A moral blow was dealt to me today. Just now. I'm not going to say much about it, but it hurt me a great deal. No matter how badly it hurt me, it hurt someone else a lot more. She did something terrible and is now reaping the terror that comes along with that. She says she wants help, but her actions don't prove that.
I do want to help her, but I can't. She doesn't want that help. She wants to revel in her own bad decisions, no matter what she says. She'll deny it, but then she'll do whatever the fuck she pleases because she needs to be the way she is. I spoke to her last night, and she told me she was drunk, but she was intoxicated with something else. I can't deal with that. I told her I can deal with anything except for that, and she chose that.
Fine. It's done. Don't pity me. I placed myself in a position where I thought her and I were good. But I can't do that anymore. I can't help her anymore. I'm done. O discordia!
Showing posts with label heroin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heroin. Show all posts
Friday, November 27, 2015
Friday, April 3, 2015
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #142: I COULD VERY EASILY BE A JUNKIE
Wow. I've been mentioning the fuck out of THE FIFTH HEART by Dan Simmons lately, and while it's a good book (not great), it's been a learning experience. I'm probably going to do a HEY FUCKERS piece on it tomorrow. But the thing that concerns me right now is something else. If you've known me for a while, you're already aware of it. However, if you're new (and I see a lot of new faces around here lately), you have no idea.
A few years ago, I was plagued with a mystery illness, and a year and a month ago, I suffered from organ failure that nearly killed me. In the case of the former, I learned that I had a digestive system that ran a quarter of the speed of everyone else's. In the latter, my pancreas stopped working and nearly killed me.
Because of these two things, I've spent a lot of time in the ER. In addition to that, I've been hospitalized several times. While both issues are unrelated, they have very similar symptoms: constipation, constant pain and constant puking. While being treated for the pain, I was given Vicodin, and I discovered that I'm immune to the recommended dose. I have to triple up on it for it to have any effect on me. Similarly, morphine doesn't even touch the pain I've suffered through. Dilaudid, on the other hand . . .
Dilaudid is very close to heroin. There's heroin, then there's Oxy's, and then there is Dilaudid. I cannot tell you how much I love Dilaudid. When I'm shot up with it . . . wow. As soon as I'm injected, I feel the soothing cloud fill up my heart and lungs, almost burning. It moves on to my head, and then I'm in utter bliss. It's a wonderful feeling. One of the best feelings I've ever had.
Which is why I know I would be an utter junkie if given the opportunity. The first time I learned of Dilaudid's pleasures was a learning experience. I've known junkies in my time, and I never understood them until that moment. Dilaudid took my pain away. It made me feel wonderful. It helped me sleep when I couldn't sleep otherwise. It's my absolute favorite substance ever.
After a while, I healed. The pain went away. But . . . well . . . I fell in love with Dilaudid. I felt compelled to lie about my pain to get my next injection. As soon as I realized what I was doing, I stopped myself. I did not ask for the next injection. Instead, I continued on the healing path until I was back to normal. But all too often, I regretted not asking for one more injection.
Until the next time. And the next time. And the next. Until my organ failure from last year. It still surprises me to realize that since my last injection, I've been fantasizing about my pancreas failing again, just so I can get more Dilaudid. How fucked up is that?
Before I continue, I should note that I've never had heroin. I've had methadone, but it was a complete accident. I was with a woman who was a recovering junkie (at the time). She took her methadone tablets and dissolved them in orange juice. After a long night of passion, I lost track of whose drink belonged to whom, and I accidentally drank her orange juice instead of mine. I found myself on the fast track to hell. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. I'm told that I missed the good part because after I drank the OJ, I went to sleep. When I woke up, I went through the worst sensation of my life, and I hope to never experience it again.
But there I was, reading THE FIFTH HEART, and Sherlock Holmes goes through the process of shooting up heroin. The way Simmons explained it? I'll be damned if it wasn't the same as what I felt when the nurses shot me up with Dilaudid. I'm certain that Simmons went through something similar in his own life, his description was that good. It brought back an instant craving. I almost convinced myself that I felt that cloud building up in my torso.
I wanted to go back to the ER, to tell them that I was in pain, just to get a shot of Dilaudid. My insurance would cover it. Easy-peasy. But . . . for $10, I could get a bag of dope in the city. I could probably do it on my own, but if I couldn't, I know people who could help me out. I even know people who could shoot me up, so I wouldn't have to figure out how to do it myself.
It would be so easy that it scared me. I'm very sensible, and I know that such thoughts would eventually lead to my destruction. I knew enough to stop myself. Don't worry. I'm not actually going to seek the shit out. But at the same time, it's shocking how much I crave it.
I recently went through dental surgery, and I have a full bottle of Vicodin. When I convinced myself not to try for the other shit, I realized that if I tripled up on the recommended dose of Vicodin, I could feel something similar. But no, I didn't do that, either.
