Kandy K
Ex-Bluelighter
CONTRARY TO PREVIOUS ENTRIES, THIS IS NOT A HUMOROUS STORY. IT IS QUITE SERIOUS AND CONTAINS EXTREMELY GRAPHIC PICTURES. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
My first memory of intravenous drug administration (for reason other than medical treatment/prevention) was surprisingly unexceptional, and paled in comparison to others’ wildly exaggerated claims entailing how orgasmic the experience was. I for one, am glad that my first time IV’ing was so anticlimactic, otherwise I may not have waited several years before giving injection another chance… And given how reckless my behavior is, if my interest in shooting up had never faded, surely the outcome would have been a fatal one (to say the least).
Crystal methamphetamine, a many firsts for me, was also the first illegal street chemical that was injected into my system. My first time IV’ing occurred when I was a young adolescent in my early to mid teenage years, and still relatively new to tweaking. I must have been only 15 years of age, considering this event took place during the latter half of sophomore year; months before I developed a vital (and very real) dependency to this venomous poison. My little experimentation with this toxin should give a clear indication of how relatively low my tolerance was. The reason this information is because my dislike for IV meth was a direct result of being injected with a solution that was too intense for my newbie self.
I rigged up with my (ex) dealer, whom I admired and respected, due to the image she exhibited. She had earned a well-respected reputation for being in the game for nearly a decade, starting as early as 11 years old. Naturally, when she informed me her favorite way of waking up was with a “daily beauty shot” (except instead of Botox it was Rox), my own interest in the needle grew. Sure, it would have been made things a lot easier if she had just said, “The best part of waking up, is Folger’s in your cup.” But she didn’t, and at the time, I was so vulnerable to being so easily influenced by outside sources, that I was willing to try anything she proposed.
Typically, shooting was notorious for being reserved for the dirtiest of junkies; it carried this gloomy, yet oddly glamorous connotation to it. The fact that it was perceived as “the downfall of the junkie lifestyle” didn’t hinder me from pursuing it… Quite the opposite in fact, the inner rebel in me desired it even more. It was forbidden, daring, and boldly heroic.
Growing up in a traditional Asian household, I was raised to be desensitized to pain. While other children often cried when getting shots at the doctor’s office, I on the other hand, had become numb to the prick of the needle long before I had entered the 1st grade. However, I wouldn’t necessarily say that it was this lack of sensitivity that helped me to make that final push that nearly sent me over the edge. The most probable contribution to my infatuation with needles was this unhealthy infatuation with self-mutilation. It was an obsession that emerged when I discovered expressing aggression by way of art through flesh and blood.
Crystal also ended up being the same drug that I used four years later to commit suicide, with the rig that started it all…
Please Note: I wasn’t exactly well-informed of proper injection method or filtration procedures when I attempted this. The way I saw it, if my actions resulted in dire consequences, it didn’t matter since the end result would be death anyway. So please do not repeat what I did, and always take precautions, particularly with injection. Use what I learned as a warning, so that my actions would not have been in vain (no pun intended).
This was the same week I had gone in on a ¼oz. with a buddy. I ended up selling a gram to another friend with my share, so I easily had 2.5 grams to myself…
I had been reading up a little bit on how to register and hit a vein, and this was my only concern. I understand now that I should not have used a big needle, but put in retrospect, it may have been what ended up saving my life. The massive size of the prick probably tore my veins apart, thus making me miss a great majority of the shot. Not only that, given the fact that I used the same needle 29 times, had it been smaller (and given the clumsy way I was administering), I would have surely broken the needle off in me.
I’m not exactly sure of the exact gauge of the needle, but here is a picture of it (pink) next to a 25G (blue):
How it all started is still pretty hazy to me (the past couple months have been a drug induced daze). In fact, I don’t remember much of it, but one thing I do remember about that first shot, is that an enormous amount of blood was gushed into the hypodermic upon registering. At first I thought I had hit an artery, given how much I was bleeding. But upon further study, I noted that the blood was a darker red, and assumed I tore open one of my veins pretty badly. It didn’t hinder me from achieving my final destination.
