



I'm not sure why I let him convince me to stop going to the clinic. Maybe that had been the crack talking to me, telling me I really didn't need to go. I knew my life would never be the same when he convinced me it was a good idea to spend the $50 he had received from his grandparents on those magical white rocks. I was sitting in one of their slip covered recliners as my boyfriend fed them lies they digested along with Christmas cookies. His words were just sweet enough that it made them go down smoothly, despite the evidence that made it clear to anyone who knew what to look for that he was hooked on every drug under the sun. I felt dirty inside, disgusted at myself as I sipped on my egg nog. My own family would be lucky if they got a phone call from me. I was just too strung out to patch together excuses. The overwhelming sense of shame hit at times like this. However, that wasn't going to stop the j-train from pushing me forward.









As the blood starts rushing to my head, I wonder about the sickness. Not the physical, one but the mental one. The sickness that tells me this is my life. The sickness that tells me nothing will ever change. The sickness that tells me that I am going to die this way.



My life is meaningless.

My ship is rudderless.

I am dead from the neck down.

Waiting for each day to end.

Sucking down a labored sigh.

Screams that make no sound.













As I laid back against the bed in a puff of smoke, I realized my problems had gone from one of a junkie to one of a chemical garbage can. A klonopin here, a phenergan there, some booze, some coke, MDMA, take this pill, suck this up with a cotton and push it through the darkness of my barely beating heart. I think every junkie knows at least 5 times a day it *might* be a good idea to stop. The whoosh of every fluid exiting your body at the same time clues you in. Snot, liquid stool, cum, and tears all say FUCK THIS and and want to get out if you are not feeding that beast that lies in a section of a receptor in a portion of your brain that cries out for MORE DOPE PLEASE. There is nothing like the simple recognition that the functions of your body are now controlled by the overwhelming need to ingest a few molecules of relief from the burden of self. I was fortunate in that there were no mirrors in here I could use to pick my face while I muttered horrible curses at myself and my condition.As the blood starts rushing to my head, I wonder about the sickness. Not the physical, one but the mental one. The sickness that tells me this is my life. The sickness that tells me nothing will ever change. The sickness that tells me that I am going to die this way.My life is meaningless.My ship is rudderless.I am dead from the neck down.Waiting for each day to end.Sucking down a labored sigh.Screams that make no sound.

I got off the train to throw up. It wasn't the glorious "I'm so high I need to throw up right now" thing from when I first started. This was a deep and painful vomit that felt as if it started at the back of my heels and traveled along an electrified spine until it hit the tops of my shoes. This was beyond food poisoning puke. This was a jumping off the methadone clinic at 60 mg puke. No amount of dope could fill that void. It was going to be a few days of sleepless nights and twitching legs until my receptors conceded to the fact that the magic raspberry syrup would never touch my receptive lips again.