I think that's proof that I'm not a junkie. The argument could be made that I am, if only because I feel that craving, but I think I've got myself under control, at least in that area. Fast food and caffeine, on the other hand? I still can't see myself living without that shit. I've got to work on that. But opiates? No. I don't think I have a problem. Although . . . I COULD have a problem in the future. I've just got to be wary.
I've been known to say that I'd rather deal with an addiction later than pain now. That's still true. But I've seen junkies, and I'd rather not be like that. It's frightening. The woman I mentioned earlier? I remember waking up in the same bed as her, and it would be shaking like a cheap motel vibrating mattress because she hadn't had her fix.
I don't want to be like that. But I know I could be like that. So . . . maybe I should stay away from ER's . . .
A few years ago, I was plagued with a mystery illness, and a year and a month ago, I suffered from organ failure that nearly killed me. In the case of the former, I learned that I had a digestive system that ran a quarter of the speed of everyone else's. In the latter, my pancreas stopped working and nearly killed me.
Because of these two things, I've spent a lot of time in the ER. In addition to that, I've been hospitalized several times. While both issues are unrelated, they have very similar symptoms: constipation, constant pain and constant puking. While being treated for the pain, I was given Vicodin, and I discovered that I'm immune to the recommended dose. I have to triple up on it for it to have any effect on me. Similarly, morphine doesn't even touch the pain I've suffered through. Dilaudid, on the other hand . . .
Dilaudid is very close to heroin. There's heroin, then there's Oxy's, and then there is Dilaudid. I cannot tell you how much I love Dilaudid. When I'm shot up with it . . . wow. As soon as I'm injected, I feel the soothing cloud fill up my heart and lungs, almost burning. It moves on to my head, and then I'm in utter bliss. It's a wonderful feeling. One of the best feelings I've ever had.
Which is why I know I would be an utter junkie if given the opportunity. The first time I learned of Dilaudid's pleasures was a learning experience. I've known junkies in my time, and I never understood them until that moment. Dilaudid took my pain away. It made me feel wonderful. It helped me sleep when I couldn't sleep otherwise. It's my absolute favorite substance ever.
After a while, I healed. The pain went away. But . . . well . . . I fell in love with Dilaudid. I felt compelled to lie about my pain to get my next injection. As soon as I realized what I was doing, I stopped myself. I did not ask for the next injection. Instead, I continued on the healing path until I was back to normal. But all too often, I regretted not asking for one more injection.
Until the next time. And the next time. And the next. Until my organ failure from last year. It still surprises me to realize that since my last injection, I've been fantasizing about my pancreas failing again, just so I can get more Dilaudid. How fucked up is that?
Before I continue, I should note that I've never had heroin. I've had methadone, but it was a complete accident. I was with a woman who was a recovering junkie (at the time). She took her methadone tablets and dissolved them in orange juice. After a long night of passion, I lost track of whose drink belonged to whom, and I accidentally drank her orange juice instead of mine. I found myself on the fast track to hell. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. I'm told that I missed the good part because after I drank the OJ, I went to sleep. When I woke up, I went through the worst sensation of my life, and I hope to never experience it again.
But there I was, reading THE FIFTH HEART, and Sherlock Holmes goes through the process of shooting up heroin. The way Simmons explained it? I'll be damned if it wasn't the same as what I felt when the nurses shot me up with Dilaudid. I'm certain that Simmons went through something similar in his own life, his description was that good. It brought back an instant craving. I almost convinced myself that I felt that cloud building up in my torso.
I wanted to go back to the ER, to tell them that I was in pain, just to get a shot of Dilaudid. My insurance would cover it. Easy-peasy. But . . . for $10, I could get a bag of dope in the city. I could probably do it on my own, but if I couldn't, I know people who could help me out. I even know people who could shoot me up, so I wouldn't have to figure out how to do it myself.
It would be so easy that it scared me. I'm very sensible, and I know that such thoughts would eventually lead to my destruction. I knew enough to stop myself. Don't worry. I'm not actually going to seek the shit out. But at the same time, it's shocking how much I crave it.
I recently went through dental surgery, and I have a full bottle of Vicodin. When I convinced myself not to try for the other shit, I realized that if I tripled up on the recommended dose of Vicodin, I could feel something similar. But no, I didn't do that, either.
I think that's proof that I'm not a junkie. The argument could be made that I am, if only because I feel that craving, but I think I've got myself under control, at least in that area. Fast food and caffeine, on the other hand? I still can't see myself living without that shit. I've got to work on that. But opiates? No. I don't think I have a problem. Although . . . I COULD have a problem in the future. I've just got to be wary.
