Citation: Solstice. "The Paths We Walk: An Experience with Oxycodone (exp95471)". Erowid.org. Oct 13, 2018. erowid.org/exp/95471
Because opiate use can lead to significant tolerance (requiring higher doses for the same effects), the dose used by a first time user is significantly smaller than that used by a regular user. It can be extremely dangerous to choose ones dose on the basis of the amount taken by someone else. Overdoses of opiates can be fatal.]
Even in my early days, I was always the introverted, weird, and downright awkward one. In middle school and high school, I was the one who had maybe one or two friends, and hated everyone else with a burning passion. I hated the way they all dressed alike, listened to the same music, and had all of the same interests just to fit in. I'm sure a lot of you can relate when I say I've never been too keen on fitting in. While the others were busy 'being cool,' I preoccupied myself with various genres of music, learning everything about this world I could, and generally trying to mix things up as much as possible. I rejected the religion that everyone around me had been indoctrinated in, and rather than just let them be ignorant(in my opinion), I would do my very best to be as sacrilegious as possible. That worked for me until late in my sophomore year. I had straight A's up until that point. Then due to my own foolish decisions, I was expelled.
After my expulsion from school, I had to figure out some other way to get a diploma, and eventually found an online school that would take me. My parents graciously forked out the 3.000 dollar bill for my school, and I ended up doing the last three years of school in about 6 months. Everyone was so proud of me. Unfortunately, this is actually when things started going downhill. I had about a 6 month period of waiting before I could go to college. Of course, being a sixteen year old with nothing but time on his hands is an absolutely terrible situation. How did I occupy my time? You guessed it: The dreaded D-word. DRUGGGGGGGGS!
I started out just taking pills and smoking pot, like the majority of drug users. In the beginning, this was no big deal. I would take a few vicodin here and there, and usually just smoke weed. I dabbled in psychedelics, which, to this day, are my favorite class of drugs. This entire time, I maintained a job, saved money for college, and never spent more money than I had. Everything was seemingly going fine. My first semester of college began, and as usual, I aced all of my classes without opening a book.
The next semester, things did not go so well. I went to about 15 lectures that semester, missed every midterm and final, and ended up running away (I was still 16 at this point) to live with some friends and do drugs all the time. At this point, I was still not using any very hard drugs, but I was unequipped and too immature to be using drugs in the first place. I flushed everything I worked so hard for down the drain at that point.
Fast forward to my eighteenth birthday. I had moved back in with my parents at this point, but was really only biding my time until I could move away legally. Looking back, I realize I was probably the dumbest person on the planet, but such is the nature of being a teenager. I moved back in with some friends for a little while, but I quickly grew weary of the stagnant lifestyle I was living. Sure, we were drinking and smoking everyday, but this had become rather boring to me at this point.
One day, I just happened to meet one of my old high school friends at the mall. He told me he was moving to West Palm Beach, Florida the next day, and I should come chill and smoke with him before he left. I had nothing better planned that day, so I gladly accompanied him. We relaxed at his house, taking a few xanax and smoking a ton of weed. He told me about how his grandmother was basically kicking him out of his house and that he had some friends in Florida he was going to stay with until he got on his feet. He said he wished I could go with him, but he knew I wasn't just going to pick up and go somewhere I'd never been. I didn't even miss a beat. I had been dying to get out of the shithole that is Alabama ever since I had moved there when I was 10.
Fast forward again about 6 months. I've been hanging out in West Palm with no job, just going with the flow. Honestly, a job wasn't exactly necessary for me. I managed to make money through my lucrative business. I won't go into details, but I had enough money to do basically whatever I wanted. I was going to raves, shows, and festivals doing every psychedelic I could acquire. My favorite was MDMA, as the quality in Florida was absolutely superb. At some point, however, I noticed my mood drastically declining. Deep down, I knew this ride couldn't last forever. I had enough money saved to start going back to school, and I knew there was no way I was going to be able to do it in Florida. I would have never studied. In my last days there, however, one of the few people I actually wanted to say goodbye to said she wanted to smoke out before I left. She came over, but I could tell she was already on something. I asked her what, just out of curiosity. She told me she was on roxy. Now, I wasn't new to the drug scene by any means, and had seen people on roxy and heard stories about people being addicted to it, but for some reason, this time I asked if she had any left. She split up one of the pills I would later refer to as 'Little Blue Devils' into two lines. I snorted one, and immediately I was overcome with a sense of warmth and bliss, and the weed only made it better. The next day, I felt no withdrawal or any of the symptoms I had always heard about. 'No big deal,' I thought to myself.
