Znegative
Bluelight Crew
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The Age of NARCOTIC EUTOPIA
A Manifesto and Satire in III Parts
A TIMELINE:
- 3400 BC
first reported use of opium by the mesopotamians. - 1 AD, A human being and magician named Jesus Christ is born. He is crucified on the cross, and his death and supposed ressurection lead to the creation of the Christian Religion
- 1805-1515 AD- Morphine is Isolated
- 1874 AD-The cure for morphine addiction, Heroin, is synthesized
- 1988 AD- The author is born
- 1995 AD-FDA approves time released oxycodone formula known as Oxycontin
- The Far off Future-An age of enlightenment where people can shoot dope into their blood stream without judgement or fear of punishment. Where all people are accepted for their differences so long as they do not impose their beliefs or themselves on others
Forward
I was born into what you, future reader, will be known as the ‘chemical dark ages’. A time of chaos, confusion and misperception. A horrid time, an intolerant time, but a necessary time, for every revolution requires a tyrant, be that an individual tyrant, or a tyrannical society, with inherited foul belief systems turned truth’s through the many generations. My generation, the Oxycontin Generation was born to die and fail, sad yes, but in this fast paced plane of existence, who has time for tears? We cried surely, but to little avail.
PART I
It was late in the year 2006, early in my first semester of my freshman year at an art institute in Brooklyn, that I, your faithful guide and author, first dabbled in elicit narcotics. To be precise, it was heroin that I first used, unlike many of my fallen and shamed comrades, I did not start with the thebaine derivatives, I had not been injured and prescribed painkillers, nor had I experimented with the various pharmaceuticals in my mothers medicine cabinet (cruel temptress!). No, I was a drinker and a pot head, an introvert with a low confidence, and in heroin I found the missing puzzle piece that seemed to complete me.
And yet, while the morphine-derivative boosted my confidence and performance, my life seemed, in a manner of months, to begin to crumble all around me. I found myself torn between family and the drug I yearned for so badly; heroin, the most (arguably) stigmatized ‘hard drug’ on Earth. I felt guilty and ashamed, not to mention frustrated. Couldn’t people see that all the negative side effects that correlated with my drug use, was also directly correlated with public opinion and legal status? At the time I was far to young to see the specific nature of the problem, but I was intelligent enough to notice something was foul and did not add up.
After around 8 months of ‘chipping’ on heroin, I finally entered an ‘Intensive Outpatient Program’. By the time this book will be available for reading, the crude and barbaric ‘Treatment Centers’ will be long forgotten, they will be horror stories to tell the little ones at night, and many may find their very existence at one time to be questionable. I’ll clear that up now, IOP’s, In-Patient Rehabilitation centers and TC’s (Therapeutic Community’s) were very real. Yes, it is sad to think that at one time a society could be so ignorant when the answer was written on the walls for all to see, but as history has shown time and time again, it takes making the same mistake over and over again to finally get things right. Yes, dear readers, you would probably be even more shocked to believe that the majority of American’s during my life actually believed that Jesus Christ, a Nazarene Jew, actually was the son of God, and that he magically opened the gates of heaven to man through his own bodily sacrifice. An enticing drama for sure, but unlikely-impossible, if we’re to be realists.
Anyway, shortly after my 19th birthday I started going to an intensive outpatient program in Union Square, downtown Manhattan. At the time I did not understand the nature of the opiate, and thought that weekly urine screenings would be enough for me to cease all indulgence with my chemical mistress, which I had decided to try and quit for the sake of my confused girlfriend, who also was a victim of bending the knee to accepted societal norms. She was only 18, and fault cannot be placed on her, for she was just another member of the herd, uninterested and uninteresting, though physically quite appealing, as your humble author has a high standard of beauty.
