I was on suicide watch before Christmas and have spent the days after it seeing family and psychologists. I will post before the new year, and I've been in much better spirits. Check my twitter if you've been curious about what I've been up to.
Love you all,
Lucy
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Alive and chilling
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Winter Time
"You need them." He snapped.
Anger began boiling in my stomach, 'don't tell me what I need or don't need, I've been handling my own use just fine for six years thanks, I got it down,' so I said "No, I just want them. I want them for today." I'm waiting for my usual source to arrive for Oz, so I gotta go to get some expensive shit. There are some other morfiends in the area who are also always on the hunt, so sometimes stock can get pretty low.
I don't feel guilty... or at least I try to push it down as much as possible.
-------------------------------------------------------------
The comedown, so sickeningly long and inevitable, it reminds me why I cling to my small bits of normalcy. But everything will get better, it always does. And one day I will too.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday mornings and Sunday nights are so melancholy for me, knowing the weekend will soon be over and back to all the troubles of work and bills and life. It's funny because I work when I want, so I will have to work later; it's something I've held on to since being in grade school (my mom called it the "Sunday blues").
I haven't done coke in over a month and I've stopped the tea for the past few days (because there isn't anymore). But this speed is picking me back up, and I don't feel as drained as I did a few minutes ago. All that remains is my headache and my picking up energy levels. The TV is showing some movie with Bill Murray--playing every camp counselor I ever looked up to. I try and pretend I don't feel guilty about anything because I have nothing to feel bad about. I remind myself we've done it for millions of years, and that's why our brain responds to it and that life is merely a state of being. The past few weeks have been mostly focused on staying afloat and getting ready for the holidays. I hope that they are fun and that it is a nice break from reality.
I feel my age the way someone double my age might, or is that my actions weigh heavier than those of my peers. Is this what I'm supposed to be doing? It's like I'm trying to prove to everyone I'm an adult, but really want to be treated like a child because I don't know what to do. I guess it all falls into place and everyone gets used to it as time goes on or something.
If life is a state of being, and I intend to fill it with pleasure as much as possible (because I prefer pleasure to pain as I experience it), and so isn't that what's most worth while? I mean, that's not to say I don't enjoy being able to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly, or a warm place to sleep, or somewhere to call my own, I am fortunate to have kept it going this long, even though I know it will all evaporate eventually. But no matter what, we live and die all the same, aren't we both so lucky to be alive at all?
Lucy
Anger began boiling in my stomach, 'don't tell me what I need or don't need, I've been handling my own use just fine for six years thanks, I got it down,' so I said "No, I just want them. I want them for today." I'm waiting for my usual source to arrive for Oz, so I gotta go to get some expensive shit. There are some other morfiends in the area who are also always on the hunt, so sometimes stock can get pretty low.
I don't feel guilty... or at least I try to push it down as much as possible.
-------------------------------------------------------------
The comedown, so sickeningly long and inevitable, it reminds me why I cling to my small bits of normalcy. But everything will get better, it always does. And one day I will too.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday mornings and Sunday nights are so melancholy for me, knowing the weekend will soon be over and back to all the troubles of work and bills and life. It's funny because I work when I want, so I will have to work later; it's something I've held on to since being in grade school (my mom called it the "Sunday blues").
I haven't done coke in over a month and I've stopped the tea for the past few days (because there isn't anymore). But this speed is picking me back up, and I don't feel as drained as I did a few minutes ago. All that remains is my headache and my picking up energy levels. The TV is showing some movie with Bill Murray--playing every camp counselor I ever looked up to. I try and pretend I don't feel guilty about anything because I have nothing to feel bad about. I remind myself we've done it for millions of years, and that's why our brain responds to it and that life is merely a state of being. The past few weeks have been mostly focused on staying afloat and getting ready for the holidays. I hope that they are fun and that it is a nice break from reality.
I feel my age the way someone double my age might, or is that my actions weigh heavier than those of my peers. Is this what I'm supposed to be doing? It's like I'm trying to prove to everyone I'm an adult, but really want to be treated like a child because I don't know what to do. I guess it all falls into place and everyone gets used to it as time goes on or something.
If life is a state of being, and I intend to fill it with pleasure as much as possible (because I prefer pleasure to pain as I experience it), and so isn't that what's most worth while? I mean, that's not to say I don't enjoy being able to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly, or a warm place to sleep, or somewhere to call my own, I am fortunate to have kept it going this long, even though I know it will all evaporate eventually. But no matter what, we live and die all the same, aren't we both so lucky to be alive at all?
Lucy
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Pushing
All the feelings
down the hole they go
with the pills
and the tea
and the weed
and the speed
and anything
that will keep me from dealing with any of the shit that bubbles up from my guts when the memories sprout up like weeds between my pretty poppies, the only thing to do is to nourish the garden with more seeds
and pretzels? No, they're for my stomach virus, so I can keep some food in my gut.