I've been known to say that I'd rather deal with an addiction later than pain now. That's still true. But I've seen junkies, and I'd rather not be like that. It's frightening. The woman I mentioned earlier? I remember waking up in the same bed as her, and it would be shaking like a cheap motel vibrating mattress because she hadn't had her fix.
I don't want to be like that. But I know I could be like that. So . . . maybe I should stay away from ER's . . .
Sunday, September 21, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #67: HEROIN IS A HELL OF A DRUG
Tonight's episode of 21 JUMP STREET actually brought me to tears. Doug Penhall falls in love with a narcotics undercover agent only to find out she's a junkie. Some of you know that I've had a long-term relationship with a junkie. I won't mention her name for various reasons, so if you're one of the few who knows who she is, please don't blurt it out.
Briefly, I've been friends with her since 1997. Four times, we dated each other. Two of those times, I was crazy enough to propose marriage. One of those times, she wisely turned me down. The other? She was crazy enough to say yes, and then we broke each others hearts later.
This isn't about that. She's always been fucked in the head for as long as I've known her and longer. She wasn't always a junkie, though. When she acquired that habit, I didn't comprehend how much of a life-changer it was. Not just for her, though. For me, too.
My first experience with this side of her life threw me off so badly, I didn't know what to make of it until years later. The third time we were romantically entangled, she'd been clean for a long time. She'd just had a daughter, and her pregnancy was the only thing in her life that had ever cleaned her up. We've always loved each other, but we were in love with each other at our strongest by this point. We were going to be married, and I was going to adopt her daughter as my own.
And then an old friend of hers showed up. She was struggling with her addiction still, and I didn't understand. This guy showed up, and he was also a recovering addict. My instinct told me to get this fucker out of our lives, but I still wanted to be the understanding boyfriend. Because I didn't get the addict mentality, I gave her my blessing to hang out with him.
The next thing I know, she's asking me to make one of the worst decisions of my life. She wanted to use one more time, and then she swore she'd never use again. My first instinct was to say no, but I tried to put myself in her shoes, and I realized that if I was ever addicted to something, I'd want to do it one last time before quitting for good.
I know. You don't have to tell me how stupid I was.
Her friend got the shit for her, and while I babysat her daughter, she went into the bathroom with him, where he shot her up. I should have known in that moment what a terrible mistake I'd made. But . . . I rode it out.
The next thing I knew, she'd chosen her friend over me. Our last conversation at that point was her telling me that she was really choosing heroin over me, not this other guy. (As if that would make me feel better.) He was just the fucker who could get it for her. It broke my heart, and I walked away.
She went through hell after that. That fucker beat the shit out of her, although she gave every inch back to him (especially when she bit his fucking tongue off, which was great). But in that time, she lost everything. She even gave her daughter up for adoption. About a year later, we became friends again. Soon after, we became lovers again. That was another rough time, because I had to drive her to the methadone clinic a lot, so she wouldn't have to fall back on heroin. Not that methadone is much better. I hate it almost as much as I hate heroin.
But never mind that, and never mind that she started getting dope again. What I really wanted to talk about was an incident after we broke up again. We were still friends, but I made her promise that we would never be lovers again. She has a certain degree of power over me, and I know that if she tried again, we'd fall back into the same stupid pattern. But she promised, and since then, she's been as good as her word.
But here's the thing: I gave up trying to save her. I was there to help her if she asked, but I couldn't put myself through saving her of my own volition.
This led to the second to last evening we ever spent together. By that point, she was living on the streets, and since it was her birthday, I wanted to treat her to an evening in a decent hotel room. Not the ghetto shit she was used to. Unfortunately, she scored earlier in the day. She knew how much I hated to see her fucked up on dope, so she went to the bathroom to shoot up.
Her problem, though, was that she'd shot up so much in her life that most of her veins had collapsed. She couldn't find one she could use. She came out of the bathroom naked with her purse strap tied around her arm and a needle in her hand, unused. Blood oozed from half a dozen puncture wounds.
She sat on the bed and cast her dead eyes at me. She spread her legs to show what I was all too familiar with. But she didn't make a move toward me, as if she'd remembered her promise, even at this fucked up point.
I took a towel from the bathroom and I wrapped it around her, covering her nakedness. I then held her as she bled all over the floor and the bed. I wanted to cry more than anything else, but I didn't want to make her feel worse, so I held it in.
She kissed me. Nothing like a lover's kiss. Just a gentle peck on the lips.
And then she found a vein she could use. She nodded off in my arms, and I had to take the needle from her foot.
The next day, we went about our lives as if nothing had happened. I saw her one more time, but I probably shouldn't talk about that one. Not because anything inappropriate happened, but if I did, most of you who don't know who she is would figure it out. After that, she ran into a lot of trouble. She's been clean for a year now, but only because she's been in prison.
