A mother, a daughter, a sister, a girlfriend, an ex-wife...... rehabs, mental hospitals, psychologists, AA and a few beautiful years into my sobriety. This is my life, my daily life.....

Sunday, November 26, 2017

#12- The heroin diaries...




So here is the thing about heroin, you cannot wake up one day and say you are done. Should you choose to stop, you risk sickness that is crippling and without proper care is near impossible. Your body needs it to function, just as it needs water, food, oxygen and sleep. It is safe to say you are locked in your own prison; behind bars you have built yourself and willingly entered.

Heroin is suicide.

Within a few months I was fired from Cracker Barrel. I showed up for my shift one day and was told to leave. I made a scene like as if I cared and stormed out in dramatic fashion. I guess dropping a tray of food on a table full of people on two separate occasions sealed the deal. Or maybe it was the fact I barely showed up or fell asleep on almost every break. I was a terrible waitress anyway, I could give a shit if someone ran out of coffee or did not like their pancakes. I had bigger problems. I was dying. Cant these people see I am dying?  Cant they see my eyes, barely open, red and empty.

Heroin is the Mercedes Benz of all drugs. There is nothing higher than this. This is the finish line.

I want to describe to you what heroin use was like, why I chose to continue. I am in no way trying to romanticize it. I want to explain how someone, anyone, can get caught up in it. How it makes you feel, how it sucks you in, how it feeds you false emotions.

I found ultimate peace in heroin. I found what I was looking for, for almost seventeen years I had searched and searched for this kind of relief. When I would hit that vein, in an instant, it was as if I had left my body. I would leave all that pain, all that grief, torment and hate behind. I would not feel anything. I would leave it all behind like a snake shedding its skin. I couldn’t hear or see the world around me, I would drift off into a fourth dimension of absolutely solitude. Nothing mattered. I was not me, my ultimate goal had been reached. I would leave myself for those brief few minutes as I lay there hunched over that table, or on a bathroom floor or the drivers seat of my own car.  To me it was worth it. It was worth risking my life to get it, to quiet my mind and settle my soul. It was fucking worth it all.

With basically any drug, you start running into the problem that you habit requires more and more money to fulfill. You start frantically developing plans to get it. I would steal and borrow and owe the wrong people money. I started cash advancing on as many credit cards as I could open and writing fraudulent checks. Eventually the federal government caught up with me and I owed a lot of money. For a year I was unable to write a check and that seemed like a slap on the wrist compared to what could have happened. I was around $17,000 in debt.

People started to notice my hands were always damaged and black and blue and I would wear long sleeves and gloves. I started to get an infection in my right hand because that was my vein of choice and I would constantly have to defend it and lie. I still have a discoloration in my skin today, just below my thumb, a constant reminder of who I was, a constant reminder of who I am.

I was able to maintain my full time job but was put at a desk in the back in hopes I would not be seen. I was found a few times by my co-workers slumped over my desk, unable to be woke. Another time I fell asleep standing up at a filing cabinet. How this is even possible still baffles me today. You have little to no control over when you “nod out.” You do not even remember it happening but you notice signs that you had, minutes of your day you have no recollection of or your cigarette burned down to the filter. Your eyes would close and no matter how hard you tried could not be forced open. I still remember how that would feel, how I would lose control over my body and how it reacted. Another time, while at work, I fell asleep on the bathroom floor. I woke to someone knocking, someone had noticed I went in and never came back out. I must have been in there close to thirty minutes.

I still hear stories from time to time from my co-workers,  stories of a person I do not remember being. It is surreal and shocking but I am open to listen. We find some things funny, they laugh, I laugh, and that is how I know I have healed. This is how I know we have all healed.

I managed to find a boyfriend during this time, someone who saw beyond my addiction. Someone who would later become my husband. Someone who would shortly thereafter become my ex-husband.




 



 


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