precipice, an endless abyss hungry and waiting for me to lose my footing. While I dare not stumble, I’ve often wondered what it would be like to fall forever. Like flying? Like dying? Like both?
Incidentally, those answers are all correct, though only the latter can encapsulate all the rhapsodic, torturous and overwhelming feelings I’ve come to know. I realized this when I began using drugs.
I will keep my drug history brief. By the time I graduated high school I had sampled nearly every illicit psychoactive and mind-altering pharmaceutical known to the general public and dozens more you’d be hard pressed to pronounce, let alone identify. I can recall one of my sister’s surgeries in which I calmly instructed the doctor that she was allergic to meperididne and that morphine made her itch terribly but 1mg IV hydromorphone and 1.5mg IV lorazepam should more than do the trick, My mother had no idea what I was talking about. The doctor suggested I go to rehab.
And so it went. I was particularly fond of psilocybin mushrooms, marijuana, amphetamine and opiates.
Though methamphetamine was not immediately my drug of choice (largely due to its filthy reputation) I gradually grew to enjoy oral dosing and insufflation. The extensive duration, euphoria, productiveness and powerful empathogenic effects instantly inspired a deadly love affair. I loved dope and for the first time I loved myself! That crystalline delight replaced every other need.
However, being manic-depressive, I found the crash to be utterly unbearable and vowed each time was the last. First, however, I decided I’d try vaporizing it (seemingly the most popular method) but found inhalation to be a laughably unsatisfying route of administration.
A sensible young man would have said adios then and there, before the infamous drug’s sinister grip could tighten. My nose bled frequently, my body ached and my mood disorder was wildly untreatable. I was a mess, but I was already hooked.
Then I met a slightly older woman, a lifelong speed-freak, who became a force of such destructive power that I barely came out of our friendship alive. Her name was Theresa and she introduced me to the needle. Before I had time to object, I was torn full-force into an alternate reality where the sun doesn’t shine and all that matters is the powerful chemical clawing its way out the plunger, screaming in its liquid whisper for a vein to call home.
She gave me my first shot but it was quite small and I did not experience a rush. “Ah hell,” she said. “You’re a big boy,” before proceeding to load .25g, along with the smallest amount of saline possible. “More meth + less saline = fatter rush,” she said in her raspy, authoritative voice. Her hands were just beginning to tremble. She stuck me quick and registered immediately. I felt creepy as I stared transfixed, but the blood was so beautiful, so organic. It was my blood, my life’s energy curling like some thick scarlet smoke drifting in lazy circles.
Then she slammed down the plunger, quickly and without warning. At first I thought I must be impervious to the IV rush but several seconds later I noticed the taste of dope filling my mouth, a powerful taste that made me cough. It was so strong, as if I’d carefully coated my tongue and tonsils with a full quarter of naked shards. Oh that bitter taste of toxic candy…
No time later I became very confused and immediately vomited. But I didn’t mind. I was entranced. What followed was as indescribable as any single feeling I have ever encountered, but I will try my best.
My first thoughts exploded across my brain, carried by electric dopamine wings: This can’t be meth! Did I overdose! Holy shit! This is incredible! Have I died and gone to heaven? Is God feeling what I am? Should I say a prayer to thank Him for this divine gift!
Mentally, I was overtaken by a spiraling, unearthly feeling of sheer unadulterated ecstasy. Now my thoughts were miles away yet clear as diamonds. Then thick, rolling clouds, warm and unmistakably peach in color, drifted from the ceiling to embrace me, caress me… so soft, like angel feathers spun into eternal comfort.
For a fleeting moment I considered all the street junkies desperate to escape the sweet demon that refuses to return their freedom. I envisioned their overused needles digging for blood and heaven beneath the shelter of grim overpasses. But when the dope is in their bloodstream all their pain is forgotten. Could anything be more pathetic? Could anything be more beautiful?
I looked at Theresa, my eyes milky and joyful. “Never… ever before… It’s all too beautiful…” I mumbled. A tear ran down my cheek. Perhaps it tasted of dope.
I still thought I had been blessed.
Theresa smiled slyly, knowing my world had been changed forever
Soon the needle was a habit and I was arrested with an 8-ball of dope.
For every high there is an equal but opposite low. Meth takes you higher than your dreams ever could, but it leaves you with something less than a life.
The addict will tell you it’s constantly someone else’s fault. They are the perfect victim. Perhaps that is so, but no addict can ever hope to recover once they declare themselves helpless.