She's hurt me more than anyone currently alive on this planet, but I still love her. Thankfully, I'm not IN love, but still.
Tonight, Doug Penhall discovered the truth about the junkie he'd fallen for and had introduced to his kid in the hopes that something would come of the relationship. He arrested her. I'm not a cop, but even if I was, I'm 100% certain I wouldn't have done that if I was.
Briefly, I've been friends with her since 1997. Four times, we dated each other. Two of those times, I was crazy enough to propose marriage. One of those times, she wisely turned me down. The other? She was crazy enough to say yes, and then we broke each others hearts later.
This isn't about that. She's always been fucked in the head for as long as I've known her and longer. She wasn't always a junkie, though. When she acquired that habit, I didn't comprehend how much of a life-changer it was. Not just for her, though. For me, too.
My first experience with this side of her life threw me off so badly, I didn't know what to make of it until years later. The third time we were romantically entangled, she'd been clean for a long time. She'd just had a daughter, and her pregnancy was the only thing in her life that had ever cleaned her up. We've always loved each other, but we were in love with each other at our strongest by this point. We were going to be married, and I was going to adopt her daughter as my own.
And then an old friend of hers showed up. She was struggling with her addiction still, and I didn't understand. This guy showed up, and he was also a recovering addict. My instinct told me to get this fucker out of our lives, but I still wanted to be the understanding boyfriend. Because I didn't get the addict mentality, I gave her my blessing to hang out with him.
The next thing I know, she's asking me to make one of the worst decisions of my life. She wanted to use one more time, and then she swore she'd never use again. My first instinct was to say no, but I tried to put myself in her shoes, and I realized that if I was ever addicted to something, I'd want to do it one last time before quitting for good.
I know. You don't have to tell me how stupid I was.
Her friend got the shit for her, and while I babysat her daughter, she went into the bathroom with him, where he shot her up. I should have known in that moment what a terrible mistake I'd made. But . . . I rode it out.
The next thing I knew, she'd chosen her friend over me. Our last conversation at that point was her telling me that she was really choosing heroin over me, not this other guy. (As if that would make me feel better.) He was just the fucker who could get it for her. It broke my heart, and I walked away.
She went through hell after that. That fucker beat the shit out of her, although she gave every inch back to him (especially when she bit his fucking tongue off, which was great). But in that time, she lost everything. She even gave her daughter up for adoption. About a year later, we became friends again. Soon after, we became lovers again. That was another rough time, because I had to drive her to the methadone clinic a lot, so she wouldn't have to fall back on heroin. Not that methadone is much better. I hate it almost as much as I hate heroin.
But never mind that, and never mind that she started getting dope again. What I really wanted to talk about was an incident after we broke up again. We were still friends, but I made her promise that we would never be lovers again. She has a certain degree of power over me, and I know that if she tried again, we'd fall back into the same stupid pattern. But she promised, and since then, she's been as good as her word.
But here's the thing: I gave up trying to save her. I was there to help her if she asked, but I couldn't put myself through saving her of my own volition.
This led to the second to last evening we ever spent together. By that point, she was living on the streets, and since it was her birthday, I wanted to treat her to an evening in a decent hotel room. Not the ghetto shit she was used to. Unfortunately, she scored earlier in the day. She knew how much I hated to see her fucked up on dope, so she went to the bathroom to shoot up.
Her problem, though, was that she'd shot up so much in her life that most of her veins had collapsed. She couldn't find one she could use. She came out of the bathroom naked with her purse strap tied around her arm and a needle in her hand, unused. Blood oozed from half a dozen puncture wounds.
She sat on the bed and cast her dead eyes at me. She spread her legs to show what I was all too familiar with. But she didn't make a move toward me, as if she'd remembered her promise, even at this fucked up point.
I took a towel from the bathroom and I wrapped it around her, covering her nakedness. I then held her as she bled all over the floor and the bed. I wanted to cry more than anything else, but I didn't want to make her feel worse, so I held it in.
She kissed me. Nothing like a lover's kiss. Just a gentle peck on the lips.
And then she found a vein she could use. She nodded off in my arms, and I had to take the needle from her foot.
The next day, we went about our lives as if nothing had happened. I saw her one more time, but I probably shouldn't talk about that one. Not because anything inappropriate happened, but if I did, most of you who don't know who she is would figure it out. After that, she ran into a lot of trouble. She's been clean for a year now, but only because she's been in prison.
She's hurt me more than anyone currently alive on this planet, but I still love her. Thankfully, I'm not IN love, but still.
Tonight, Doug Penhall discovered the truth about the junkie he'd fallen for and had introduced to his kid in the hopes that something would come of the relationship. He arrested her. I'm not a cop, but even if I was, I'm 100% certain I wouldn't have done that if I was.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