The next day, I felt no withdrawal or any of the symptoms I had always heard about. 'No big deal,' I thought to myself.
A few weeks later, just after spending Xmas with my family, I was in AL living with my brother. He had already been through college and was an electrical engineer. He was pretty naive to my past drug usage, and I was glad. I quickly found a few friends here in this new place, and smoked pot with them on occasion. Actually, I ended up spending about 8 months without finding a job or getting myself into school. During most of this time, I had only smoked pot. Towards the end of the 8 months, I had occasionally started dabbling in roxies.
The first time I even had the idea of dabbling in oxycodone again was when my friend who we'll call Glenn told me he had just found a connect for 80mg Oxycontins. Of course, I was trying not to exhaust all of my funds on drugs, so we ended up splitting one of them four ways with two of his friends. Up my nose this relatively small amount of powder went. It was absolutely the most amazing rush I had ever felt. The only way I can describe the feeling is: Imagine you are in the middle of a nasty blizzard. You have to run out to your car to grab something, and it's about 100 feet away. When you get back to the warmth of your house/apartment, and huddle up under a pile of freshly washed blankets, and the joy you feel of having found comfort completely overshadows the horrendous cold you just escaped. Now multiply that feeling by 100.
I told myself I wasn't going to let this become a problem the next day. I let a few days pass, just smoking and enjoying myself. Then I asked Glenn if he wanted to split another OC. He happily accepts, and calls up his guy, but can only get Roxy 30's. We grab two, and don't even wait to get back to his house. We got in his car and snorted the pills right then and there. I broke mine in half and saved one half, but he snorted his entire pill. That same rush I had felt the other day overtook me once again, and I couldn't imagine I'd rather be then right there in a car, barely able to keep my eyes open, having my friend stop every few miles so I could puke my guts out. I didn't care that I was puking, though. Such is the joy of pure opiated bliss.
This process continued for another two months or so. I would do the Roxies occasionally, trying my best not to cave into their appeal. Eventually, my funds ran out, and I immediately found a job, not wanting to stop smoking and doing Roxies whenever life got too boring.
Eventually, my funds ran out, and I immediately found a job, not wanting to stop smoking and doing Roxies whenever life got too boring.
I have to say, the job I found was absolutely the most hellish place I have ever worked. However, the pay was absolutely awesome, so it seemed worth it. I made enough to support my pot and Roxy habit, and Glenn and I actually made enough to get an apartment together. It wasn't exactly the best of places, but it wasn't a rat infested shit hole either. Life was not looking too bad at this point. I would splurge on Roxy on the weekends, and smoke pot throughout the week. We had enough to pay our rent on time, and even bought an XBox 360 and all sorts of games. It seemed like nothing could drag us down, and we actually decided to start a grow-op once we saved up enough money. Little did I know that my friend Roxy would eventually be the downfall of this little plan of ours.
It seems as months went by, we both had less money to our names, and had to snort more Roxy to get high. My dose at this point had gone from 15mg twice on the weekend, to about 2 pills 3 times a week. I still had no physical withdrawal symptoms, so I figured I was good. To be truthful, I was actually still doing pretty well, compared to how bad things were going to get. Over the course of only a month or so, my 3 times a week had turned into everyday, and the same goes for my roommate. Glenn had started coming up short on rent money, but still had the majority of it. I figured it was time for us to slow down, and he fully agreed with me. We attempted to stop. It lasted all of one day. The next day, for both of us, was filled with absolute misery. This was the wretched withdrawal I had heard so much about. We called up our dealer that day and got our fixes. I noticed something at this point. I was no longer getting that amazing rush I had loved so much in the beginning. I just felt good.
Things only got worse from this point onward. The stuff in our apartment suddenly started to go missing, until finally, 'Someone broke into our apartment and robbed us.' I say that within quotations because that's what my roommate told me. It seemed rather interesting that he had enough Roxies to satisfy both of us that day. I didn't think anything of it, even though him offering anyone drugs at this point in our decline was completely out of character. After this point, things only continued to descend. I started showing up later and later for work, as I was waiting for my pills that morning. Also, a new character presents itself at this point.