------2am unable to sleep, smoke heavy air----------
R is asleep, snoring rhythmically in the other room while I watch "Naked and Afraid" and puff on a bowl. He might be fired tomorrow because they don't care that he has a stomach virus, but blame him for missing 3 days of work even though he is simply very sick. His boss has basically been trying to get him to quit by making his work-life miserable, so him getting fired would be a good thing. My parents think so too, and would help support us--thank Jesus for denial. I feel like I might vomit, which would be funny since earlier I cheered on R vomiting; congratulations on his first opiate induced vommiting fun, or maybe the virus, but who can tell. oh oh oh oh my stomach hates me, but the weed and the Bentyl keep it bay. Who knows for how long, but at least one more night right, 6 more hours please that's what I need, just a little more....why is there never enough of everything?
This show is fucking ridiculous. Every time I watch (okay, so only like 2 or 3 times late at night) I question why anyone would agree to do this. I guess everyone tests themselves in some ways, and for them it is as close to dying as they can get, I do the same thing but use a different method.
It's all the same in the end,
Life keeps going.
Time continues.
Baby, it's alright!
-Lucy
Monday, December 2, 2013
Back on the Yellow Brick Road
I've spent almost a week off of the tea (let's call it Oz, like the Wizard of Oz, my friends and I have decided this is good slang that we should propagate). The bottle is so hot, the contents like coffee grounds and animal piss heated together, at least I hope it'll keep the tears at bay. Our apartment is hot like an oven, or maybe it's my fever, R and I are both battling off a stomach virus for now. At first I vomited last Wednesday night, sitting on the toilet unsuspecting that I had guessed the wrong end and finding myself and floor of my parent's bathroom violently soiled. As with any illness at a parent's home, my mother and father cleaned it up, ushering me off to bed with a washcloth and glass of water. It had caught me off guard, I felt bad but too sick to do anything more than fall into a instant, overheated sleep.
By now, I'm finally comfortable full of Oz, green, and Bentyl--a stomach medicine for the virus. I sink back into the futon and stare off at the TV. This whole week I've been having crying spells uncontrollably because of multiple changes to my daily antidepressants. My face shriveling and turning red, as loops of horrible thoughts go through my brain and my mouth spills out "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry" between crying and hyperventilating. My only respite was sleep. Even my mother patting my head and comforting me or R holding me and reminding me it would be alright, nothing could quell my sense of hopeless despair.
Despair at who I am, who I could be, and the guilt of putting my family and boyfriend through this when we should be enjoying Thanksgiving and Chanukah. At least we lit the candles most of the nights, which made me happy with memories of childhood Channukah's spent at my grandparents' house with my great-grand parents there as well as my parents and my aunt. I was the only child, but in the darkness of that dining room I felt the magic of those glowing candles and the words sounded out in a language I have still never learned. It connects me to what feels like old world magic.
--------back to real life---------
The toilet just overflowed. Diarrhea and urine and bile and water spilling out across the fake marble towards us. R standing in the bathtub, attempting to break the clog with a metal stick, I imagined him a fisherman before B.C.E. in some fertile valley among reeds. I tried to stem the flow with towels and bath mats and paper towels, each of us with one glove on fighting off this battle of the black water. Our dance away from the streaming tides made me chuckle, like I hadn't chuckled in days.
Sometimes life is ridiculous.
-Lucy
By now, I'm finally comfortable full of Oz, green, and Bentyl--a stomach medicine for the virus. I sink back into the futon and stare off at the TV. This whole week I've been having crying spells uncontrollably because of multiple changes to my daily antidepressants. My face shriveling and turning red, as loops of horrible thoughts go through my brain and my mouth spills out "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry" between crying and hyperventilating. My only respite was sleep. Even my mother patting my head and comforting me or R holding me and reminding me it would be alright, nothing could quell my sense of hopeless despair.
Despair at who I am, who I could be, and the guilt of putting my family and boyfriend through this when we should be enjoying Thanksgiving and Chanukah. At least we lit the candles most of the nights, which made me happy with memories of childhood Channukah's spent at my grandparents' house with my great-grand parents there as well as my parents and my aunt. I was the only child, but in the darkness of that dining room I felt the magic of those glowing candles and the words sounded out in a language I have still never learned. It connects me to what feels like old world magic.
--------back to real life---------
The toilet just overflowed. Diarrhea and urine and bile and water spilling out across the fake marble towards us. R standing in the bathtub, attempting to break the clog with a metal stick, I imagined him a fisherman before B.C.E. in some fertile valley among reeds. I tried to stem the flow with towels and bath mats and paper towels, each of us with one glove on fighting off this battle of the black water. Our dance away from the streaming tides made me chuckle, like I hadn't chuckled in days.
Sometimes life is ridiculous.
-Lucy
Friday, November 22, 2013
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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:
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
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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
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
Sunday, November 17, 2013
"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).
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).
Saturday, November 16, 2013
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
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
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