Out to the Island

In a half an hour, I have to leave for the subway so I can head out to discuss a band R, our friend Collin, and I are putting together. It's a comic book band--everyone is a character, and it has a whole story behind it. All for fun, of course. I woke up at noon today, feeling guilty that I hadn't done any work today and would soon be in Long Island discussing characters and working on music, followed by a party at someone's house. We're all into speeeeed, so once we all get together to work on the band we'll be off and running. It's fun, these speed parties we have with Collin, a nice follow up to our tea party with Alexis.
I've just popped my orange tablet of dexy, just to keep me going while on the train. Right now I'm reading The Petting Zoo by Jim Carroll, but I want to finish it so I can start Going Down by Chris Campanioni and then all the other books I have waiting patiently for me to crack their spines. I figure this will give me some extra focus, and I definitely won't miss that train.
Unless... should I make tea? Will I be okay without it today? The majority of the people we know with H/roxy hook ups out there are trying to get clean, although it's not easy when half of the people on the island are into it as well. If I get sick, the effexor should help me because it antagonizes opiate receptors, but I guess Collin could help us out. What if I've already habituated my body to it and I don't realize it but I'm going to get really sick tonight? These questions run around my brain, but I've already decided not to make tea.
I hope it's the right decision... but only time will tell.

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Out the train window I watch as suburbia spreads out undisturbed by the rumbling metal coasting past it. All of the trees seem black and veiny against the Autumn sunset, ready for night to fall down upon them. The houses talk about the possible people and lives played out inside, as well as the silent spaces around the tracks hidden from their view. Kernels lay around my feet from my frenzied inhalation of the Penn Station popcorn, guilt creeps in and I think about picking them up instead of leaving them for some unknown forces to dispose of later. The sun flickers on the seat in front of me as I review all of my worries for the upcoming weeks (mostly bills). I try and push them away, reminding myself that none of those problems are life or death, that it will all work itself out, that like the sun setting to my right I will arise tomorrow regardless. Constantly hoping that my delicately constructed life will not be destroyed by my mismanagement.

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Once off the train, R picked me up and we sped to Collin's parent's house. Upon arriving and greeting Collin in the street, he ushered us inside, past his sweet, waving grandmother, and down a flight of tiled stares into his well-sized basement apartment. His friend was already sitting down there and quickly stood up to shake our hands. The odd sense of returning came over me as I looked down at the color-block rug and mostly barren walls, although I had never been there before. We each took our places around the room, Collin and his friend on a loveseat, to their right myself on a tall wooden barseat, and next to me on my right R sitting on a small foam boat seat. Each of us popped or railed another 30 mgs of bright orange speed, the lines hammered out across a statistics book that now only served as a hard surface for chemical consumption or writing. I looked around the room at each of the men conversing, lacking any desire to contribute to the conversation. Professionally shot portraits of Collin were hung all over, their stoic gazes stood in juxtaposition with living Collin's frenzied outbursts of ideas. R and Collin commenced working on songs based on some topics Collin had already conceived, and riffs R had been unable to use in another project. I sat and watched as they swirled around me, occasionally interjecting with an idea or rhyme. Hours passed us by unnoticed, as we diligently worked on solidifying our ideas for the songs and the conception of our band, while his friend played Mario in the corner on Collin's Wii. We carried on like this, pausing for me to paint Collin's nails and for him to try and cut his friend's hair, in the constant yet unguided way that tweekers get things done.


I couldn't help myself from cracking open The Petting Zoo whenever conversation turned towards subjects of which I had nothing to add. The need for personal reflection and change within the main character Billy resonates with me deeply right now. All of the emotional angst I've been experiencing mostly surrounds my understanding of what it means to be an adult (and have a career), as well as my relation to my now retired parents, as well as whether or not I want to continue doing drugs. These are apparently integral parts of what growing older means, and I assume everyone goes through them (but I don't really know). I think I am young to already be answering these questions, although I am the one asking them. The truth is:

• I want to pursue writing as a career but I'm scared I can't hack it.
• I don't think I'm very good at being at an adult. I constantly beat myself up about not having my life together or as organized as I would like it to be.
• I am terrified I will never be able [re:want] to quit drugs, which will distract me from using my potential.