My stomach turned as my corrections officer removed my urinalysis results from a thick manila envelope bearing my name in unmistakable letters. She was a kind, attractive young woman, plump in a way that begged a gentle caress, perhaps even a rough fondling. In high school she was significantly thinner and looked for all the world like a Playboy centerfold. I was a bushy-tailed freshman during her senior year and almost sprayed my shorts when she gave me her senior picture, casually inscribed, “I don’t remember your name but you’re cute for a younger guy.” I must have showed that photo to half the school.
Man oh man, it’s a small psychotic world after all. In the end you can only cross your fingers and hope for the best.
This technique didn’t work so well for my lab results. I tested positive for Benzodiazepines, Morphine, THC, Methamphetamine, Amphetamine, etc…
I should have known better. A week before the test I got my hands on some fantastic morphine tablets – no preparation needed. Two drops of saline for each tiny tablet, at three tablets per dose, was more than enough for 40 units of thin milky liquid. I was quite shocked to find legally manufactured pills that were practically designed for shooting (technically they’re to be taken sublingually, but whatever floats a junky’s boat).
IV morphine provides a highly satisfying rush all on its own, but I developed a strong attachment to a specific speedball preparation. 45mg of morphine must first be dissolved in one spoon. Then you must break down .25g of methamphetamine and stir the individual liquids together. The key is to make sure the dope doesn’t overpower the morphine, so use it sparingly. Ideally, the separate highs should synergize into a compatible series of blissful waves.
A speedball is not an electrical dopamine rocket like a standard shot of shards. Sans morphine, wave after wave of meth takes you higher than you may be comfortable with. Morphine smoothes out the edges. True, you’ll be flying fast as hell, but you’ll be doing so in the luxury of a first class seat with free cocktails, extra padding and best of all, no turbulence! Smooth as a baby’s ass - a crack baby anyway.
Needless to say my habit had not exactly improved, though my CO let it slide. I may have lied to her, but I did mention that treatment might be necessary. The rest of the day proved that suggestion to be an understatement.
My girlfriend was at school and I expected to return home to a dull morning. Instead I found my friend Chalen waiting to deliver a handful of Lortabs she owed me.
I immediately popped five of them. Chalen’s eyes widened. “You’re gonna spew homey,” she said, mildly astonished. “If I eat more than two tens I’m like fuckin’ Linda Blair, projectile vomiting all over the room.
“Tabs are kiddie stuff,” I said smugly, before raising a Xanax bar as one might a glass of champagne. “A toast to decadence, eternal youth and the infinite party known as life!”
Then I split the bar in half and we dropped our shares, smiling, our eyes holding a tender glance... There was nothing destructive in our faces, no fear or regret. We were like children in a sandbox. Soon the world would be right again… if only for a little while.
“Wanna smoke a bowl of ice?” she asked.
“Nah, that shit just teases me.”
“How bout some blow?”
“Ok, I’d be down with that.”
So we invited a friend and I laid an elegant mirror over the carpet, cutting up lines and sniffing them ravenously. It was very mediocre product, but it was free and the hydrocodone was creeping gently through my body like warm bathwater. A pleasant marriage of numbing stimulation and peaceful sedation left me sinking deeper and deeper into the couch.
Then that lovely cocaine stimulation dropped off into nothing I was left with the terrible urge for a shot.
“Hey homie, how much dope you got?”
“I’ll load a bowl.”
“What’s the point, you’re practically tossing it out? A five minute, over-caffeinated head rush that tastes like shit…? Don’t think so.”
“Right, you’re the badass needle freak.”
“Can I get a half?”
“Yeah, but then I’ll need more. Run with me to Casey’s to pick it up.”
I couldn’t wait for my hit so I slammed the whole half gram in the bathroom of the convenience store. Pathetic, but junkies will be junkies. Some dope kicks you swiftly in the ass. This batch was potent creeper; while lacking an immediate rush, it quickly built to wildfire frenzy. I puked in the parking lot. Most individuals don’t enjoy vomiting. I think of it only as an indication of good strong dope and find it no more uncomfortable than sneezing. If I ever develop a headache, I do not hesitate to induce vomiting.
The next few hours passed in a careening, spun-out nightmare ride of bizarre and endless errands, with Chalen driving like an epileptic with a death wish. My mind flashed – fizzle, crack, pop – with endless images of violence and terrible beauty. I stared long into Chalen’s face. It twitched helplessly, elated, manic and scared to death all at once, methamphetamine insanity screaming helplessly within her soulless eyes.
