Bomb319
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Nov 26, 2011
- Messages
- 583
I had been prescribed 100 Percocets per month for awhile, and I fell in love with them. But the end of my life as I knew it came as soon as I met a guy who could sell them to me (among other, even stronger opioids) whenever I wanted. I've been on methadone maintenance for several years now, and haven't used any drugs or alcohol in over a year. I suppose you could say that I'm doing much better - and I am. Yet I feel as though a part of me died - a part I can never get back, no matter what actions I take, or how much time passes. Sadly, this story is only one of the torturous experiences I have had while enslaved by the most addictive drug known to man. However, it is one that stands out clearly in my mind because of the sheer contrast between what was, and what should have been. I really hope it might even convince one or two people to stay away from this beast of a drug, but I admit that I am retelling this story primarily for your interest/entertainment.
Several years ago, I was dealing with a brutal Dilaudid habit. Shooting 10-15 or more 8mg strength pills per day intravenously was par for the course (save for the many interim periods of sheer, unmitigated hell. Withdrawal from hydromorphone is pretty much the worst, most intense opioid withdrawal possible because of the extremely short half-life of hydromorphone and the rapid route of administration. True, if there is any sort of silver lining to be found here, it is in the fact that symptoms are unbearable, but are also generally of a shorter duration than those from most other opiates and opioids with longer half-lives. Still, for me that just meant I had to experience more periods of concentrated agony than I would with dope. This story describes one of the worst of these episodes; I hope it offers just a little bit of insight to those who may not yet have felt on your backs the claws of this particular monkey.
I love travelling more than anything; it was a dream of mine to go on a trip to Hawaii ever since I was a little kid. I finally got my wish a few years ago in February, my mom having saved up enough to take me there. My uncle even had connections that enabled us to get a suite at the Sheraton Waikiki - in a gorgeous upper-level ocean view room right on the main drag (Kalakaua). There was also a FREE BUFFET just upstairs in the penthouse suite that had delectable prime rib, eggs, meats, three-tiered trays of fruit platters and even chicken wings. Not only that, but the walls were almost ALL GLASS, treating one to a panoramic view of Honolulu and its beaches set along the sparkling clear, blue Pacific ocean from way high up. Corals and even sea turtles were easily visible all around the shallow, turquoise waters.
Because of this hideous beast of a drug, I spent this would-be incredible trip alone in my hotel room, heavy curtains drawn for darkness. I could not eat a single bite from the buffets, despite some part of my brain containing the old me, like a distant echo, telling me how good it looked. But a typical day in paradise for me mostly included running back and forth to the toilet to heave, finding excuses to tell my mom (with whom I travelled) why I had to do what I was doing...even then, I felt so bad for her. She has been so incredibly good to me - a hell of a lot more so than what I deserve....it's indescribable. The day we arrived, I was starting to go through ever-worsening withdrawal. I had last shot up at home almost right before leaving for the airport. But hydromorphone has an uncommonly short half-life of about seven hours, and I tend to metabolize narcotics very quickly. Upon landing, I was pouring sweat and trying my best not to throw up all over the other passengers. I went through a fair bit of mental and physical agony while waiting for the baggage which seemed as if it would never arrive. It was, of course, delayed, and I found myself having to come up with yet another excuse to dive into the suitcase, grab and attempt to conceal my hidden gear, and leave my mom waiting as I ran for the nearest men's washroom where I had to shoot up with the cleanest toilet water I could find - not being able to use the sinks because there were people in there constantly, and I had no container.
As if that weren't enough to win the rock-bottom award, I had to sit on the shitter listening to everyone mere feet away from me, no doubt smelling my lighter and heading off to report me. When I crushed up my beloved Dillies, got it in the syringe and was ready to hit.....nothing. No veins, no hits anywhere, mom calling my name into the bathroom, wondering where I was, and puke practically dribbling out of my mouth as that surge of torture and frustration hit me hard - wanting desperately to get that sweet liquid into my veins, knowing that it was the only thing in the world in that moment which would end my suffering. I was desperate to simply be able to enjoy my holiday with the beauty of Hawaii, the love from my family, and the spirit of adventure laid out before me, but unachievable. My arms both dripping with blood and my eyes with tears, I finally got my shot.
And I enjoyed it so much, I forgot about the hell I went through five minutes later. Yet it was only a few hours later when the anxiety of knowing what was coming began to build inside me again. I was going to be forced to repeat everything all over again - and I only had one or two pills left, and was on a seven day trip with no drug connections, and no disposable income.