Without needing to explain why or how, I’ll only state that I lasted 2 weeks off opiates, before taking some hydrocodone, a weak thebaine derivative, and then later returning to my narcotic of choice, the “cure for morphine”, Heroin, Morphine-Diacytate. When I failed my weekly urine screening it was decided by my counselor that I was an appropriate candidate for a newly developed drug that had only been on the market (for the use of opioid replacement) for 5 years, a partial agonist/antagonist semi-synthetic opiate called buprenorphine. At the time though, it was explained to me that Buprenorphine was not an opiate, synthetic or natural alkaloid, but rather a unique and magical chemical that satisfied the brains opiate receptors without causing dependance. I was also told other lies, such as, that using heroin while on the Buprenorphine could make me very sick. I agreed to trying the treatment, and arrived promptly the next day, 48 hours after my last line of heroin, and waited to be inducted onto Subutext (buprenorphine sublingual tablets). After my pupils and blood pressure had been recorded, I was handed a small ovular white pill and instructed to place it under my tongue and to let it sit there until it had dissolved. I did so, and half an hour later I was given another Subutext tablet (I now know, they were the 2mg pills).
After about 1 hour, I, and the other patient who was being inducted began to experience rather strong, albeit hollow, opiate effects. It wasn’t long until we both had drifted on into that blissful opiate dream state we call a ‘nod’. When the nurse practitioner saw that I had responded rather positively (meaning, I did not vomit or feel feint), they dispensed some hexagonal, orange, citrus flavored tablets to take. This was, the doctor explained, Suboxone. Like Subutext it contained the same partial agonist, buprenorphine, but the pharmaceutical company R&B had cleverly combined it with naloxone, an opiate antagonist, which, the N.P. said with a smile, as if to indicate her deep admiration for the pharmaceutical companies ingenuity, could not be absorbed orally or sublingually, but would become activated if the tablet were to be crushed for insufflation or intravenous injection and cause acute precipitated withdrawal (WHAT LIES!). Such a magical pill I thought, abuse proof, while still capable of ceasing cravings. I specifically remember thinking to myself, ‘Well it’s not heroin, but I could be satisfied substituting heroin for suboxone for the rest of my life.”
What I didn’t realize though, was that the deep nods and waking dream like trances were to be a short lived experience, and within a week, I found myself frustrated to find that the drug, Buprenorphine, could not even cause me to blink no matter how many tablets I threw under my tongue. Even more disappointing was finding out how effective buprenorphine was as a blocker, when I once again relapsed on Heroin.
This of course was due to Buprenorphines unique characteristic of being a partial agonist, meaning that it has a ceiling limit on analgesic effect and central nervous system depression. I didn’t understand this at the time and found myself deeply depressed, and like many psych patients during these dark times, I forced myself to discontinue my buprenorphine use in order to achieve euphoria from my loving Heroin.
And so I relapsed again, but this time I was reprimanded more harshly. My counselor gravely informed my parents that I clearly needed a ‘higher level of care’, and so I was shipped off to the Silver Hill Psychiatric Hosptital/In-Patient Drug “Rehabilitation Center”. It was here that I learned the truth about Buprenorphine, and the once ‘magical’ drug, showed its true face, the face of an opiate. For two weeks I spent my days going to groups in between bouts of crying, severe depression, panic attacks, nausea and diahreah. I slept maybe 20 minutes each day, and lived in what seemed a waking nightmare where crucifixes and positive affirmations crowded the walls of every hallway. Covered in a film of sometimes cold, sometimes burning hot sweat, I contemplated suicide.
And then it was over.
I awoke on the 15th or 16th day and felt almost completely normal, aside from some minor symptoms of physical anxiety. I had gone through my first true kick and come out the other side a victor. Things were looking up, or so I thought. My day’s of hope and enthusiasm for the ‘program’ were few and short lived, for within hours my roommate graduated the program and was replaced by another heroin addict who was two years older than I, and an I.V drug user. I need not explain what happened next, though I still laugh at the stupidity of the hospital for pairing two young narcotic addicts together in a room and expecting great results. Did they not know that rubbing sticks together created fire?