I rarely discuss these fears, so that I don't hear the stock response that I am over thinking it all. These are the dangerous traps I've set for myself and now must avoid falling into.

Now that I'm back in Queens writing this all out, I feel unembarrassed and comfortable in the warmth of our apartmen. R and I have spent the past 4 hours reading, and for me writing, together on the futon. I wish nights like this could last forever.

At least they last here.

Until next time,
Lucy

"Needles" (a short story I'm working on)

The poppy tea is wearing off, as I stare at the big, plastic canister of seeds. So glorious are these dreams of euphoria experienced both waking and sleeping, pulsing from crotch to chest to head, and I begin to glow with beautiful, shameless pleasure. The only downsides I've come up with are overdosing and that I can't shoot tea.

My mind wanders back to a week ago in Tompkins Square Park. I was with Liz and her lanky, train-hopping boyfriend Jackson. They generously shared beers out of a large McDonald's cup (a traditional crusty show of hospitality), and in return I gave them a bottle of tea to split (I drank my share at home). Sitting there in the freezing semi-darkness, I realized I hadn't been this fucked up in a long time--it was refreshing like the smell of biting, cold winter early in the morning. I kept refusing to drink more and more as the cup was passed around the circle--not even a circle really, mostly just passing it between themselves. The alcohol made my opiate high even more sloppy, but it didn't matter.

We were all 22 in New York City, at 7:30pm on a Friday night, and I couldn't imagine that there was any other option as fulfilling as our constant conversation and friendly chatter that we were engaging in. 

The smell of piss wafted over from the sandy dog run; I assumed that its pungent stink never really left this area, and maybe never would, it would be the last piece to leave before gentrification completely engulfed us. Fuck. But it felt right to be sitting there, huddled together around the beer.
----[pause talking to R as I write this in our living room]----
"can I have another addy?" 
'haven't you already had another half?' 
"No, I've had one." 
'oh, here you go." 
He places the chalky gem in my hand, I placed it on my tongue like the nuns gave us at Communion only to be struck by the familiar taste of the sickeningly sugary amphetamine salts and binders until it slid out of sight a second later.
------------[speed back up]--------------
People kept walking by, not giving us too much thought, besides when Jackson, in his Southwestern rasp, requested cigarettes. I am confident he asked every one who passed whether they were or were not illegally smoking in the park [it's a 50$ fine in NYC if the cops catch you smoking a CIG in the park]. But all he got were a lot of "no"s and barely audible lies followed by a quickened pace.

I looked to the right and noticed a bit behind us on the path were two youngish adults, perhaps in their late 20s, pushing a plastic lined shopping cart towards our bench. Their forms were barely visible without the street light to outline them against the bushes on the other side of the path.

Immediately I knew they were handing out food to us because we had been given meals by church groups a few times as teenagers in Tompkins, and they usually carried all of their supplies in the same cart-setup. I knew they were approaching us because of how young and dirty we all looked, the young junky with her crusty friends. Atleast, with Liz and Jackson, I did not feel embarrassed that they were coming up to us, just hopeful that their bounty would be good, maybe hot dogs and quarter drinks like the last time 4 years ago.

"Hi, how y'all doing?" she said, her greeting sounded kind and soothing it surprised me, as they stopped their cart in front of us.
"Good" "Okay..." "Fine" we replied some variation of the same sentiment back, knowing to be wary of strangers in the park, but curious of what they might be offering us.
"Would you like any condoms, clean needles, hygiene kits?"
My mind exploded at the word 'needles.' It was like those dreams I have where all I remember are the snap shots of medicine cabinets full of abandoned pill-bottles, my hands about to grasp them, then blank-------I brought my focus back to the park, the cold, the safe shooting supplies within feet of me, then the embarassment: asking for them in front of friends, and all the mortifying implications of admitting this desire. As Jackson and Liz, joked that they could just take the whole trash bag of condoms with them, and they'd be done for the night. Jackson even told them how he had been off the needle and all of his old vices (besides alcohol and weed and anything we give them) for two years now. Shame, guilt, stuck thick in my throat, as my mind attempted to figure out our next chess-move.