Intravenous (IV) injection of crushed pills/tablets can be very dangerous due to unknown substances, binders, and fillers present. Any substance injected directly into the blood stream should be very pure. Clean needles and medically appropriate techniques should be used to avoid serious injury or death.]
Enter: The Needle
I was rather apprehensive to agree to even try mainlining when my roommate first presented the idea. I had never even considered the idea at this point, and the junky stigma surrounding it turned me away. After watching him prepare what would be his first shot, and then plunging it into his vein(after a long, hard fought battle trying to find a vein.), I was convinced somewhat that it wasn't so bad. I allowed him to prepare me a shot, and fortunately(or was it?), I HAVE AMAZING VEINS! It took one attempt for him to stick that needle into my vein, draw blood, and push the blue-tinted water into me. What followed was perhaps better than an orgasm. I fell back in my chair as soon as that beautiful substance flowed through my veins, hit my brain, and then enveloped my body within an aura of warmth and comfort. I honestly believe someone could have run into our apartment and taken what was left of our possessions without me even noticing.
In quite possibly one of the greatest turn of events I can imagine(bear with me.), I lost my job that next day. I had missed so many hours of work, I had actually missed more than was allowable in a month, within a week. I say this was a good thing, not only because I was no longer working a job that caused me to want to blow my brains out at the mere thought of it, but also because I no longer had the money to support my habit and live in that apartment. I was forced to go back to living with my brother, and my roommate had to go back to living with his parents.
It just so happened that right after losing my job and my apartment, I had a rather hefty tax return coming in (I have a ton of taxes taken out throughout the year for this reason.). I went through the withdrawal process for the next week, planning on using my tax return on finally getting back into school. If you've been following the story up to this point, I'm sure you've noticed a trend. That tax return lasted all of about a month. In that month, I started snorting the Roxies again without a second thought. The week of withdrawal obviously wasn't enough to knock some sense into me. Every single day, I was snorting at least two or three of those little devils. On the days I hung out with Glenn, we would shoot them. I never let the needle usage go too far, though. I never learned to shoot myself.
The week I started running low on money, I just happened to get a new job delivering pizza, and my only other real friend in Huntsville, who we'll call F, started selling the Roxies. At the time, this seemed like the most amazing turn of events imaginable. I was making plenty of money in tips everyday, and taking it straight to F. It seemed like nothing could go wrong at this point in my life. I went through the same process for at least two or three months. I had stopped hanging out with Glenn at this point, as he had been sent to rehab, and was considered a 'junkie' by everyone else. I didn't realize how silly it was thinking of him as a junkie until a few months later.
Me and F became really close friends during this time, even though he seemed to be getting a large portion of my money. We would ride around when I wasn't working, making F's runs. It seemed like his phone never stopped ringing with calls from junkies needing him to come through and save them from the dreaded sickness. Every few hours, F would break down one of those pills, and usually split it with me unless he was short on supply. He was becoming busier and busier as time went on, and our time hanging out was more and more devoted to his deals. It got to the point where hanging out with him was almost a chore most of the time, as the fun had mostly ceased. I cut back on hanging out with him a bit, and it seemed like the days that we did hang out were a little better, until along came xanax. I had no problems staying away from it, but F was doing so many of the Roxies at this point, he couldn't do enough to get high. Every time i saw him, he was in LaLa-Land, and I didn't even want to ride with him anymore because I was afraid he would kill us both. It took over a month to get him to realize how stupid he was being. Eventually, I did finally get him to quit taking bars for the most part.
I was snorting a pill or two a day for these past few months. On paydays, I always splurged, buying up to ten pills at a time and doing them all in a single day. After a while though, those one or two turned into three or four, then five or six. I wasn't splurging on payday anymore, just maintaining an ugly habit. Every dollar I made went to those little devils. It got to the point where money from my job wasn't covering my expenses. I turned to my old 'lucrative business.' Unfortunately, I didn't have anywhere near as much luck in Huntsville as I did in Florida. On some days, when I was completely empty on funds, I would take as many hours as I could at work, regardless of how sick and in pain I was. I would even show up late or take an hour for a single delivery to get my fix for that day. I didn't care if I jeopardized my job, as long as it meant I could hold off my sickness for a few more hours.
