Jealous Twin

Highhhher than a motherfucker. I guess we're back on coke. We've been plugging it, which is kind of messy and burns, but it is a lovely feeling once the coke sets in (the actual process is kind of horrible, especially the fear of pooping on R). I do want to shoot some, but I hate trying to find a vein now. The bruises are way too obvious with my friends; I hate the look they give me that says "I know you're back on drugs."

One of our close friends has a new problem with xanies. This is bad because he's had a problem with alcohol for a long time, so he now mixes his whiskey with xanies. My friends dad OD'ed from that combo, as many others have. It's really troublesome, and it feels hypocritical to worry, but at least we don't mix drugs known to cause death. I'm all for getting high, but I don't want to die or my friends to. He is a great guiatrist and has a really great heart, but that doesn't mean he won't OD. That's a big fear for me now... 6 years, and never having had one, I feel like it's only a matter of time. As my dad always says, "it's not if you fall it's when"--and I think the same is true of drugs.

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Ephedrine pumping through me and I feel good. I like it mostly for it's CNS effects, my body feels fucking good. The cocaine trail ended last night, with restless sleep for hours and hours. R called out of work, saying he was sick. We're worried he's going to get fired. The worst part is that his dad works with him, and is a total hardass. He has really driven into his head that he is a complete fuck up, and makes anything he does that is bad come off as if he murdered puppies or something. For someone who has bipolar, it is really fucked up treatment. He already beats himself up all the time for just being him, so the emotional slaughter that his parents creates only makes things worse. It's hard to watch because I love R more than I've ever loved anyone. We really understand each other and  are super interconnected emotionally, so any blow to him crushes me too. I would do anything to keep him happy and alive and with me, and he would do the same for me. He's actually the reason that I stopped cutting/burning/hitting myself and why I promised not to kill myself. Antidepressants made it really easy for me to try it before, so I'm being careful not to let myself get that way again. He gives me a reason to wake up in the morning because I finally have a future I can look forward to, knowing he'll be there with me.

I ordered some Kratom today.  I do love that stuff. It is great for keeping cravings away and getting you high as balls. It is an opiate antagonist, so it feels like some hydro or some oxy. Sometimes you have to take a lot though to get any effects, so even buying a substantial amount can result in very quick finish if you binge them (which is now the only way I seem to take drugs).

I would say the whole binging problem is really what's made my drug problem so bad the past 2 years. Even when I was just smoking weed and sniffing benzedrex inhalers, I'd smoke until I was gone--my head now full of warm, smokey, heaviness. The benzedrex made me talk like crazy in classes, which wasn't horrible besides sometimes making me a bit embarrassed about my domination of the discussions. Speed is great and horrible in binges... you love it when it's happening but by the end you're a tweaked out frazzled mess. Together we can go through about 600mg of addies in 5 days (tops, sometimes only 4). It's badddd, but great. We do get a lot of stuff done then. Cocaine is the worst because it is so expensive, so if you binge it gains horrible momentum. Thinking about it makes you want more and more to keep out the calculations of how much money you've thrown away on powder euphoria. Even with opiates, which I used to having super-human control with, I down 30 percs in a week now when I get my hands on them. Poor R, he left me with a few roxies last year and I did almost all of them without him because I couldn't stop myself. He isn't to into them, so he wasn't very upset.

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My jealous twin is coming out... the sober half of me, who craves coke. It's all around my brain now, and all I want to do is shoot a little tiny bit. R doesn't want me to do it because our first time we both got super sick--we think it's because of the cut. We both had a horrible 8 hour time, vomiting and sweating and shitting. I remember crying sitting on the toilet, as I shit into the bowl and leaned over the shower to vomit. R appeared and began vomiting as well into the bathtub. It was like a nightmare. Then he vomited on the yoga mat, unable to make it back to the bathroom, after laying down for a bit. But I know it'll feel amazing. I just want it. NOWNOWNOWNOW. Put it in my veins and let me go.

Highyah!

cococococococococaineeeeee. Jesus Christ, how I love you. I love you when you're here, and hate myself when you're gone. But you are beautiful as you burn, and pulse back through my body. The complete pleasure flowing through my body makes me miss all of those damn percocets (opiates have the best body high (to me and I think almost everyone else)). I remember now, this is why I got so into it, I feel good, and right.

Focus. Breathe. Let the beat in the back of your neck radiate out. Breathe.

The night is serene and flows out behind my curtains, past the apartment buildings and subway tracks. The bones of the city rattling and rolling off in the background.

