From the Junkie Diaries: 27 Years

I was telling you about the way I felt.
I swear it was like walking in quicksand. Whatever I tried to do and whichever way I tried to feel better, things always seemed to be worse. I mean, I wanted to be better. I wanted life to be easier. But it seemed like i could never catch a break.
I told you about this before.

If life was a cycle and what goes around truly comes around, I swore that my position here was meant to be here the underbelly. And if this were true, since I was in the underbelly of life’s cycle, that meant this was as best as it would ever be. In my eyes, I was cursed, and since this was my position and since what goes around comes around; anything I did to you was just Karma coming back to serve its purpose; therefore I was just acting as the hand of God and facilitating the cycles, which came around to the people I hurt. In the easiest explanation; if I hurt you then you probably deserved it. After all, the saying is what goes around, comes around . . .right?

I was a young man caught in a selfish routine. I was just a kid. I was in love with the wrong things and captured by a lifestyle, which I excused and justified. I was just a kid. I was frightened and needed something to hold. As a means of protection, I fell in love with a ritual that helped me solve my concerns. It was clear to me that there was something to my ritual, which I used to help me navigate through my everyday life. And sure, the effects of my ritual were not long term. In most cases or in cases like mine, the result of my rituals were hangovers or bad drug crashes that left me crawling across the wood planked floors, or hidden in dirty basements somewhere, searching for tiny pieces of white flakes, and hoping I could find something to settle the paranoid voices within my head.

Yes. This was me . . .
Same as the body has a natural way to compensate for a physical weaknesses; I looked to satisfy the weakness in my thoughts. I looked to find a way to feel better. I wanted to find a way to stop the churning in my head and solve the unending riddles that peeled off like a paper tape-roll at the back end of a calculator. As I saw it, I needed to find a way to stop my mind from calculating all the factors in my life. And whether the facts were pertinent or unimportant, I couldn’t stop my thoughts from adding up to an unstoppable amount.

I needed to find a way to avoid the static in my mind. And by static, I mean the loud sound like the old black and white television set used to make in my bedroom when it lost its reception back in 1979. I swear I felt this way. It was electric and uncomfortable. There was so much in my head and it was all spinning around at once. So to compensate, I tried to find ways to satisfy the symptoms.
And that’s why I got high . . .

There was a morning I recall. The sun had just decided to show itself. I was wide awake in my bedroom; skin all pale, stomach empty, growling, loud as ever. I had just finished the last of my packages and the morning sunlight was like an insult to my eyes.
I can clearly recall and envision myself as I was on this morning. My eyes were like that of a madman. I looked possessed. My jaw clenched and rocked back and forth because of the cocaine bugs that crept through my system. I was strung out and winding; my nerves heightened, and my senses all disturbed by an overwhelming rush of fear and paranoia.  There was crusted rings of dried blood at each of my nostrils. I weighed in at approximately 80lbs and my face was skeletal-like.  I remember the feeling as if I could die at any minute, which would have been fine, although in all honesty, I would have rather found myself weightless in euphoria. If I could just get high, everything would have been fine. And of course, my only answer to this problem was held in a small folded up package.
With all the remnants gone and all the flashiness to a fast rush, I reversed the action and felt the sudden inertia of the world reverse itself into an incredible nod.

I sniffed one bag and then another. This was in the very early stages, but as far as I could tell; heroin was the perfect answer the unanswerable problems in my head. After the strain and stressful hours and after the twitchiness, and after the sharp reactions to a heightened alert, and after the sensation of ear-ringing highs that came from a crack pipe; I settled into the nod to forget myself even more.

God, I swore this was perfect. “If I could only just stay like this,” I thought to myself. “Everything would be just fine.”
I swore, “If they would just let me get high, I would be fine, and there would be no need for me to hide or run around like I did.” wore that if they legalized drugs and set up halls where one could buy their fix, set up, get high, and live this way without problem or intervention: I swore the rest of the world would be fine if this happened, As well, maybe then I wouldn’t feel so alone (or so I thought)

I remember the first time. I said I would just do a big. I said I would just try it out because I heard this would help me sleep after the crack demons turned me into a fiend. And someone told me, “If you do it once then you’ll do it again.” They told me, “f you’re gonna do it then do it. Just don’t lie to yourself and think this will be your only time.”

I suppose it was a simple idea. At least, this was as simple as any idea to me. At the end of it all, I was just trying to feel better. I was just trying to quite the struggle in my mind and silence the wars I fought in my head. And heroin, well, to me it seemed like a pretty good idea.

After the world reversed, I didn’t seem to care about the anguish. I didn’t care how sickly I became or how terrible I looked. I hardly bathed and I rarely, if ever, brushed my teeth. Showering during the bad moments was uncomfortable. I felt sick all the time but once the exchange, I gave in, and it all felt better. Suddenly, my guilt vanished. I wasn’t thinking about you or the problems you presented. You were no longer a threat to me. Even if you were, I was checked out and gone off somewhere in my lofty cocoon.

After the complete reversal of poles; after the twitchiness subsided and stress gave in to reversal, I settled down and allowed myself to slip away. I recall dreaming of angels falling down, descending backwards from Heaven and dying in delicate suicides. I remember allowing myself to give way to a switch as the chemical moved through my bloodstream. I could have died and this would have been fine —especially since I probably wouldn’t even know what happened. Maybe I was dead, in a sense, and temporarily euthanized.

And if I would have died, then I would have died, and all this would mean is I allowed myself to fulfill my own prophecy , which was this is the best I could be.

I remember towards the end, I was alone. I was stuck in my bedroom. I had to find ways to get high, which I did through connections at a place next to The Old Man’s shop in Jamaica, Queens. I was alone and going through this every day. I never thought I could let go or live differently. Besides, why would I bother to clean up when I planned to die anyway?

Yet here I am now, two weeks short of 27 years clean and sober. I never thought life could be lived to its best possible potential —at least not in my regard. As I saw it; life is what happens to other people. And me, I was supposed to be dead. Only, each time I thought I was going to die —it never happened.

I ever tell you about the time I try to kill myself and woke up on a bathroom floor in a rehab facility? I swore it was all going to be over.
But it wasn’t over.
Although I wasn’t able to see this back then, but I know there has to be a purpose for me.
Dear God, I hope there is

And maybe this is it. Maybe this is my purpose. Maybe I lived for this moment, here and now, and I survived just to write this to you so that you would know you are not alone. And if that’s all I was meant to do, well, then fine.
At least I did what I was meant to do

But let me ask you something . . .

What are you going to do?

As I see it; the world expects tragedies from people like us.
Know what I say?
I say we should defy them all and prove’ em wrong.

27 years . . .
Man, I think there was a time when I wasn’t sure if I was going to make it another 27 seconds
Fortunately, I was wrong wrong about that too




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