When the seasons change, when the days get dark early, my mind turns to heroin. Maybe there isn’t even heroin left in the US but I can’t say even at 21 years sober, I don’t occasionally get an itch. It’s more of missing numbness- numbness with flashes of euphoria. The Holiday Season reminds me of all the things I don’t have. Both my parents are dead. I have debts. My mental health goes through various stages of instability. I’m no longer in that blind faith phase of 12 step where I am fully invested in the idea that if I do x,y,z- I’ll be fine. So here I am.Being active in a drug habit was fucking awful, don’t get me wrong. It’s cold now. A good vein is not easy to find when you are searching between two cars while your “friend” watches out for the police. There’s no joy in trying to figure out which limbs are the least infected. I often couldn’t feel my own legs because of the swelling from cellulitis mixed with dull nerves from constantly poking myself with a syringe. I’d lay under a uhaul blanket on a cold sidewalk, my nose running until I could get up at 5am to search for the dopeman. I don’t miss these particulars. I miss the instant gratification of knowing for a brief moment I will feel whatever is in that syringe.The kids are going to be up soon. I’ll be cooking up bacon and eggs, forgetting all about this brief stint into morose sadness. I prefer my soccer mom thing. I try to identify my own feelings to articulate them to anyone who might be struggling. I think six pieces of crispy bacon might cure what ails me. I got a fridge full of food, warm blankets, and people who truly love me.