The Substance For You Saga Pt. 11
For part 10 go here- http://substanceforyou.com/substance-for-you-saga-pt-10/
My First + Last Relapse
My relapse had begun and I was in the thick of it before I even knew it. The people, places, things that I surrounded myself with all pointed towards using. It inevitably caught up with me sooner rather than later, even if you consider 19 months of being a dry drunk anything worst of counting.
I started drinking again when I had 19 months clean because the newcomer (someone with only a few weeks clean) I was hanging out with had been not so secretly drinking too. I'd pick him up from the downriver bar where all the hoodlums hung out at and he would say he was playing pool. I wasn't old enough to walk inside, although this didn’t stop me… no pool tables. Maybe he was playing some pocket pool with the woman bartending; he was always good with the ladies.
He seemed to put up with my quiet attitude and always had something to say himself; although it was all negative and connotative to my “zombie” like mental state. He even hooked me up with girls (sexually). The few times he was able to get me in with girls, there was always a stipulation, “You can’t screw me unless you screw my friend.” I was the friend because he was that guy, all 5’1’’ of him, and he still made me look like I was fighting goliath. His “arm” was like a damn tripod, all 13 inches; yeah he was that guy, as threesomes with girls from meetings who were desperate for a fix was common. I wouldn’t say this was the most moral time in my life, but I was focusing on my own addictions and pleasures to say the least. It was a good relationship (I thought) to get me back out into the world, although my addiction started to flourish again. It's amazing how quickly it took off again too.
After about a week—maybe five days at most, hmm—of drinking 2 or 3 beers a night I started to dive into hard liquor, again. I graduated myself from a couple of beers to half of a pint to a pint, and then to a full fifth or vodka a day all over again. This only took me about a week to build my tolerance up to that status. Like I’ve heard plenty of times, this thing we call addiction is plenty progressive!
I was still a minor, but I didn’t find it hard to get the alcohol while nearly anyone from narcotics anonymous with clean time less than a year would buy it for you. Like my sponsor said, surround yourself with the old timers. “That’s boring I tell him!” while he reply, “Would you rather be using drugs again?” I suppose he was, well, totally right!
I still living under my fathers roof, and if you remember anything about the rules I told you all about previously than this whole drinking stint was a no-no. I asked my dad permission to drink and he most abundantly said no. It was too bad that I was already 3 weeks into my relapse by the time I’d asked this. When he said no I found the worst person possible and worst place possible to move in to. Remember the scraggily hobo that shot me up when I was 17-18 years old and we got drunk in my house together? Somehow that same hobo was my old partner in crime’s, “guy.” We connected via social media and he was looking for a roommate as he’d lost his fiancé to extenuating circumstances… I didn’t ask questions, I just found it a place to flop.
On the fourth week of my relapse I moved into my old best friends (the singer from my band and heroin addict) drug dealers house. He seemed pretty presentable and I was 20 years old so my dad really couldn’t say anything, although he did want to meet him. I gave him directions to a trailer park on the outskirts of Telegraph and Joy Road in Detroit; which left us only a 7-minute drive to our heroin dealer. My room was huge! Well, now I’m lying. I had an at most 9ft by 11ft room with a washer and dryer in it next to my bed, that was a lousy prison style mattress on the floor. What a bachelor pad! So for being a drunk and druggie like I was it was a place to live without being questioned, and that’s all I cared about.
The not so hobo anymore I was living with had just got back from deer hunting with his other somewhat hobo friends and had a beard as long as ZZ-Top. He had his head shaved like a skinhead, too. You cold hear the bird’s nest coming from his three foot long beard, cooing like he’d been starving them, and himself for months now. Something was up.
He comes out to meet my dad and hocks up a spitball and then shakes my dad’s hand. The look on my fathers face was something I’d never forget. The look on my dad’s face was one of, “Are you fucking sure you want to do this?” He then said it, “Are you sure you’re gonna be alright?” as I nodded and walked back inside the trailer, hurrying my father away. It was bitching cold and it wasn’t much warmed on the inside, but it was still freedom, I thought. My really had no choice with me being 20 years old and not knowing I was into a full-blown relapse. Oh, how the trust had gone straight out the fucking window! Everything I’d earned back in those 19 months of time everyone thought I was recovering had been blown away like ashes in the dust.