"Just condoms!" We all laughed as they hand us bags full of Trojans and information about their LES harm reduction center. The plastic touched my skin, but my mind barely registered it as it continued sucking and salivating over 'needles,' until I heard my voice cutting through the jovial air:

"Actually can I have some needles?"

The entire world hung momentarily still for me--a mixture of fear and self-loathing flushed my cheeks--I waited for her reply, attempting to make a calm face.

She replied some explanation of why I had to join the exchange before I could receive my treats: "Sure, but first I have to put you into the exchange program and give you a card that protects you when you are carrying used needles. That way the cops can't arrest you for them. But you should always wash any reside out of them before you plan to bring them to the exchange; sometimes the cops can arrest you for residue" [the card says otherwise, but the pigs don't respect anything in NYC, I don't even want to think about the beating I'd receive for even being caught with that card].
However, even having to do the necessary paperwork was all fine,  I would have done anything at the moment to get the gifts in that bag, so fixated on the final goal I already smelt the butane in the lighter ready to fire up a shot. I didn't hear the words only the tone of her voice, like a non-profit canvasser trying to convince me that I had enough time today to save the whales and get to my appointment on time. It was all irrelevant to me, all I wanted were those pristine chemical pushers.

Finally, like a child on Christmas, I accepted:
ten 27 gauge, 1/2 cc rigs,
blue medical tie offs,
pre-rolled cottons,
alcohol swabs,
metal cookers,
and bandaids.
I revelled in the thought of all the glorious shots I could, should, and would take. The pleasure already rolled over my body at the possibility of mainlining anything. The big down-side of shooting drugs is that the needle will always call me back, almost making the high secondary. Like knitting, or writing, sometimes the act is more enjoyable than beholding the sometimes ugly creation, but I guess shooting up isn't a hobby or career--well, I've been told it shouldn't be. My eyes followed the volunteers wander off, on to help the other souls hanging off the benches in the park.

I realize I have been fantasizing over this moment since I was 16, the glory of getting clean needles from an exchange; I spent days and nights dreaming about this as I pushed on, trying to use old gummed up, bloody rigs. Because stopping was never my thing. [But I know one day, one day I'll be done...]  I perched high on that bench; I could even get trained in Narcan at the clinic I mused, the thought thrust excitement through my chest. My mind luxuriated in the ecstasy of it all and forgot about all of my desires besides the one to slip my new toys in my veins.

Somehow it all worked out as if I had willed it to happen. In some ways, I did.

-Lucy

Please tell me what you think friends, peeping-toms, and those of you who stumble on to here blindly. I'd love to hear from you or about you or about my writing or anything really! It'd warm my heart (even more than getting needles).

To Be Young is To Be Sad is To Be High

I've spent the week off of my anti-depressant (Effexor) because of an error at the mail away pharmacy my family uses. This is not okay. Effexor withdrawal is horrible, it makes me feel as if I'm in a dream where my body struggles to move or speak while I feel electric shocks running up from different limbs up through my face. Of course, it comes with the usual withdrawal effects, nausea, headaches, bad moods, a bit of craziness, etc. Overall, the worst part is that experiencing all of these things at once makes it extremely difficult for me function. I was finally able to get a version of my medication (IR instead of my regular XR) and I'm feeling so much better. Honestly, being off those meds really scares me because I become very disconnected from my rational inner monologue, and will frequently become self destructive (punching myself, cutting, strangling, etc.). I shouldn't be allowed to be around people at these times because I am too much for anyone to handle.

