Friday, March 26, 2010


I was rummaging through my old journals and I came across this entry. I don't remember the exact day I wrote it but I sure can feel the pain again. I've come so far from this that it almost seems like someone else must have written it. This is exactly why I've kept all these old that I won't ever forget where I came from and where I could go back to.

The flame dances underneath the dull, tarnished spoon creating a bubbling cauldron of poison. I drop the pillow of cotton into the hot liquid and as it absorbs the mixture my mouth waters and my body tingles. I draw my dose up into the needle, anticipating its numbing effects. The dull needle pierces my skin like a nail and I flinch in pain. I pull back on the plunger and watch the dark omniscient stream of hot red blood flow back into the syringe, and I push. The heroin slams into my vein like a roaring freight train, crossing over the synapses of my brain and washing my entire body in warmth, I am home, I am content. Smack is my lover, my friend, my medicine. I can no longer function without it. It is always there for me when I need it. It takes away the rawness of what my life has become; a constant search for nothingness.

My body melts into the dirty chair, my breath catches in my throat; this is premo dope. I can barely open my eyes they are so heavy. My arms feel like lead as I try to extract the needle from my swollen vein. Blood runs down my arm, I lick it up like a dog. I can feel the nod coming on strong and heavy and I hold my breath waiting for it to take me to that place; the dark place where no light can enter, no thoughts can roam, and no feelings can be felt. Being on the nod is like being semiconscious. I can hear the others around me talking, but it’s just murmurs, nothing really makes sense but I don’t care. I am where I need to be.

When I wake there is a long string of drool from the corner of my mouth and my body is no longer on the chair. I am lying face down on the filthy worn carpet and I am alone. They have all left to go score and left me here to die. This is happening more often, me falling out and not remembering what happened. It doesn’t frighten me like it should, it just is. I pull myself back onto the chair and rummage through my pockets for a cigarette. I pull out a little blue bag with the words Jaguar stamped on the front, and I remember that I had saved one bag just in case my body didn’t succumb to the shot I had just taken. I am playing Russian roulette with my life, waiting for the jolt that will end this misery. I light a cigarette and cook up my last bag of dope.

I am a junkie. I am an animal. I do not bathe, I do not eat, I do not live; I scavenge. I am a lost soul. I am looking for death to release me from the pain that I am in. I did not start out like this. I was a smart, funny, and shy little girl who was loved and cared for. My parents raised me with morals and values and did right by me. I was not abused or neglected. I had everything I needed and most of what I wanted, so I cannot blame my upbringing on the monster that I have become. No, I am responsible for the decisions I made and the actions that I took. This hell that I live in is all my own doing. This is all that I know to do; use drugs and cover up the feelings and emotions that are dying to be felt. If I were to allow myself to feel these things I would surely kill myself.


  1. wow....

    words seem inadequate. how far you have come from that person. good for you. i hope you are proud of how far you have come.

    i applaud you for getting your shit together and hope you continue to shine.

  2. OMG...I had chills reading this!

    And even though I know this was a not a great period in your life, reading this has shown me what a great writer you truly are, because it was written with such clarity and rawness...WOW!

    I hope you know just how honored and proud I am of your accomplishments, my dear friend.

    You are a beacon of LIGHT, for all those who know you.

    X ya, girl!

  3. Ellen,
    Yea I am very proud of making out to the other side of addiction. Although I am no longer in that place now; I could always end up back there if I'm not grateful.

    oh my dear friend, for you to say those kind things is truly amazing to me. I somehow always minimize how far I've truly come so when a "stranger" says things like that I start to pay attention. I'm not bragging by any means, just saying...

  4. Thank you so much for sharing and know that you are an amazing talented person witha true gift with words. I'm sure all who read this cannot leave without being deeply touched. xx

  5. Natural girl;
    wow! thanks for being so touched by this. When I wrote it I wasn't thinking that I've ever get out of that situation let alone recover and put it onto the internet!

  6. Thank you for sharing that. I was moved beyond words. You offer the greatest gift of hope in your blog.

  7. the fact that you could write this down and save it at a time like that shows a lot.

    I've spoken to many (hundreds probably? I don't know) people who were in this exact state and not many of them had what it would have taken to put it all down on paper and put that piece of paper somewhere safe. They didn't have the foresight. Or the spark inside that told them that there would be a day when they could take the paper out of whatever cigar box it was squirreled away in and read it.

    But you did.

    And here you are, alive and well and with us.

  8. and hell, you aren't even a waitress anymore...

  9. not that there's anything wrong with being a waitress...