Hobo Jones (we’ll call him) whom I was living with claimed to have two years off of heroin but still drank like a fish. I know fish don’t really drink, drink, but still, he was drowning like a sorrowful man weeping from his misery. It only took 24 hours into living with him to find out that he still knew how to get heroin and relapsed “once” only three weeks ago. After snorting some Oxycontin we both decided, “Let’s go get some dog food” (heroin). Like I said, too, the trip only took 7 minutes, and 12 tops with a pit stop on the way there to bribe our dealer with the always wanted, non-concentrate OJ. He really did love his freaking orange juice, not to boot the two loosies he ALWAYS demanded from us. Loosies were individually sold cigarettes.
That night I shared a needle with another homeless guy (his friend who was living out of his van) and ended up vomiting more than I thought I had in my stomach from an overdose. I ran to the bathroom nearly knocking my head through the wall from being dizzy. Grabbing onto anything I could to keep me from passing out I fell face first into the toilet, drinking some of the leftover piss and water, and finally lifting my head up as projectile sprayed all over the counters. Miss! I ended up passing out face first in a dirty kitty litter box in the bathroom that night, with urine and feces cuddling my nose like a rancid pillow.
This didn’t stop me from using heroin the next, well, 6 hours later. We always had this thing where we would say, “One last time, today?!” and laugh. This lasted for three and a half weeks. We did this ritual roughly every two hours after we had gotten our tolerance up, as it kept rising and rising from the purity of the new heroin we're finding in the Mecca of Detroit heroin dealing. It was now time to be the bearer of black tar heroin, and fully encompass myself into what this potency of true heroin was actually like.
During this three-week period I went from getting white-laced heroin before, to pure chunk and black-tar heroin. The dose on the type of heroin I was doing had more than double, maybe triple, while the price only went up by $5 for the same amount.
Now doing double the potency I also started doing double the amount of heroin (which would be 4X the amount if you calculate it out, but who really knows?). Talk about an increased tolerance. It only took a week to where I was doing $110 of heroin in one syringe. Compare this to my first stint with heroin where I was doing only $20 or $30 at most in one sitting near the end of my first run. When they say this disease is progressive and fatal believe me, it’s true, so fucking true! After a short, short while the high wasn’t getting the job done and I became a maintenance user, where I would have to use to just stop myself from getting sick. I would maintain a “normality” from excessive amounts of heroin, while truly not getting high anymore. But, there was one thing I got a full dose of every time: “Misery.”
My tolerance somehow kept rising while I was clean, and then when I started using there wasn’t anything that could touch it. On top of all the abusing I was still on the depressant or anti-depressant medication my psychologist overprescribed for me. My roommate and I drank and smoked weed on occasion, too. It was a harsh road to take on in only three and a half weeks, but the trailers seemed right at home for my addiction. All of my neighbors in Detroit were doing it too!
The neighborhood “girl” who was about my age walked over and saw me passed out in the recliner with my eyes blackened and always wearing long sleeves. Although it was cold in that rank trailer, I always felt warmth from the dope. She asked, “You do it, too?” as I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about. She knew I was lying and called me out on it in the simplest and most convincing of ways. She then lifted up her shirt and showed me worst track marks than I'd ever seen from never being able to find her vein with the needle. It seemed like I was in a breeding ground for heroin as her dad was a complete alcoholic, and boyfriend called himself an “occasional heroin addict.” As if there was such a thing! She became my best friend in my three and a half weeks there and riding buddy to get the dope with. She had the same drug dealer as my roommate… irony or coincidence? Whatever it was, it was more convenient than anything.
It was nearing Christmas 2010 and I could tell my body was getting extremely tired, so I decided one day I was going to straight up quit. My roommate was in a constant battle between ups and downs of his own addiction by this time. He locked himself in his room for a week at a time smoking crack. He used my car to go get the crack swearing he’d bring me back heroin, but he only brought back crack and my credit card eaten by the machine. This left me in a pickle when I ran outside without shorts on and then try to put my phone in my pocket while it falls into the snow breaking. I couldn’t afford to buy a new one at the time with no valid credit card. Soon I started to detox on the couch in the trailer and that lasted about two days cold turkey after he stole my emergency stash of Suboxone that a 13 stepping girl from NA gave me for a “ride.” I was left with no other option, again. I headed back to my parents house on Christmas Eve and relapsed one last time on Xanax to try and calm the ants crawling in my skin. It was a horrible Christmas present. It was a merry fucking Christmas Brian and family… merry fucking Christmas!
To find out what happens on Christmas 2010 and what the true gift of recovery brings this year read further to part 12 here– http://substanceforyou.com/substance-for-you-saga-pt-12/
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