Today is good though. Last night, I couldn't go see the Sonics with R and our friend Lexy. It doesn't matter because R got kicked out before they were even on. He went out the wrong door to give me a call and see how I was feeling (I skipped out because I had taken my first dose back on my meds and felt very very ill), and the bouncer told him that he couldn't go back in now. R was so stunned that he didn't even say anything back, assuming he was kidding. Even his friend who was running it was unable to help. Lexy is cool because we are both on the same wavelength with chemicals at the moment. She has brought up PST and kratom without me saying anything about them, which is pretty awesome. I'm glad to have a buddy who is trying out the same stuff as I am. She might be getting some opium hash, which I'm VERY excited to try. That would be some magical stuff. Now, R and I are just chilling, as he plays games and I write. His addy prescription came in today, which we took with some tea. I even took my muscle relaxer to help me with the back pain I was experiencing from sleeping so long. My body feels great and balance and beautiful. Saturday is good. Drugs are good. Friends are good. I am good.

But am I?

That was what I discussed with my therapist the other day. You see, as much as I seem fairly brazen about my drug usage and what not, it's not without a lot of guilt and shame that I hold on to internally. It's the ammo I use against myself when people compliment me or if things are going well. "It doesn't matter, cause you're a piece of shit. YOU DO DRUGS. YOU'RE BAD. You might as well have been aborted. You're nothing but broken. You'll always be a junky. You can't even fucking change yourself, how can you do anything else? etc. etc." It's a sick monologue that I can't seem to [intermission for R and I to smoke on 4:20pm] quiet or change. I know that I need to, and that I'm not a bad person simply because I use drugs. My drug use stems from a lot of different things, and was started because of the loss of my grandfather and then being molested by a boy my age. However, I never realized that those two events played a significant role in my first decision to try drugs, but now it seems as clear as ice. It's a big reason I'm going to therapy. I know that there are a lot of past events that I've held on to and allowed to run wild across my mind, which has led me to this point.

That's not to say that it's not my fault that I have a problem with drugs. Every time I take a sip, drag, sniff, poke, it is a decision that solely control [pretty sure my mind isn't controlled by aliens or a computer, but who knows] .  In some ways, I feel very lost when I am only socially doing drugs. My life feels without excitement, or pleasure, or luster because there is no meaningful secret I am ruminating on. I love getting high as well, don't get me wrong. It takes me beyond "wicked" gravity, and lets me flow and dream where I could have never reached. Every molecule of my body feels the music, they are all at a rave and I'm the DJ. I guess it's part of how I identify myself as well. It is the part of me that rebels, sneaks, lusts, enjoys, and runs amok to bring everyone else around to the same level. The good part of my identity looks down on all of thus, and craves for me to straighten myself out. I realized that this is my real inner struggle as I kept talking in therapy. Without a struggle, what goal should my life be pointing towards? I'm not sure, and maybe that's why I cling to drugs. I am terrified of being alone with myself, without the occasional exit into glorious, radiant pleasure.

Gosh, all of this drug talk makes me want to do more, so I'm off until later.

Please comment if you read this, I'd love to hear from anyone who has been reading my blog. And I know people are randomly clicking on this, so please show me some...of yourself?

Thanks and have a lovely weekend!
- Lucy

Sunday Flurries

Why does my body feel as if it's being thrown forward? A constant upward pulling tug from my chest up towards the bright white ceiling. My mind is acceptably empty. The outside world is constantly infiltrating, voices from the TV, rumbles from the subway tracks, the eye movements of R as he looks over his phone.

I'm seeing my new therapist tomorrow, since she thinks it's best that I see her 3 times a week, as opposed to once a week as I expected. I feel a bit more confident and comfortable in my own skin, since I've started. Perhaps my thoughts had been weighing me down all this time, without me realizing the true impact it was having on me. The relief after seeing her, that I got out of the apartment and am working on myself, is so uplifting that it's all worth it. I can feel my personality swelling within my skin and increasing each day a little more. It's funny, I have found that without some kind of chaos in my life, I usually go a bit nuts. I need it to some extent, the danger and shame keep me occupied. But I'm not totally sure if that's true, or if I tell myself that because it doesn't sound so bad as admitting defeat.

My stomach aches now, and the room wraps around me like an electric blanket left on too long. Eyes heavy, Subhumans proclaim "drugs of youth, give me a thrill, give me a headache" as they shut I feel joy surge up through my neck and head. Sunday is not so bad, I guess.

