Citation: olya. "Jersey Takes Drugs in Psychic Defense: An Experience with Heroin (exp26471)". Erowid.org. Feb 20, 2006. erowid.org/exp/26471
||(tar / resin)
I only wanted a taste. But you can never have just a taste of heroin now can you? My curiosity got the better of me and i gave in to temptation, going against my better judgement. I had done plenty of drugs in my day. Angel dust, cocaine, ecstasy, ketamine, crack, opium, benzodiazapines, opiates, barbituates...the lot. Living in the boring suburbs leaves I had little else to do with your time besides destroy braincells. But heroin...now that was the one thing that had always gotten me a little nervous. Nervousness, however, was not enough to keep me away for long.
There had recently been an influx of dopeheads running through my circle. It seemed that every single person i came in contact with had pinned pupils and bloodshot eyes. Around here you couldnt swing a dead cat without hitting a junkie. I spent many days and nights sitting back and watching my friends get high, wondering where their minds were going when they closed their eyes and let their heads nod. One day soon after, i found out.
My best friend came to my house one day looking for a favor. In return he would give me some dope. What can i say, i can refuse anything except temptation. And so up my nose went a quarter of the bag. I sat in quiet anticipation as the smack took hold. Within a minute or two my mind went cloudy and a warm feeling came over my body accompanied by a slight nauseasness. I felt fucking fantastic. Dope made me philisophical and beautiful. I felt like i was looking at the world through untainted eyes for the first time, but ignoring all the pain and suffering. Nothing else existed outside of the moment. The feeling didnt subside for about an hour, and then i fell into a comfortable sleep.
It was sometime after that i decided i wanted to do it again. And so i did. It soon became a weekly ritual for me. Every weekend we would all meet up at the house and send some unlucky contestant for a run. I started off on only doing a small bump at a time. This lasted for all of three weeks. I soon found my own connection. Easier, faster, closer and above all, fool proof. I had been fucked over too many times. If you want something done right you must do it yourself.
The money kept coming in, and kept going straight up my nose. I was taking the short trip to my dealer every day. Buying a bundle each time i went there. The only thing on my mind was taking that trip. We would go up for other people as well. Ripping them off and getting more bags for ourselves.
It seemed wonderful at the time. So easy to feel so good. I had it set in my head that i could stop at anytime, but i didnt want to. I decided to test my theory one day. I finished my last bag and let the day slip by. I started to feel very uncomfortable. My back and legs began to ache and my stomach hurt. At night it became unbearable. Sleep was extremely far out of reach. I was so tired, but so awake. The tingling in my legs and back only got worse as the night progressed. I was hot, then i was cold and all the time i was on the verge of tears. Thats when i realised that the fun was over. This was real. I was a heroin addict.
And so the routine continued for months and months. I wasnt about to go through what i had that day, as mild as it was at the time. Things got worse over time, close friends turned their backs on me. I was referred to as junkie scum by people i had once regarded as loved ones. The one person, who was basically my partner in this whole charade decided that it had gone too far and would have no more of it. Pathetic as i was, i went to see him and pleaded with him to go with me one last time, one last hurrah and it would be finished. The next day, when we returned from making a run i got a phonecall. My mother had found out everything. I stuffed my remaining 4 bags into my bra and proceeded home. The next few days were a blur. This was friday and i made the bags last me until saturday night. The next week was utter hell. Aside from being dopesick, i was dragged to a rehab center where they told me they would admit me for three days and give me decreasing doses of methadone. I wasnt ignorant, and i knew that it wouldnt be just three days. One does not go to rehab for three days. I ran out of there and decided to do it cold turkey. The truth is i blocked that period of time out of my memory. I was locked in my house for two months until a few days before i turned 18. During that time i was giving daily drug tests, both by a lab and a home kit.
When it was finally over i relapsed. A person has to want to stop in order to actually stop for good. On my 18th birthday, in a dirty bathroom of a coffee shop in the village i mixed half a packet of brownish powder with water, dropped in the cotten ball and sucked the concoction into the barrel of the syringe. I tied off with a dark blue bandana stained with blood and shot myself into heaven. I felt it first in my legs, then all throughout my body. The rush was amazing. After that a friend visited the drop in center and got me 15 clean, wrapped rigs. I got back in touch with my old dealer and went on a wonderful 3 week binge. Every day seemed like bliss, and i was around the people that i loved most, doing what i loved most.
It seemed like this was how it should always be.
I never think that anything bad could happen until it does. And it ALWAYS does. 2 weeks ago today a dear friend of mine over-estimated his tolerance. He overdosed and died at age 17. When i got the call, the first thing i did was go out and score. Ive been clean again now for less than two weeks, and only with the help of a wide selection of very available painkillers at my disposale. It seems that now everyone is cleaning up and moving on. As we speak i am waiting to have a bag delivered. This will be my last shot. For all the memories, for all the wasted youth. One last time to feel safe, to feel comfortable. But there are last shots, and there are last shots. I suppose only time will tell which one this will be.
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