And so I was kicked out of the program, not only that, but I had left with a bigger monkey on my back as I had experienced the pinnacle of chemical pleasure, the intravenous administration of Heroin via the hypodermic needle. If I had any delusions of wanting sobriety, they were now dead, buried, and rotting in the past. I had a one track mind, shoot, slam, bang and inject. I didn’t know it then, but I had crossed the threshold that every addict does that differentiates a recreational user from a true devotee of smack. I would still have some rare moments in the following years where I appeared to have my addiction under control, where I would appear to be living a productive and promising life, but the reality was that I had begun the decline that would lead me to ultimately live as dark and as hard as a human can while still managing to survive.
PART II
For years I wasted my time in lies, experiencing useless guilt, and futile, failed attempts at ‘redemption’. But then, 2011 years after the birth of the magician Jesus Christ, the man who’s doctrines (which I should mention had been twisted in a sick game of telephone through the ages) had set the blueprint for the moralistic and judgmental society to which I had fallen victim to, came upon a website called ‘Bluelight’, which contained multiple forums, many dealing in drug use and harm reduction. I was enticed, for the first time in my life, I found myself talking to people who used the same way I did, but did not attach any stigma or shame to their actions. They had one goal, and though it was sometimes misinterpreted, it was the goal of helping people like myself survive ON narcotics. For the first time my bitterness faded into the recesses of my soul and I found something akin to hope, I wasn’t the monster I thought myself to be, my addiction was no moral failure, in fact morality had nothing to do with it. The next year I joined the website and within another year I became a moderator of two forums, one centered on drug culture, and the other one on intermediate level harm reduction discussion. It was on these boards that I also met the girl who was to become my significant other and dope partner for the next 4 and a half years to come.
For the sake of anonymity, for I dear reader, do not live in a liberated time as you, when there is no stigma surrounding the intravenous abuse of narcotics and amphetamines, I’ll refer to her only as L, just as I shall use the letter Z to describe myself. Silly, I know, but take it as another reminder of how blessed you all are to live in such a progressive age, an era L and I will never see, but hopefully I will have helped to pave.
L had been using heroin a little under 6 months when I first started talking to her, and had switched over to Oxycontin as she had lost her dope connect. We found we had many things in common, and when she came to NYC to visit her sister, we made it a point to meet up, have sex, shoot up heroin and fall in love. After her visit was over she had to return to her home in Oakland, California, a slum of a city in the bay area, Berkely’s bastard half brother. Within two months I went to visit her, and it was then that she decided that she was going to move to NYC and live with me and my family until we could get our own apartment. Within another two months she arrived at JFK airport and I took her home with me. Within another four months we were able to get a small studio apartment down by avenue I, halfway between prospect park area and Coney Island. It was there that both of our addictions began to escalate, and we’d soon find ourselves over drafting our debit cards or selling our electronic devices for drug money. Within months we gave up on even trying to pay rent money and were pretty much squatting the apartment which had become something of an exclusive shooting gallery used by us, and a few other friends.
After a year of this, L’s father became suspicious of our constant state of poverty, and L in turn spilled the beans that she had been using heroin ‘again’ (the reality was that she had never stopped). Her family demanded that she return to Oakland and enter a residential treatment program, and I was to follow her upon completion. The separation caused sever heart ache and strain on your poor, always over sensitive author, and I soon left my family’s home (which I had temporarily moved back to following the loss of our apartment), and hit the cold streets of NYC in the darkest midst of winter. Panhandling my way through my habit, I managed to come up with enough money to buy myself a ticket to fly to Oakland, California, where I had found out my love had been living on the streets after being kicked out of her ‘Treatment’ program in a similar situation to the one I myself had experienced years earlier.
I arrived one warm night in February and reunited with L. I had $100 to my name, 60 of which was immediately spent on some black tar heroin (a crude form of mexican dope containing Diacetylmorphine along with many other opium alkaloids that unlike China White Heroin, is not filtered out in most cases). The rest was spent on more Tar Heroin, and Crystal Methamphetamine.
