The Substance For You Saga Pt. 4
Needles and Junk
Find Pt. 3 here-http://substanceforyou.com/substance-for-you-saga-pt-3/
As he strapped my arm down like I felt like I was lying on a gurney awaiting lethal injection, and then he tightened the belt. I turned my head because I didn’t want to look, then he whispers in my ear… “Are you ready?” I slightly looked back and felt a prick after smelling a burning of metal like it was melting (the spoon). The reaper slowly closed in as the blood drew from my arm into his blade of envy. The syringe pulled back and he said, “I need veins like yours!”
While he complimented the immediate hit and easy draw of pure red blood into from vein to needle it was all so translucent. I didn’t feel real while my lifeline slipped away into nearing cardiac arrest, then, it hit me… 3… 2… 1…DROP.
He dropped the needle and I fell back into my chair on the couch. It was like I’d came for the very first time 1,000 times over again. He then slaps my face and I open my eyes crooked and blackened. “That’s my boy!” he said. This was the first time I tried heroin intravenously while I wasn’t on any other inhibiting substances. True purity for the impurities, how ironic was my life now? I was sincerely hooked from the first time, as there was nothing else like it or to describe it but “Illicit.”
Now living the life of a true deviant soul, my path took a different direction from the very first hit. It hit me hard, it hit me fast, and was surely severe. The pain that came from the pain that I tried to hide was insurmountable. I blasted my veins all to hell with greed and envy in my soul. I was now living the life of a deviant; taking the forbidden fruit not many dared to take. I dived into a culture unaware that I could potentially lose my life and watch my companions die with me. Heartbreaking.
The first couple of weeks of use were surrounded with worrying, and the “what ifs.” What if I would get hooked? What if I needed another fix? It was a vicious cycle and the nympho ex-stalker didn’t help while threatening to dump me time and time again, still! I would lie on the couch with pain in my stomach until I went and got more dope trying to compare it to the first high every single time. “I’m gonna leave you if you’re using heroin, and you’ll never see me again!” she said, as if she had a point this time. All the while I thought in my head, “Who’s to blame? Me, the guy that shot me up, the nympho, or the drugs?”
A few more weeks went by and all I remember is the blood on the ceiling of my room. I would draw from my arm playing squirt gun jokes to my hallucinations on the wall. The addiction got worse and my mental state deteriorated. I would purge after every drop of heroin, and with every purge I lost another 5 pounds. Pretty soon I looked like I acted, a junkie. I was six feet four inches at 150 pounds and still causing mayhem.
The charades begun as I remember that I got so hooked I couldn’t wait while driving back from the trap house to shoot up. It was impeccable timing that I chose the freeway to shoot up rather than pull over to a side street. Irony?
I would pull a belt with my teeth and try to maintain 80 miles an hour (yes speeding, too) on the freeway while sticking a needle in my arm. I steered with my legs as they went numb. Next, I remember waking up from the drop and being 4 lanes over on the expressway, almost hitting a guardrail. I could’ve taken out 6 cars on each occasion this happened—it was all too common. The track marks started to build as I became more hooked with every drop.
I started pawning all of my material objects and other people’s too. The first to go were my clothes. I would get a couple bucks for a nice American Eagle shirt or something from Hollister. I remember paying upwards of $60 for these, oh the things I did for my addiction. After a while I just wore my work clothes and a common pair of long sleeve shirts, no matter the weather. I worked two minimum waged jobs and spent every paycheck on heroin, while my parent’s gave me weekly money, too. It’s hard to believe that much went to such a self-loathing reason, but, I couldn’t stop.
I eventually found out this habit of pawning and petty theft wasn’t enough. I started robbing liquor stores for their cigarette cartons only to resell them in the heartland of Detroit for half-price, just to buy heroin with the illegal money. I remember my partner dropping a few boxes on the way out, all for good reason. “I’m gonna get you little fuc3$@ers!” the teller screamed baring a shot-gun cocked and loaded. My P.I.C (partner in crime) jumped in the tail end of my car and we were off on another round. Do you know how many liquor stores and gas stations there were for this opportunity? Why cigarettes you ask? Well, they turned their head for the cartons and by the time they sat three or four down, all you had to do was ask for another in order for them to turn their head again. This was your time, we seized the moment like John Dillinger, we are now America’s most wanted, “THE ADDICT.”
In all during the 8 months of chronic abuse I spent upwards of $10,000 out of my bank, $5,000 stolen, $5,000 pawned, $5,000 from my parents giving it to me. It seemed the skinnier I got the more clogged my arteries got from heroin. I would top off late nights with a drive and a blunt, making my live-in foster brother be my chauffeur. “Hold on a second!” I screamed from the back room in the basement, as him and his friends were ready to go. “Where were you?” they asked. “I was snorting some coke guys,” as this was somehow more socially acceptable than heroin. There were two options, the rich man drug versus the dirty drug, and I was screwed either way!
It was an expensive habit but I got the best dope around, as I knew that Highland Park was the place to go in the Mecca of heroin dealing in Detroit, MI. You’d pull up to a tall half abandoned project only to notice the house sitting next to it. It’s 3 a.m. and I’m sitting at a plain table, in a plain house, with nothing but a piano in the corner and mold on the walls. The guns were slapped on the table as I handed over the money. “Is it cool to do it here?” I asked. “As long as you pay, we are always cool my brother.”
This went on for about another eight months, which was about equivalent in length to the pill and alcohol abuse. There was though, simply no comparison in dosing I was doing. The self-medication had taken me whole and I couldn’t cope with daily emotions or motions without a fix every couple hours. While my arms pussed from purple-grey track marks the addiction held me hostage for a long while, forcing me to move back into my parents basement and abandon the house. I secluded and isolated myself and became a twig of anorexia and vomiting from overdosing. At 19 years old I was now the epitome of “The All-American Drug Addict.”
For Part 5 go here- http://substanceforyou.com/substance-for-you-saga-pt-5/
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