The arthritis in my knees is horrible right now. The season change, and being out of a major medicine, has caused my right knee to barely bend past a 90 degree angle (as opposed to a normal leg, which should be able to make a more acute angle (smaller)). It's the pressure in the air that does it, exerting it's mostly unnoticed energy against my joints. Every step grinds my joints, my body silently screams for relief treading block after block. Sometimes it feels like I'm dragging my body along behind me, weighing me down and tripping up my most simple steps. The crisp gusts of wind which hit today, only exacerbated this sense, and I became so tired and frustrated all I wanted was to return home. At least now I am pain free with my legs kicked out in front of me on our ottoman adorned with a cover I crocheted.

I had an interesting run in on Friday night. My friends and I were out walking about downtown, drinking 22s out of a McDonalds cup and buzzed on tea. At one point we ended up in Tompkins, we positioned ourselves near the dog park at first to see the dogs, and then because it was a fairly unpopulated area (not wanting to have a run in with the cops, fuck that). I hadn't drank outside in ages, or to any real extent in a while, and by the time we were done with all of the beers I was sufficiently fucked up. I could barley keep myself walking along a straight path, with the tea and the beer hitting me strong, when we would get up for them to go find bathrooms. We sat on the bench and reminisced about old friends, the appearance of that new Russian heroin-like shit that rots your skin, people to avoid, other topics of various subjects as well.

"Hey, how are you'all doing tonight?"

A man and a woman approached in the dark with one of the plastic bag lined carts. I immediately realized they were here to provide us with food, thinking we were homeless crusties (my friends are crusties, but aren't homeless). We all said our own version "okay..."

"Would you like any condoms, hygiene products, clean needles?"

They piped up that yeah, we'll take some condoms, you can just leave us that whole garbage bag My had lept at the words 'clean needles' and was now embarrassed into silence. 'Just to have them, I reasoned, in case I want to iv something, but I don't want to admit that in front of themmmm....' It is an ugly thing when you're fixated on the method of ingestion as opposed to the drugs themselves. As all of this runs through my mind, my friend says "No needles, I'm two years clean!" They both fist bump him, and my embarassment spreads through me at my own thoughts. My own crazyassmotherfucking thoughts that shouldn't be thought by anyone, not me never no one.

- Lucy

So Much for the Afterglow

Halloween was pretty amazing. R played a really fun show, and we saw a lot of our friends that we hadn't seen in a year. Even one of R's friends from like 5 years ago came with us, she lives near us which is sick. She's also been trying out PST. Needless to say, it was a good night of craziness, even got a taste of true Long Island hospitality, with a random car circling the show and throwing bomb-bags (yes, the ones from elementary school!) at us.

Tonight was great, as well. Another show, full of cocaine and booze and tea and weed, but great in a different way. All of my old friends were there, both in age and acquaintance, and I felt as if I was 16 once again--a teenager nipping at the heels of the older punks to get in on their conversations. I found out that my hero/mentor/role-model/king/friend of many years had been sober for 5 and a half months. To put it in perspective for you, he's double my age of 22 (so he's 44). He was a lot like myself at this age, I think, a bit out of control and lost. Most of the people around me aren't expected to reach the same goals that have been set for me (graduating from NYU early with a high GPA) by myself and my parents (who have done everything in their power to get me to succeed), or don't have the same issues with drugs that I do, so much that I feel like a lot of them don't understand the specific struggle I'm in. I want to create great work through my life, and become successful, but I know I'm only a few steps away from the gutter or an OD. If he's skirted the same difficulties and come out on top in the end, then perhaps he has some insight that I don't yet. Everyone believes I'm destined for greatness, but all I can see is my future failure. I think it's all related to the fact that while all the "doors" are open to me, I know the possible results of opening the drugs-door: OD, gutter, or stop (aka pick another door). But I don't want to open any door that will shut the drugs one completely and I don't know what career I want, so yeah... I'm trying not to waste so many days worrying about how fucked it allllll is gonna be and just enjoying being young. Maybe that'll lead me somewhere too?

We'll see... for now, we'll sleep.
-Lucy