Instincts

Something has changed. Today, waiting, I felt no excitement about the drugs, just a nauseous, scared feeling in the pit of my stomach. I recognized it immediately: soon the game will be up with my parents. I know shit is about to go down in our lives. It's funny; being 22 and still fearing my parents will know what I'm doing (because they still help me with rent;/medical expenses since I've only been out of school a few months). The dude hasn't gotten back to me yet, so R and I might not get anything. I don't want to do anything with a feeling like this hanging over me--it'll only lead to........The Dude called, a wash of fear and excitement washed over me, and instinct took hold. I didn't even realize what I had done until the words were out of my mouth, and he was telling me that he'd be here in a few hours, if we were still waiting. WHAT ELSE WOULD WE BE DOING? I feel like vomiting--better to hold it in, let me burn the insides of my stomach. JESUS WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Sometimes I think I wish my parents would just call me out, give me any extra reason to help me say no because I can't seem to get myself to. Its hard knowing they believe the best in me and that's why they're screwed.

Bunny Flops

There is a soft thud as he throws himself down on the cardboard. His hazelnut eyes close slightly, and his ears relax. Now he is comfortable, ready for an afternoon nap. The black fur on his back gives way  to gray on his belly, but this is the only time I can see it. In sleep, he is a peaceful ball of soft fur and curly whiskers. When he is awake, he is a terror--made obvious by the barrier of skateboards now surrounding our sofa. If he's not out and allowed to scamper around the living room and kitchen, he will run laps around his cage, slam dancing against the walls, and kicking his bedding around. Even if he is out, he will sometimes take to chewing on our ankles or digging at our feet. In the end though, there is nothing more that I want than for him to be a happy rabbit. That may sounds silly, but I genuinely want to give him the fullest, happiest possible life a pet rabbit could have. R even built him a castle out of cardboard, with tunnels and rooms for him to sleep, so that he have his own burrow (along with a myriad of other cardboard boxes and toys for him to play with).

The afternoon sunlight wains behind the curtains, as he sleeps in his castle beneath the window and I work on the other side of the room. I'm waiting now for the dude to show up, after an awkward conversation on the phone trying to explain who I was who he knew and why I was calling. He says 30 minutes, but it could be 30 hours knowing him--at least it's in the Post.

Tomorrow we're meant to meet with R's mom at the museum and see a new exhibit, then go to the movies and perhaps have dinner. His mom is a fascinating woman, a doctor, full of life, the kind of woman you'd want to interview, but not the kind you want judging you/asking you a lot of questions. Perhaps it's my own fears of making a good impression at each meeting that I assume she is judging me because I'M judging me (social anxiety and such). She's the kind of Jewish woman who learned Krav Maga with the Black Panthers in the '70s up in the Bronx--not the kind you want to fuck with.

I'm still waiting. It's been 30 minutes now, and I'm hoping against all odds that he is on time, so I can drop one ganker rail before R gets home.

He's 30 minutes late now............................................ just shit myself so I guess the timing is good. Never had that happen before, and then all I could do was hope, sitting on the toilet, he would not ring the doorbell. It literally looked like piss in the toilet, but somehow it had come out of my colon. That doesn't make me feel very good about my health, or anything really. YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO PEE OUT OF YOUR ASS, but I guess anything is possible.

An hour has now slipped by since he said he would be here, and I feel worse than ever. My body is riled up, my nose is running, work is boring, and waiting for him to arrive is like some kind of test of endurance. It's a test that I don't have a choice but to pass.

He came and went quietly; an hour and a half late. Finally, the tension slipped from my body as the dead bolt clicked in the door frame.

Dinner time at last.

Late Night Writing

The worst part about all of this, besides the lying and the waste of money, is that I didn't start writing again until I was doing coke. There was nothing. Each day was just another spent working, living, diving deeper into depression, sleeping more and more, feeling as if my life should have ended when I tried to kill myself (I couldn't even do that right). Sure, I thought about writing, but it felt pointless--and I knew that no one should  read something I had already lost faith in before I had put pen to paper. Writing becomes a comfort when I can't trust anyone else.

I keep thinking about emailing my last writing professor, who told me I could talk to him if I ever needed someone to listen. Writing about my suicide attempt a year before left him a bit unsettled. He was actually great to talk to during office hours, as if he was just a friend or an uncle. I can't take advice from my own friends because people my age don't know shit, just like me.

So I find myself again staring down at the M.C. Escher book placed atop the stove and now covered in  a thin dusting of powder. This is all I've ever wanted: to write, and get high, and write more. Sometimes I even pretend Jim Carroll's ghost is here, and he and I talk. I started doing it when I lived alone in Paris and would write late at night about him for college. It felt like I had a mentor, even if it was just my imagination.

