THERE ISN'T A TITLE IN THE WORLD THAT COULD COME CLOSE TO GIVING THIS JUSTICE

I need to get honest with myself if I ever want to get back on my path to recovery. Since my last posting I've gotten high; well more like everyday since posting I've used dope, even today right before posting this. I hate myself and want to change what I'm doing. I'm scared to get clean. I'm scared to shoot dope. I told myself after shooting up today that this would be it for me, the last time, the last hoopla, go out with a blast, quit fucking my life up and start getting clean again. I meant it. I even looked myself straight on in the mirror and said out loud, "that is it give this shit up it ain't worth it". I sure hope I have the strength to do it.

Once again I ask anyone who happens to come upon my blog, send me some hope, strenght and positive energy because I will definitely need it.

I fucking hate being a junkie.

DAY 2

I made it through yesterday without too much difficulty, but I know day 1 isn't the worst of it. Today will probably be more of a challenge. Thank God for methadone and benzo's they'll take the edge off of my physical symptoms.  The thoughts that run through my head are a completely different story. Fighting myself is like fighting the devil - he has all the power and prestige and I have nothing but white knuckles and hope.

Hope is a funny thing...it's there deep inside me but it is so very hard to depend on. If anyone comes across this blog today....Please, please, please keep HOPE in your thoughts for me today.

I was going through some of my writings yesterday and came across this one, I had actually posted it once before but I'd like to share it again, for your benefit, to try and explain where I am in my head but also for my benefit so I remember just exactly what I will become again if I don't do this:

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 stream of 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.