It was around this time that things started to really go downhill. I was falling deeper and deeper into a hole of depression. Depression wasn't exactly new to me. I've dealt with an overall dysphoric outlook on life since I was young, but it had never been this bad before. Thoughts of suicide plagued my thoughts whenever I wasn't high, and when the sickness had set in over a day, it was as if I were already dead. No matter how doped up I got, I still had to face the next day with a dark cloud hanging over my head. Yet. I just kept feeding the fire. Around this time, Glenn had started doing the Roxies again, but skipped straight to shooting again. I would once again start hanging out with him, and any time I did, he would happily shoot me up. The allure of the needle was overpowering for him, but I found it to be too short lived for my tastes. I would rather snort 5 of the pills and be sauced out for a few hours than shoot one and be sauced out for an hour or so.
Anyway, the process continued. Sickness, spending every dollar on getting high, sickness, thoughts of suicide, more sickness, doing my best to just stay not sick. At this point, I had resorted to stealing, lying, cheating, that whole spill. I even sold my guitar, amp, pedals, XBox 360, my brother's guitar, my TV, my sister-in-law's TV, and anything else I could get my hands on. This only further contributed to my feelings of guilt and remorse. Everyday I was alive felt like another day of hell on earth. I ended up wrecking my car, and rather than saving the few hundred dollars I got for scrapping it, I spent it on more pills.
Everyday I was alive felt like another day of hell on earth. I ended up wrecking my car, and rather than saving the few hundred dollars I got for scrapping it, I spent it on more pills.
I ended up using my brother's car to work. He wasn't exactly thrilled about it, and told me I needed to find another job or buy a new car. Well, I knew for a fact that neither of these was going to happen, and it felt like my life was going down the drain faster than I could help. It was around this point that I decided that I was going to take my own life. I decided I was going to take myself out the same way I had brought myself so much misery in previous months.
I managed to sell enough shit to acquire 20 of those little blue devils, intent on shooting and snorting them until I fell into the eternal nod. I just happened to have the house to myself that night. So, I prepped a few needles, and broke down the rest of my pills into powder. I snorted about half the pile at first, alternating nostrils as I went along, and shot five pills into my veins(with quite a bit of struggle, as I had only shot myself a few times before.). So, that glorious nod came along, and it was almost too strong for me to actually continue. However, my overwhelming misery still lingered. I stuck my straw back up my nose, and went to town on what was left of my pile. About halfway through, the thought came to mind, 'I wonder if there was a better way?' And with that, I fell face first into what was left of the pile, and my table, which was at this point covered in my blood and the remnants of the powder.
I fell face first into what was left of the pile, and my table, which was at this point covered in my blood and the remnants of the powder.
How I did not die that night, I do not know. No one came to my rescue, there was no naloxone involved, just a bloody mess and a somewhat scattered pile of Oxycodone. I woke up with one of the worst headaches of my life, an overwhelming sickness, and the same miserable feeling I had before. I did what any self respecting junkie would do in this situation, and scraped up what I could of uncontaminated Oxycodone, and snorted it up my nose. This would turn out to be my last taste of the opiate bliss. I cleaned up my mess(well, at least the one on the table.), and went outside to smoke my cigarette. I made a decision at this point to do my best to get help.
I had to confess to my brother all of the bullshit I had done over the past few months, and at the end of the long, long 'conversation' that ensued, we made a decision for me to go back to living with my parents. I had to do everything in my power to get off the shit and get my life back on track.
I have been clean for three months or so now, and every single day is a challenge. The depression was getting better and better each day, up until yesterday. I came to find out that F, one of my best friends on this planet, ended his life in a similar fashion as I had tried months before. He had been wanted by the cops for selling narcotics, and did not want to be put in jail, I guess. He was more successful than me, due to the addition of the xanax which I thought he had stopped taking.
If you have read this entire story of mine, and are still able to stop doing oxy/heroin/any opiate you can get your hands on, please fucking quit while life is still good. If you haven't started, but were thinking about it, I hope this has knocked some sense into you. No nod is ever going to be as euphoric or as amazing as the first. This is something I can promise you.
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