I don’t like the drugs but the drugs like me.
As I mentioned in my first post, Confusing Movement With Action, I’m an addict. I started – like most users do – with copious amounts of booze, frequently strapping on my “William Holden drinking helmet,” as my rabidly alcoholic father used to say. [Aside: In case you don’t know who William Holden was, he died by falling head-first into his living room coffee table and suffering irreparable brain damage. Pfffft. Actors.]
Booze was my staple until my teenage years, when, living at 17 beyond the already-lax borders of my mother’s roof and with my 21-year-old paramour, I met a cabal of “club kids” clinging to the slippery end-cusp of the raver craze. In their mid to late 20s, this motley crüe of intelligent, witty, largely self-educated suburbanites were like me in those exact ways, but older with their own places, which of course made their allure infinitely more magnetic.
They took me under their wings and taught me how to do drugs (especially Heather, who was a maternal figure despite my occasionally sexual relationship with her and her husband; whom we oh-so-whimsically (cough) nicknamed “Chef Keather” because of her expertise at perfectly cooking poured vials of liquid Special K [no, not the fucking cereal] on a large plate covering a pot of slow-boiling water until it was ready to be cut up; and whom I am still good friends with to this day). They furnished me documents required to obtain a pre-“Six Point System” government-issued fake ID. They plowed my ravenous escapist’s brain with electronic music, ecstasy, ketamine, cocaine, and (for the most part, not unwanted) sexual advances that often sprawled in the gossamer glow and languor of drug-drenched, multiple partner soirées.
I was a cute blonde with nice tits and a 17-year-old’s body, so in retrospect, I can understand why some of these friendships may have come to fruition and beyond. I was also really smart, other than shoving inhuman quantities of powdered substances up my nose and handfuls of pills down my throat. Some of my greatest, most spiritually profound experiences occurred while in K holes. One New Year’s Eve during a blizzard, I went so deep that I found myself breathing in the night air of Egypt from my place hovered above the pyramids and Sphinx in the inky, star-glittered sky. I could smell the dewy night steaming off the cooling sands and felt like a god. Everything was OK and right: I knew the secrets of the universe and felt the serene harmony connecting our world and its inhabitants to the universe and cosmos. To Whatever created us. Yeah, pretty deep. But you should have been there!
On to Oxy (codone, cotin), Roxy, Vicodin, Dilaudid, morphine, etc, etc – my loves. Blueberries being my fave (30 mg, tiny blue pills of pure oxycodone); bananas a close second (yellow 10 mgs of Percocet); Dilaudid being amazing but near-impossible to score; and grape-hued morphine sulfate pills that are essentially useless unless you – wait for it – “plug” them, or crush them to bypass their time-release coating, grind them into powder, dissolve them in warm water, then use and oral syringe to inject that liquid up your ass. Save your revulsion for somewhere else. If you’re a guy you’ve probably tried or thought to put your dick up an asshole and if you’re a girl you’ve at least been asked, so let’s call a spade a spade.
What results for people like me is a mix of euphoria, energy, nodding-out goodness, unusually good spirits and chattiness, sharp-witted utterances, and a general desire to live. Which, I know, seems so contradictory to the destructive act of taking these things and building up an inevitable tolerance. Most people start stealing from everyone they know, then move on to heroin because it’s cheaper, then become full-time junkies. It’s a fucking devastating process and not one I intend to glamorize at all. I’m one of the lucky ones who (mostly) got a grip on it, after a really low bottom, before I hit the needle.
The thing that’s so unfair for chronically, clinically depressed people such as myself is that these little bitter fruits of wonder make life seem OK, if only til your next pill. Then, to stay off them, you need to live with the knowledge that no matter what you do or where you go, there exists something that can make you feel normal. Productive. Chipper, even. On your darkest days your little friends are out there somewhere, floating around in cancer patients’ script bottles, and all you need is some green and you’re golden. Man, it’s a real struggle that leaves you riddled with regrets for having ever swallowed even one pill. Because if you can’t have that feeling, why would you want to know it’s out there, calling your name?
Take some pixie dust, go live in Never Never Land for awhile, and see how badly you want to stay once you get back to this shithole.
x Juliet, jonesing