By the fifth shot, it had already become increasingly more difficult to puncture myself with the point. It was already at a painfully low gauge to begin with, so I pulled a standard junkie move: Sharpening the needle with the red phosphorus on a matchbox. I’ve heard reports that this is something you’re not supposed to do because the rough ridges creates more damage to the veins, but it only mattered to me that it made the point sharp enough to break the skin. I was a cutter by age 11, so I had a fairly high tolerance to pain, plus I had a kind of sick fetish for blood.
The look of slow overdose…
Shooting such a high amount seemed to have an opposite effect of a stimulant; instead of feeling “fucking spracked,” the mental feeling was very similar to being drunk and on benzodiazepines, and the physical high was similar to that of MDMA. I got some pretty wild hallucinations, such as seeing rivers of crystal white flow through the linings of the wall. The corners of the room glowed vibrantly with red and blue pulses, giving me the feeling that I was trapped in my own organ—The Heart. I felt it beating rapidly for a second, but as the murmurs got fainter and fainter, I felt the darkness creeping in.
From the moment I punctured myself with the needle, I looked up at the sky knew it would be the pathway to my own demise…
I didn’t realize that filtering was an important step in this procedure, so this was a step that I carelessly skipped over this entire time. Of course, given how I had slammed the entire 2 grams in myself within a 5 hour span, I had also gotten extremely drowsy (therefore clumsy) with the needle. If I had missed a vein, instead of taking the needle out and injecting at a different angle, I simply fished the needle through the flesh until I registered some blood. I was to learn how lucky I was later when I awoke the next morning to find myself alive with no collapsed veins or major long-term damage (even after shooting in an artery).
I did suffer a few bruises from missed shots (the scar is from a separate incident):
I have shot several times since then, but not as many as one would think. Surprisingly, shooting is actually not as addictive as the anti-drug campaigns and media portray IV application to be. However, I do choose it the most during moments of despair. If I am already a little spun, I’ll start fiending at the sight of my bulging veins, especially if I’m in a hot shower. During really desperate moments, like a classic junkie, I have scraped all my baggies and injected what little I had, and experienced a brief ecstatic rush. Whenever I do something like that, it always reminds me of that day I rigged myself, and though depressing it was a lesson learned in itself. To this day, I have kept (and will forever keep) that rig as a memory of what happened.
My first memory of intravenous drug administration (for reason other than medical treatment/prevention) was surprisingly unexceptional, and paled in comparison to others’ wildly exaggerated claims entailing how orgasmic the experience was. I for one, am glad that my first time IV’ing was so anticlimactic, otherwise I may not have waited several years before giving injection another chance… And given how reckless my behavior is, if my interest in shooting up had never faded, surely the outcome would have been a fatal one (to say the least).
Crystal methamphetamine, a many firsts for me, was also the first illegal street chemical that was injected into my system. My first time IV’ing occurred when I was a young adolescent in my early to mid teenage years, and still relatively new to tweaking. I must have been only 15 years of age, considering this event took place during the latter half of sophomore year; months before I developed a vital (and very real) dependency to this venomous poison. My little experimentation with this toxin should give a clear indication of how relatively low my tolerance was. The reason this information is because my dislike for IV meth was a direct result of being injected with a solution that was too intense for my newbie self.
I rigged up with my (ex) dealer, whom I admired and respected, due to the image she exhibited. She had earned a well-respected reputation for being in the game for nearly a decade, starting as early as 11 years old. Naturally, when she informed me her favorite way of waking up was with a “daily beauty shot” (except instead of Botox it was Rox), my own interest in the needle grew. Sure, it would have been made things a lot easier if she had just said, “The best part of waking up, is Folger’s in your cup.” But she didn’t, and at the time, I was so vulnerable to being so easily influenced by outside sources, that I was willing to try anything she proposed.
Typically, shooting was notorious for being reserved for the dirtiest of junkies; it carried this gloomy, yet oddly glamorous connotation to it. The fact that it was perceived as “the downfall of the junkie lifestyle” didn’t hinder me from pursuing it… Quite the opposite in fact, the inner rebel in me desired it even more. It was forbidden, daring, and boldly heroic.
Growing up in a traditional Asian household, I was raised to be desensitized to pain. While other children often cried when getting shots at the doctor’s office, I on the other hand, had become numb to the prick of the needle long before I had entered the 1st grade. However, I wouldn’t necessarily say that it was this lack of sensitivity that helped me to make that final push that nearly sent me over the edge. The most probable contribution to my infatuation with needles was this unhealthy infatuation with self-mutilation. It was an obsession that emerged when I discovered expressing aggression by way of art through flesh and blood.
