I saw the perfect world our parents tried to give us disappear and vanish in the eyes of teenage boys on the verge of a terrible sickness.
And the parents wondered, “Why?”
They wondered, “Where did we go wrong?”
The drug culture is not a new thing. But parents seem to overlook this as if they have forgotten what they went through as teenagers. We come from a generation of excess. We come from more; we come from more technology, and more excuses.
We come from more medications and as we struggle to exist, we throw, “More” at our issues to substitute the problems with synthetic mixtures or synthetic forms of therapy. We have more of everything—everything—except for awareness.
I have listened to people discuss this topic. I have listened to their opinions, but in most cases, I seldom hear from anyone who understands what it feels like to see from behind the eyes of a 15 year-old child. All I hear is, “My kid would never do anything like that.”
But I was that kid once. And I did it.
It starts off small—like sneaking a beer, or taking sips of The Old Man’s vodka gimlets. Then the rush comes in with the feeling of rebellion. And if one drink feels good—then two must feel better. Only, after two comes three, and after three comes four. Soon after, the room spun and my stomach gave way.
“I must have done it wrong,” I thought.
But I learned how.
I have been asked, “What does it feel like?”
I have been asked, “If it got so bad, then why didn’t you stop?”
Understand something: Nothing is addicting because it feels bad. True, there are the downsides. There is the crash to contend with and the junk sickness. There is the ongoing need and the paranoid whispers. Then there is the ongoing hustle that keeps you less than honest. But the high somehow blinded me of these things. The high made it easier to forgive myself and pardon the sins it tool to keep my sickness healthy.
I remember the first time I felt a girl’s chest. I remember my first kiss. I remember the first time I felt aroused and I remember the first time a girl brought me to completion. Imagine feeling something so incredibly orgasmic and then try to forget about it. It’s not possible . . .
Parents say, “But there’s heroin in the schools!”
Again, I saw the perfect world our parents tried to give us disappear and vanish in the eyes of teenage boys on the verge of a terrible fix.
And you know what’s happening. At least, I did.
And you know you’re swirling out of control. You know you’re losing; you’re losing the same way water loses to the drain. You begin to swirl downward—and no one around you can understand. No one can relate. You’re alone and everyone that tells you how they know what you’re going through is either lying or they just don’t understand.
The only ones who understand are the same ones who slither beside you. The only ones who know are the sick ones. These are the people who have literally crawled on the floor and looked for tiny pieces of white powder. They are the ones that understand what it means to be so close to death and yet so unbelievably alive at the same time. They know what the sickness brings and they know what needs to be done in order to contend with it.
Next, you get tripped up. You catch a pinch, or you find yourself on the wrong side of a police car and fenced in a cage. Somehow, you knew this was going to happen. But since you knew, you tried to ride the spiral as hard as you could. This way, when you fell through the drain your mind was so numb you wouldn’t notice where you were.
I remember one of the night I thought I was going to die. I was beneath a bridge that stretched over the Meadowbrook Parkway. I was unsure of how long I had been there. The heroin had made its way through my body and I soaked my pants. The side of my head was bleeding because I was lying on broken glass.
I was only 16 years-old.
Can you believe that?
So like I said . . .
The drug culture is not a new thing.
But I am glad it’s finally caught your attention