At the time I had been on methadone in addition to heroin, and I had set up to be transfered to a methadone clinic in East Oakland, down on International ave. However, due to complications with switching from medicaid to medical, I was soon put on what was called a ‘financial detox’, and weened off of 40mg of methadone down to 0 in 2 weeks. My initial goal in coming to Oakland had been to try and pick up the pieces, and to get my life together to the point where I could have a job to support the both of us so we would not have to live from couch to couch, or even worse, on the street. But like many heroin users, I was a much better dreamer than I was an actor, and when the methadone was discontinued I felt I had no choice but to immediately immerse myself in a non-stop cycle of IV heroin and methamphetamine use to avoid withdrawal symptoms.
Eventually there were no more couches to surf, and we found ourselves on the cold mean streets of west oakland, not having the faintest clue where we would sleep. Those first couple months were very rough, often times, L and I, along with our good friend Lil’ C, and his dog Tokie, would sleep under overpasses, huddling close in our sleeping bags to stay warm. Othertimes we’d sleep in storefront entrances, and sometimes we’d shoot or smoke enough methamphetamine that sleep wasn’t necessary at all.
Through panhandling we began to develop connections with Oaklands homeless population, and through these connections we ended up finding stabile camping grounds and eventually a tent of our owne. We also got connected with West Oaklands prime Heroin and Meth providers (in these days one had to obtain drugs illegally through what was known as the ‘black market’).
Though our conditions improved somewhat, and though we had developed many acquaintances and a few strong friendships, our quality of life remained deplorable. I was (past tense as I’ll be long dead when you, my sweet reader of a blissful future unknown, skim through these pages) a severe asthmatic, and repeatedly found myself agitated by the break dust and dirt that was simply inescapable from every possible camping ground (as the only camps where we wouldn’t be consistently bothered by the police were located by freeways or under bridges and overpasses). I would end up with pneumonia, psepsis or bronchitis almost every other month and have to be hospitalized. Doctors often urged me to let them admit me for a couple of days, but nearly every time I declined, ripping out my I.V’s, and wheezing my way back downtown to panhandle up some more dope money.
There were many kind people out there that helped L and I (though they far preferred L). I’ve learned that having a set of tits and a killer ass does wonders for bringing out the sympathy in people, as well as the cash. Even I, young, thin and effeminate looking, made quite a bit of money, and though nearly all of it went to support my drug habit, I was always sincere in my gratitude to those who went out of there way to help us. They were the few who had a greater understanding for out malady.
But for all the kind folks who held us up and got us through our darkest times, there were just as many villains, ignorant hate mongers who would drive by our campsite at night screaming words like “Junky Faggots!”, or “GET A JOB”. After a time I began to experience a feeling that I had become invisible to the general public. When asking someone simply what time it was, I would often find the person in question, pretend not to hear me, or interrupt me to say “I don’t have any change”. Sometimes I was spat at, several times I had things thrown at me. Needless to say, this fueled the bitterness that was already festering in my heart. I knew myself, my woman, and my friends were not so bad that they deserved such dehumanizing treatment. Many night’s I’d spend tweaking on meth, engaging in friendly debates over the ethical issue of America’s drug policy, and my opinion for the legalization of all narcotics. It was down there, underneath the freeways and in the trenches of Oakland’s homeless community that the seed was planted for the age of Narcotic Eutopia, an age that I, L, and all my friends never lived to see, but fought for so that future drug addicts would not be forced out onto the cold streets and suffer as we had, watching our friends wither away and die, or fritter their sanity away until they became unrecognizable, shells of the people they once were.
Part III
It is so sad that it almost moves me to tears to look back on my life and see America and it’s drug policies, rehabilitation efforts and incarceration efforts for what they were. Antiquated, cruel and barbaric. Yes, this was a long time ago from when you, young reader and psychonaut will obtain this text, but believe it or not, science did exist. Let me remind you, naive reader, gallileo had lived and died many years before I ever put a needle in my arm. But ignorance still prevailed. The main model of treatment was based around Equine Therapy, and other ineffective doctrine such as Bill Willson’s 12 step program, which was based not in science, but in faith, and if one were to be completely honest, based in Christianity. Programs claimed often that they did not adhere to a ‘spiritual approach’, but upon entering the facility one would rudely be confronted with that uncomfortable crucifix, which seemed forever to shout “sinner!”
