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The First Time



On a scale, one through ten, one being the worst I ever felt and ten being the best orgasm I’ve ever had, that first intravaneous shot of heroin was easily a twenty. I watched with nervous eyes as she opened the bag and poured the brown death powder onto a spoon. She sucked a small amount of water into the syringe, flicked the side to release any air bubbles and squirted the liquid onto the spoon. The mixed concoction looked like dirty mud water, or chocolate milk. She asked for a cigarette, which I gave her, and she ripped a piece of cotton out of the filter and put it in the spoon, soaking up the chocolate milk liquid. The nervousness was growing in intensity. My armpits sweat a little. My heart was beating double time, and now was my turn. After sucking up the mud liquid into the syringe, she asked for my arm, tied a bandana around my elbow, too tight, then flicked my arm like a nurse would do. Her fingers slid between the crease in my elbow, looking for a good pipe way. “Ready?”, she asked, feigning just a little bit of doubt. I wasn’t, but I’d come this far and I didn’t want to miss out on this experience. “Yeah.”, bordering on complete hesitation. One, two, three more taps on my vein, then she slid the needle through three layers of skin and hit her target with pinpoint accuracy. A geyser of blood shot into the syringe, making now an almost dark greenish color, and I looked up at her and all she could do was smile as she pushed the dirty brown mud liquid into my vein, my body, my mind. She told to take the bandana off because if she pulls out the needle with it still on, there’s a chance that I may squirt blood all over the room. She handed me a paper towel, pulled the sharp object out of my arm, and asked how I felt. I hadn’t felt it yet when she asked and I was beginning to feel unsure about all of this. What was the appeal? I’m not high. Then, just as I was about to curse this horribly wonderful drug, it hit me. My heart skipped a beat, like the first time I ever kissed a girl, and a warm, washing feeling sent a fever to my head. My eyes drifted lower and lower as each muscle in my body became totally relaxed and almost numb, forcing me onto my back. Eyes shut. Slow motion, everything is in slow motion and I cannot remember… I don’t know. I’m lost, it’s like Disney Land in my mind. The land of dreams has hijacked the pleasure center in my brain and it was all euphoric, all of it. For an hour I lay there, just listening to whatever, never opening my eyes, wishing I could live every moment of my life feeling like this, and coming to the realization that I never could and that this was the start of something sinister and evil. I sat up, fingered another bag from my pocket and again watched in nervous anxiousness as she made another mud slide for me. The second time wasn’t nearly as good, and from that moment on, everyday, I chased what I thought I needed.


The Sickness

I am dead of mind, emotion, and love. I’ve become nothing more than a hollow shell of an egg, ready to crack and crumble under the weight of my own misery. Frayed edges, frail discourse and nagging irritatability cause the sobbing, and the lashing out. I laid a verbal attack on my mother that made her cry because I wanted ten dollars to get something to eat. I just wanted out of the cell that I call home, and I wanted to get high.
I knew I’d be sick. When I woke up I knew I’d be sick. The unmistakable stench of sweat, body odor, something slightly sweet and heroin bled into my nose, burning my nostrils like mustard gas, sending a pang of nausea to my head and stomach. The stomach cramps were the first of the many painful symptoms I experienced. Like someone had pulled my stomach tight, constricting anything coming in or going out. The pains came with increasing and decreasing intensity, sometimes causing me to double over, clutching my stomach, cursing life. I needed to eat, but I felt malnourished and knew if I did eat, I’d vomit it back up anyway.
The sweat was the first thing I noticed, though. My body had secreted fluids only to soak most of it back in and start the whole process again. Small bubbles formed on my forehead, looking like melting plastic, and hot from the fever. My bed sheets and clothes were permeated with the retched stench, musky and sickly, and when I took off my shirt the odor resonated even more sharply in the room.
Life, at this point, was, for the most part, a lost gift that I gave up searching for. I wanted out, but for some reason I was partial to the slow suicide route. I couldn’t stand the thought of a quick death, where’s the fun? I wanted something a little slower, a little more elegant. I wanted to kill myself with class. Take myself out for the night, drink too much alcohol, and get laid. Pay a ridicoulous amount of money for a hotel room for two nights, knowing I’m only using one. I’d rent a limo and drive for hours to nowhere and put various drugs into my nose, veins. Then, when the night is breaking into day, I’d lay myself on the bed and inject that horribly wonderful chocolate milk into my system for the last time. Elegant, classy, disturbing, and beautiful.
Sometimes I would shake. Horrible and involuntary, they would rack my body to seismic proportions. My body contorted in ways that seemed humanly impossible. The quake would be preceded by a weird, pulling sensation in my legs, then I’d thrash uncontrollably until my sheets were a balled up mess on my bed. This continued every ten minutes or so. It’s called RLS, or Restless Leg Syndrome. It’s caused by a lack of nutrients or something to some part of the brain that the heroin has depleted. No amount of rubbing or massaging will relieve it. And once you have it, you’ll need medication, if you want to sleep, that is. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. As bad as this was though, it was not the worst of all the symptoms.
The thoughts of getting high loomed high in my head, and knowing that for a mere ten dollars I would be ‘not sick’ pushed me further into psychosis. Again the thoughts of going away seeped their way in and sometimes fits of awful laughter or hysterical crying would solidify exactly what I was feeling. This was the worst of it all. Insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. I knew if I got high again, I’d be sick again. But when your body and mind have been pushed to the extreme and they’re punishing you, you’ll do just about anything to stop the punishment. The mind only focuses on one thing, for hours and hours. It can be exhausting, and maddening. It’s at times like this when I curse God and in the same breath ask for his salvation. Take me away, accidentally and tragically, by a bus, or a gun totting ex-Marine who thinks he’s still in Vietnam. Make me happy, healthy and full again. Give me the courage to do it in an elegant, classy way. This is the insanity, minute after agonizing minute.
The two parts, mental and phsyical, both sick, make for a nightmarish descent into the depths of the depraved. A junkie is what they call us. A group of people constantly fighting with ourselves, battling inner demons with instant gratification by squelching the them for as long as possible with a needle and brown or white liquid. And, inevitably, they come back, stronger and harder, waiting for the battle. It’s a vicious cycle, round and round, until you either quit or die. Those are the only two choices for us. I knew I’d be sick.