THAT is where opiates - truly the work of the Devil - will eventually take you. I will never be able to fully earn back the trust of my family. I have many scars - both physical and mental - that can never be healed, but only concealed. Still, I consider myself to be extremely lucky to be alive; for at my worst, I was literally destroying my body and soul - injecting cocaine and heroin dozens of times per day as well, and abusing pretty much anything I could get my hands on, but only if I was already high on some sort of opiate - far and away my favorite substance, even now after everything it has done to me. I will always both cherish and despise it, which is something that I will have to deal with forever because my brain will simply not let me forget. I can only try to learn from what I've done. I truly hope that anybody else who finds themselves in my position is able to get help early on, before being ensnared by its evil, insidious power forever.
Several years ago, I was dealing with a brutal Dilaudid habit. Shooting 10-15 or more 8mg strength pills per day intravenously was par for the course (save for the many interim periods of sheer, unmitigated hell. Withdrawal from hydromorphone is pretty much the worst, most intense opioid withdrawal possible because of the extremely short half-life of hydromorphone and the rapid route of administration. True, if there is any sort of silver lining to be found here, it is in the fact that symptoms are unbearable, but are also generally of a shorter duration than those from most other opiates and opioids with longer half-lives. Still, for me that just meant I had to experience more periods of concentrated agony than I would with dope. This story describes one of the worst of these episodes; I hope it offers just a little bit of insight to those who may not yet have felt on your backs the claws of this particular monkey.
I love travelling more than anything; it was a dream of mine to go on a trip to Hawaii ever since I was a little kid. I finally got my wish a few years ago in February, my mom having saved up enough to take me there. My uncle even had connections that enabled us to get a suite at the Sheraton Waikiki - in a gorgeous upper-level ocean view room right on the main drag (Kalakaua). There was also a FREE BUFFET just upstairs in the penthouse suite that had delectable prime rib, eggs, meats, three-tiered trays of fruit platters and even chicken wings. Not only that, but the walls were almost ALL GLASS, treating one to a panoramic view of Honolulu and its beaches set along the sparkling clear, blue Pacific ocean from way high up. Corals and even sea turtles were easily visible all around the shallow, turquoise waters.
Because of this hideous beast of a drug, I spent this would-be incredible trip alone in my hotel room, heavy curtains drawn for darkness. I could not eat a single bite from the buffets, despite some part of my brain containing the old me, like a distant echo, telling me how good it looked. But a typical day in paradise for me mostly included running back and forth to the toilet to heave, finding excuses to tell my mom (with whom I travelled) why I had to do what I was doing...even then, I felt so bad for her. She has been so incredibly good to me - a hell of a lot more so than what I deserve....it's indescribable. The day we arrived, I was starting to go through ever-worsening withdrawal. I had last shot up at home almost right before leaving for the airport. But hydromorphone has an uncommonly short half-life of about seven hours, and I tend to metabolize narcotics very quickly. Upon landing, I was pouring sweat and trying my best not to throw up all over the other passengers. I went through a fair bit of mental and physical agony while waiting for the baggage which seemed as if it would never arrive. It was, of course, delayed, and I found myself having to come up with yet another excuse to dive into the suitcase, grab and attempt to conceal my hidden gear, and leave my mom waiting as I ran for the nearest men's washroom where I had to shoot up with the cleanest toilet water I could find - not being able to use the sinks because there were people in there constantly, and I had no container.
As if that weren't enough to win the rock-bottom award, I had to sit on the shitter listening to everyone mere feet away from me, no doubt smelling my lighter and heading off to report me. When I crushed up my beloved Dillies, got it in the syringe and was ready to hit.....nothing. No veins, no hits anywhere, mom calling my name into the bathroom, wondering where I was, and puke practically dribbling out of my mouth as that surge of torture and frustration hit me hard - wanting desperately to get that sweet liquid into my veins, knowing that it was the only thing in the world in that moment which would end my suffering. I was desperate to simply be able to enjoy my holiday with the beauty of Hawaii, the love from my family, and the spirit of adventure laid out before me, but unachievable. My arms both dripping with blood and my eyes with tears, I finally got my shot.
And I enjoyed it so much, I forgot about the hell I went through five minutes later. Yet it was only a few hours later when the anxiety of knowing what was coming began to build inside me again. I was going to be forced to repeat everything all over again - and I only had one or two pills left, and was on a seven day trip with no drug connections, and no disposable income.
THAT is where opiates - truly the work of the Devil - will eventually take you. I will never be able to fully earn back the trust of my family. I have many scars - both physical and mental - that can never be healed, but only concealed. Still, I consider myself to be extremely lucky to be alive; for at my worst, I was literally destroying my body and soul - injecting cocaine and heroin dozens of times per day as well, and abusing pretty much anything I could get my hands on, but only if I was already high on some sort of opiate - far and away my favorite substance, even now after everything it has done to me. I will always both cherish and despise it, which is something that I will have to deal with forever because my brain will simply not let me forget. I can only try to learn from what I've done. I truly hope that anybody else who finds themselves in my position is able to get help early on, before being ensnared by its evil, insidious power forever.
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