We were told this was the one, true and only way. That we had lived our lives wrong, that we were morally, physically and spiritually corrupted. Our drug use deemed ‘selfish’.
Often times psychiatrists would throw out hokus diagnosis’s like ‘Antisocial Personality Disorder’ or ‘Borderline Personality Disorder’ to describe us and our criminal behavior, which did not do much for our self esteem. Little was spoken however as to the fact that society, which had thrown us from our homes and cast us to live under bridges, rocks, and overpasses, offered us only three options, panhandling, crime, or dope sickness. Could one truly be deemed a sociopath for shoplifting baby formula to obtain the drug he/she needed in order to avoid a deeply painful, physical and psychological withdrawal syndrome? Sadly, yes, cool and disconnected doctors were in my time, and addiction was a constant nuisance to them because they simply didn’t understand it. Was it actually a disease or a mental disorder? Or was it just a reflection of weak individuals with poor moral values? I can attest that it is not the latter, some of the most brilliant people I have ever met lived on the street and shot drugs with me.
Society had thrown out some of its best and brightest because it could not come to the conclusion that punishment simply was ineffective and cruel, and that legalization of hard drugs was the path to ultimate freedom.
Was nothing learned from America’s brief prohibition of alcohol? A substances multiple times more toxic than heroin which is now legal and available at almost every convenience store and supermarket? How can one substance be deemed morally sanctionable with responsible use, but another innately evil? In fact, how could one ascribe morality to a chemical at all?
Some will argue that narcotic use leads to disfunction and the disintegration of the family unit. I argue, is this not caused by societal stigma rather than the actual drug itself? Isn’t it quite reasonable to imagine that if heroin or other opiates could be used freely and legally without their users being judged, that there would be no need for crime or lies?
Couldn’t it be argued that the powers that be, already know this, but instead are motivated to criminalize drug users because they can benefit financially off of our suffering? Why else would methadone and suboxone be handed out like candy, with a pat on the back, when a single bag of smack will have us in handcuffs? Surely no one believes that our brains can differentiate between a ‘moral’ chemical and an ‘evil’ one? Because chemicals aren’t bound by the bondages of morality.
Yes, dear reader, you may think it a myth, but life was a struggle in the days of your forefathers. Hypocritical, how the land of the free criminalized the freedom to do what we pleased to our own bodies. Such a shame that a man had to die an agonizing death, crucified to two sticks of wood, so future millions would suffer in his name, and fail in futile attempts at salvation for a sin that was never a sin.
I call upon you, fellow junkies, raise your hypodermics and tooters high in the air, be proud, do not let a corrupt, fucked up system shame you into a life of torn emotional turmoil. Know yourselves, and be true.
From the past,
Znegative
About the Author:
The author was born in the year of 1988, and first exposed to an illicit street drug containing Diacetylmorphine (heroin) in 2007. From that point forward his life was a series of ups and downs, on heroin, off heroin, on methadone, on suboxone, back to heroin etc..Eventually the author found himself homeless in a cruel society that dehumanized narcotic users. For two years he camped out under bridges, overpasses and abandoned parking lots in West Oakland. This created a bitterness in his heart, as the author is not a man without intellect or talent. That he and other gifted individuals were treated like ‘undesirables’ due to there chemical dependancy was a great injustice. He sought to pave the way for a new world order in which drug users, addicts and enthusiasts, were not outcasted to the dredges of society, but were celebrated for their heart and courage. The author will never live to see this day, he will die a torn man, possibly homeless, possibly in a cold nursing home suffering from dementia, and a fading dream of a fairer future. The author wants to stress his love for his fellow addict. The author wishes for future readers who may experience the enlightened era that to him existed only in dreams and nods, to fix a fat shot for those who never truly knew freedom without remorse.
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