Crystal also ended up being the same drug that I used four years later to commit suicide, with the rig that started it all…
Please Note: I wasn’t exactly well-informed of proper injection method or filtration procedures when I attempted this. The way I saw it, if my actions resulted in dire consequences, it didn’t matter since the end result would be death anyway. So please do not repeat what I did, and always take precautions, particularly with injection. Use what I learned as a warning, so that my actions would not have been in vain (no pun intended).
This was the same week I had gone in on a ¼oz. with a buddy. I ended up selling a gram to another friend with my share, so I easily had 2.5 grams to myself…
I had been reading up a little bit on how to register and hit a vein, and this was my only concern. I understand now that I should not have used a big needle, but put in retrospect, it may have been what ended up saving my life. The massive size of the prick probably tore my veins apart, thus making me miss a great majority of the shot. Not only that, given the fact that I used the same needle 29 times, had it been smaller (and given the clumsy way I was administering), I would have surely broken the needle off in me.
I’m not exactly sure of the exact gauge of the needle, but here is a picture of it (pink) next to a 25G (blue):
How it all started is still pretty hazy to me (the past couple months have been a drug induced daze). In fact, I don’t remember much of it, but one thing I do remember about that first shot, is that an enormous amount of blood was gushed into the hypodermic upon registering. At first I thought I had hit an artery, given how much I was bleeding. But upon further study, I noted that the blood was a darker red, and assumed I tore open one of my veins pretty badly. It didn’t hinder me from achieving my final destination.
By the fifth shot, it had already become increasingly more difficult to puncture myself with the point. It was already at a painfully low gauge to begin with, so I pulled a standard junkie move: Sharpening the needle with the red phosphorus on a matchbox. I’ve heard reports that this is something you’re not supposed to do because the rough ridges creates more damage to the veins, but it only mattered to me that it made the point sharp enough to break the skin. I was a cutter by age 11, so I had a fairly high tolerance to pain, plus I had a kind of sick fetish for blood.
The look of slow overdose…
Shooting such a high amount seemed to have an opposite effect of a stimulant; instead of feeling “fucking spracked,” the mental feeling was very similar to being drunk and on benzodiazepines, and the physical high was similar to that of MDMA. I got some pretty wild hallucinations, such as seeing rivers of crystal white flow through the linings of the wall. The corners of the room glowed vibrantly with red and blue pulses, giving me the feeling that I was trapped in my own organ—The Heart. I felt it beating rapidly for a second, but as the murmurs got fainter and fainter, I felt the darkness creeping in.
From the moment I punctured myself with the needle, I looked up at the sky knew it would be the pathway to my own demise…
I didn’t realize that filtering was an important step in this procedure, so this was a step that I carelessly skipped over this entire time. Of course, given how I had slammed the entire 2 grams in myself within a 5 hour span, I had also gotten extremely drowsy (therefore clumsy) with the needle. If I had missed a vein, instead of taking the needle out and injecting at a different angle, I simply fished the needle through the flesh until I registered some blood. I was to learn how lucky I was later when I awoke the next morning to find myself alive with no collapsed veins or major long-term damage (even after shooting in an artery).
I did suffer a few bruises from missed shots (the scar is from a separate incident):
I have shot several times since then, but not as many as one would think. Surprisingly, shooting is actually not as addictive as the anti-drug campaigns and media portray IV application to be. However, I do choose it the most during moments of despair. If I am already a little spun, I’ll start fiending at the sight of my bulging veins, especially if I’m in a hot shower. During really desperate moments, like a classic junkie, I have scraped all my baggies and injected what little I had, and experienced a brief ecstatic rush. Whenever I do something like that, it always reminds me of that day I rigged myself, and though depressing it was a lesson learned in itself. To this day, I have kept (and will forever keep) that rig as a memory of what happened.
yeah the media can take things out of hand, but a classic junkie is pretty straightforward...![:\](https://bluelight.org/xf/BL_Images/Orig_Emoji/wrygrin.gif "wry grin :\")
(although it's true)