Soon all the coke will be gone again and I'll be left empty and cold. We're out of weed too. There will be nothing left to take solace in. Maybe a shot of whiskey? It'll make the coke last longer.... It was a gift, so it doesn't matter if you spit it out.

Second Day: FUCK

"Fuck." I sigh into the phone, "Sorry, that's because we can't get any coke. That 'fuck.'" Our conversation ends, we'll meet at the grocery store to get food. Now that we're not powered by chemicals I have to cook and eat. I hate food because I love it so fucking much. It reminds me constantly that I will never be thin without the help of drugs to surpress my appetite--never again at least.

The overhead fixture spills dirty yellow light across the bunny and I, and the rest of the living room. I try to keep positive, but all I want is cocaine. I've made up my mind. I want it now NOW NOW NOW NOWNOW.


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R's out to go get money for a gram. I need someone to hold me accountable. Someone that actually will tell me no (aka not my parents or R or myself), that will give me a reason not to. My desire for coke was stronger than my guilt over being a horrible daughter. One thing I keep thinking is, "my parents are going to sure wish they had sent me to rehab when I was 16." Now that I'm an adult, it's a lot harder to do shit about my behavior--and they're the only ones who give a shit, since I don't.

Now all there is left to do is wait, for R to return, for the dude to respond, for me to get high.

Terrible terrible Tuesdays...

-Lucy

First day: White-knuckling it

NO money. NOOOO MONEY. All the rent is gone. Gotta make it up. Part of me just wants to yell: FUCK IT. I know I can't. I know that the only money we can spend tonight is the 4 dollars we use at McDonalds on the dollar menu (two McChickens and two Double Cheeseburgers).

I've never gone through a real REAL coke withdrawal. I've heard it's not as bad as opiates, which makes me happy because that was so bad I only lasted a day before I was back on shit--vomiting cranberry juice into my trashcan with two percocets in my belly (I had just been in the hospital for all of that arm shit).

R is home and I'm happy. We're watching jokes, eating muffins from his work, smoking a bowl, and watching TV. We feel like shit, but we're positive.

Optimism or some shit--will you get us through this?

R pretends to snort a blueberry muffin, like Joaquin Pheonix snorting the weed in "I'm Still Here." We've also now summed up Brittany Murphy's career as "being on a lot of drugs and crying." I guess that's about right. You can't be on a lot of drugs, and expect that all those good feelings won't be repaid with bad ones.

- Lucy

Drug dealers can't tell time

Sip of beer, sniffle, sip of beer, check phone, sip of beer, MOTHERFUCKER, sip of beer, pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeee, sip of beer, get here soon. I pet the rabbit, and R arrives with cash for when the dude arrives.

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We got the shit and we are content. My septum is fully deviated, wind is rushing from one nostril to the other.

Too fucked to type now. I will type more when I am better grounded mentally.

I never want to die.

-Lucy

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The rabbit is redecorating. He moved his tunnel of hay to the other side of his cage, digging in his bedding, frolicking in his new home. 2am is 2pm for all he cares. A little dark cloud racing in circles. That rascal.

The Dope Man Cometh

I am the couch cover. The constant seam and hole protector, and there is no more work to do. R is going to dinner with his uncle, and there is no work to do. No cocaine yet so I'm keeping myself busy until the dude hits him back. He is holding his phone, lower lip slack, staring at the screen--I'm never sure what that means. He calls him, but he doesn't pick up, so immediately begins texting him. For a moment, he is texting, stops to look himself in the mirror with a raised lip like Sid Vicious, until he is on the phone again--my mood momentarily lifts, as I think he is calling the dude back because he has texted, but his uncle it's just his uncle. I  was hopeful it was all about dope, but it was just about them meeting up on the subway--shitty imagination.

My body woke up pulsing, the summer sun radiated in, and I felt content. Content because I knew we would get more coke.

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I feel asleep on the sofa. The A/C rattled in the window, and the bunny slept in his cardboard castle that R had built for him. Sleepy, so sleepy, my stomach aching from its first real meal in days, as I rolled over I noticed my phone slowly blinking. Fuck. I check it, and the dude should've been here 15 minutes ago. I fear
that, although 5 feet from the door, I have missed his arrival, and will not see him for another 6 hours and it'll be my fucking fault for sleeping.

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He arrives a few hours later, we find out that he had fallen asleep too--summer naps for everyone, even my bunny buddy. I do half a line as R arrives, quick to shove the other half up my nose. UP up up and away. R follows suit, then quickly describes the 25 foot manual he did in the subway on the way back--woah bro woah righteousssssssssssssssssssssss (haha).

Now we're on the sofa, feeling Right.

God I love the summer.