Finally we came to a safe spot. I’d been rather paranoid throughout the night. The shards I injected were more suited for smoking and the high was intense but rather jittery, especially when in a moving vehicle. I found it funny that Chalen kept referring to her dope house as a “safe” spot.
We picked up some good anhydrous dope at Casey’s (a product manufactured using anhydrous ammonia that makes for the most wonderful shooter’s dope).
I was tweaking on the shadows creeping ominously about the walls and over the floor.
“You ok buddy?” asked Amy, Chalen’s friend and our tag-along on this all-night tweaker escapade.
“Lil paranoid,” I managed to say.
She shrugged her shoulders and loaded the Pyrex pipe. As mentioned, I detest smoking meth, but even I knew they were going about it all wrong. For starters, anhydrous is not meant to be smoked on glass. Yet had it been ice, Amy still would have ruined half the dope. She held the flame directly to the glass, burning away the valuable chemical. I finally snatched the pipe away from her and showed her how to use it properly, lighting it gently and at a distance, rolling it slowly, keeping the hot liquid in a medium pool at the center of the bowl, inhaling deeply but delicately, then recrystalizing on a damp rag to preserve the substance.
I read poetry as they smoked endlessly. Frankly, I was bored senseless and fiending for a proper shot of the new batch. I’d flushed my rig, so Chalen agreed to drive me to get another at a mutual friend’s. We stepped, twitching and shivering, into the freezing cold to go to Dana’s.
Dana had a list of psychiatric conditions that could fill a phonebook and more pills than a standard sized Walgreens. She was the type who would doubtlessly be homeless were she not equipped with a keen instinct for hustling. She rarely made sense, her sentences trailing away into vague philosophical mumblings, almost like Bob Dylan’s sleep-deprived, amphetamine-addled and wildly hostile interview responses of the mid-sixties.
Her hair was a tangled mess of curls, each one a smiling strand of auburn frizz, and her glasses were comically crooked. They did not merely sit ajar on her nose, but hung precariously like a crooked painting, utterly slanted, an eccentric and delightful touch for such an unlikely character. She gave the overall impression of a strung out cartoon. In her own way, she was just about perfect.
Dana has a strange habit of using frighteningly large needles (I use exclusively 100 unit insulin syringes, incredibly thin and perfectly painless when fresh). Her needles are massive. At first glance they could be mistaken for ice-picks. I swear you could run a wet noodle through them. They register automatically and are, I believe, used for drawing blood.
Anyway, whatever those suckers are Dana can certainly deliver a mean hit with them (I always have Dana do the honors, being apprehensive of a needle that could easily be substituted for a lethal weapon). This anhydrous dope did not make me sick to my stomach like the ice from earlier, yet the difference was dramatic. Good Annie makes ice feel like espresso.
Dana pulled the needle free and a geyser of blood shot a full two feet across the room. I laughed like a madman as I watched the blood run slowly down the dryer, having fallen mere inches from the washer. In such moments transcendence meets perversion and all the world becomes a brutal joke.
There is no color like that of fresh blood.
I moved about the room feeling weightless, as if gravity had been temporarily suspended for my enjoyment. I waved my hands slowly and tracers hung in the air. Good shooter’s dope has a very mild psychedelic quality and renders you unable to speak for several moments.
Soon Dana began trying to find a vein for her hit. Unfortunately, she was much better at hitting others than herself and she quickly made a gruesome, bruised and bloodied, Jackson Pollock painting of her arm. I was wildly high and began insisting that I should give Dana her hit. So, room still spinning, I grabbed that violent looking piece of misused medical equipment and began vigorously stabbing away. It gave me a sick thrill. I was utterly clumsy, casually butchering her with childish glee. Then I was overcome by a second and even more powerful wave and was forced to sit down, legs crossed, head between my knees.
Chalen honked after a bit and I stood and staggered outside, blowing poor mangled Dana a kiss.
The evening (or early morning, to be precise) was concluded by a thoroughly weird expedition to Wal-Mart, a corporate monument to the end of the world in my strangled, over analytical mind. Dancing down the isles I realized that even a dying society has sunsets, light rain showers on warm days, and the beautiful smiles of people both attractive and ugly.
I must be crazy. I think I got the crazy gene from my Great Aunt Jill.
Did the world ever make sense?
I really need some help…
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