Time to go celebrate tonight.
-Lucy

HYPOthetical cocaine

This could be the last cocaine we do for a few weeks--by this cocaine, I mean, what's screaming through my veins as we speak. I swear I can feel it in my arms. We're only wearing underwear and socks on our bed, smoking weed and flipping through my iPod. The lights hum brighter and darker as power surges strike through the building. I don't think the wiring has been changed since at least the 1980s,  and probably not the 1940s in the bedroom where there is only one outlet. Motherfuckers.

my eyes and boddy pulse pulse pulse with the music as i feel it more. ohhhhhhhh fuck I wish we had more money, that would be fun. If we hadn't spent half the rent already, and had to pay it late, once my next paycheck came in. I don't know if the dude is up, bu----yeah, that's a horrible idea. Sleep is more appropriate. Possibly healthier or something, haha, but when I'm not on uppers I sleep 10 to 14 hours a day due to my depression, so I like staying up.

R is tripping, I feel much better. The A/C hums on again, thank fuck for modern convenience, and it sounds like the rabbit is sleeping or at least not doing gymnastics like some nights. For his size, he makes a decent amount of racket, but its the most adorable racket you've ever seen/heard.

I'm too fucked to type.

good night. goodbye for now cocaine.
maybe.
-Lucy

THE PLOT THICKENS

Of course. Of course when we decided to get weed, from our dude who also gets us coke, we find ourselves getting a gram. The weed makes our hearts beat even faster, and the coke effects last longer. We've cut back a lot on the amount of weed we smoke, maybe getting two eighths a week, down from when we would get 3 or 4.

I feel a bit healthier, even just cutting out the coke for this half day, like my body is coming back to life. It could be because I ate breakfast as well.

Knowing that coke should be arriving in 15 minutes, I feel happy, R feels happy.

Fuck it.

Just two American Americans celebrating 4th of July!
- Luce

Soberugh

UGH. Going sober after doing drugs for weeks on end, is like taking a 14 hour flight between time zones (I've taken a few of those in my short life). It's like being sucked into a void that has no real time, no space, isolated, hurtling silently through the dark night sky. Within a plane full of people, I feel completely alone. The humming of the aircraft engines fills my ears, and I'm caught, awake and contorted into an airplane seat, waiting, forever waiting, for it to land.

I just want to get coke. I am not into being sober. We just smoked the last of our weed. I feel annoyed that my brain keeps looping: LET'S GET COKE. LET'S GET COKE. LET'S GET COKE. But I'm keeping that inside, so that we can stop this maddness.

WHY CAN'T WE BE REGULAR JUNKIES AND LET THIS SHIT FALL WHERE IT MAY?

Because our parents will know. My parents will know or his will and we will be fucked. I know if they find out we will be dragged apart, off to rehabs, and maybe never find each other again.

We've now spent a third of our rent money... I won't be able to pay it until I get paid again, next Friday, so it'll be late, but at least it won't bounce. I'd rather send in a late check, than have one bounce.

I realized that if we have kids, we'll be combining two fucked up lines, into one child. One child that will most likely be sickly, mentally ill, drug addict, but really sexy and smart. Or maybe, this child will be the one that breaks the mold, and does the exact opposite, becoming a doctor or lawyer like all of our parents wanted for us. I was wondering last night if we shouldn't have any, and just live our lives however we want for the rest of time. Then again, I'm not in a very good head space right now.

Once I discovered that I could be a high-functioning junky, that I could play good citizen, and do whatever the fuck I wanted, I never wanted a different life. I just hope that my patience lasts through the day, and that seeing R's family later goes smoothly.

Let's hope I make it to day 2,
- Lucy

P.S. If anyone is reading this, and wants to say "hey!" that'd be awesome. I'd love to know someone was reading this.

If only we owned a swiffer...

Dr. Phil blabbers on the TV, remarking that people who are good have a defined image. I addmited to R the other day that I had wanted to do drugs, mostly heroin, since I was 11 in D.A.R.E. class. My defined image since then has been smart, but on a shit ton of drugs. I know at least I'm still on a shit ton of drugs (and I did graduate university a semester early, this past December).

R doesn't want us to ever touch coke again. I understand that, but I don't feel the same. I feel like we just need to chill until we have some time to look at these past few months in retrospect, and figure out how we can still do shit without LOSING OUR SHIT ( or possibly losing our apartment). And by shit, I mean money... a lot of money. We've never had money until now, where we could actually spend it on stuff we wanted, which only adds to the bottomless pit of spending.

Tomorrow we are done for now. I probably wont' want to write, since I'll be too depressed and curled up to do any of that shit.

Wish me luck,
- Lucy