Ever have one of those days where all you want is some ice cream? All you want to do is sit back, relax on a hot day, mind your own business, and eat your double scoop on a waffle cone. Then just as you're about to enjoy that first taste, the fucker rolls off the cone, down your shirt, your pants, and finally depositing itself onto your shoe. This is the kind of day I was having. It had been a fucking horrible day at work, it was beautiful outside, and I was trapped inside. I had called a connection on my lunch break, everything was setup as soon as I got off.
At this point in my heroin career I was up to about a $40 per diem habit to stave off the effects of the sickness. I say heroin career because being a junkie is a full time job in and of itself. Hey, at the time shooting heroin and forgetting how shitty my day was seemed oddly more rewarding than going to a bar and drinking alcohol with a bunch of fucktards; people who I wouldn't cross the street to piss on if they were on fire. My daytime job was really just a part time gig. I only worked for an investment bank to have the means to maintain my real full time job. A $40 bag was by no means going to get me high or satiate my thirst, it was only a more temporary fix to a bigger problem with inevitable consequences.
The floor above mine was filled with people my age and like children running home when the bell rings, they would all simultaneously stampede out down the stairs to go home for the day. Ordinarily I wasn't leading the pack by any means, but today, today I was in pole position.Today however, was the pay day for that bullshit morning job where I pretended to be someone and something I wasn't. Today I was going to get high.
B picked me up from work and we headed in the general area of the airport. We stopped outside of a dollar store, made a call, and before we could even finish our cigarettes the man had arrived. We headed back to my house. I remember this stuff. We opened the cellophane and the smell of vinegar and tin was intoxicating. This is the smell I associate with good heroin. It was yellowish or whitish powder. I dropped mine in and tried to dissolve it, but it was chunkier than usual and I had to apply a little heat to it. I of course did this after I drew up the water and added more to melt down the chunks. B asked me if he thought I should do that much and I didn't see a problem with it, I was going to get high today. I had spent too many days and too much money just keeping myself from being sick. It was time for the real reward. The brown powder turned completely clear when I heated it. I shot and before the needle was out my ears were ringing and it felt as if my soul had left my body. I heard B:
"J, J! You've got to breathe man, you're turning blue."
"Nah man, I'm fine."
Next I felt my knees buckle and I fell to the ground. At this point I gasped for breath. I had walked the line, bordering on overdose, but had will enough to come back. It was amazing. For a brief moment I thought I had slain the dragon. The phone was ringing as my senses were returning. It was my Arab friend. He and Hawaii were at his place, drinking and doing blow with some cute girl and they wanted to know if I would stop by. My Arab friend and I had a habit of sharing drugs with each other. It was an unwritten, unspoken rule. Whatever one was using, the other was always welcome to partake.
Upon arriving at his house, I could see they had only put a dent in the eight ball they had bought from Jack the night before. I asked Arab if he minded if I dipped my spoon in and fixed myself a shot in the bathroom. He was reluctant, as he was not a fan of my using a needle, but none the less, he obliged. In my past I had used better coke than this. This was nothing special. I had used some with him when he first procured it. I drew up 20 units of water, combined it with the dope in the spoon, and when it was all said and done, I had a 65 shot of cocaine in a 1cc syringe. There is no way I can accurately describe the terror I was shortly about to succumb.
As was usual I could feel my arm go numb and warm, I the taste of cocaine in my mouth was overwhelming, I couldn't move, I couldn't talk. All I could hear was the sound of a train. It sounded as if I were standing right next to a moving train. I could yell as loudly as I wanted and I'd never hear my own voice, just that fucking train. I must have been at this point for quite a while. I have no idea how long I was actually in the bathroom in this state, but I was later told it was about 15 minutes. I had tried to conceal my gear, stand up, and walk out of the bathroom. Instead, I fell off the toilet, and my body wouldn't obey the most simple commands. Get up. Move your right leg. Slide the left knee under you. Put both arms outright and use the wall to stand up. Fail. Back down onto my knees, unable to answer my friends whom I could now hear calling my name, asking if I was okay. I grabbed the sink and attempted to stand. I ripped the sink from the wall, hit the ground and was convulsing. I could feel the water spraying my face from the section of wall where a sink previously resided. The water was cold. It felt good. Next my legs locked. I went from a fetal position to locking both legs straight out and in doing so I kicked my friend's toilet in half. Rather, I shoved my right leg through the base of the toilet. I can't tell you how glad I am that there was clean water in the toilet. By this point Hawaii had forced the door open. I had control of my body again and leaned over into the tub, ripping the shower curtains down in the process, and proceeded to throw up several times.
I don't really remember so much the details of conversations I had shortly thereafter. I convinced them not to call the paramedics. I went rummaging through my jacket, found my prescription for xanax, placed 4 tablets under my tongue, and swallowed an additional 6. 5mg of alprazolam should be more than an adequate dose to counteract the effects of a speed ball overdose. After the tablets had dissolved under my tongue all I could say was, "I'm done. No more drugs. I've done them all and I've done them all to the greatest degrees and I'm still alive. I'm done."
Hawaii tried to talk calmly to me, "J, you don't mean that. What about the psychedelics? Pot? You're not done with them, you just need to quit doing this hard shit."
"No, I'm done. I'll pay for all the damage that has been done to your apartment. I'll pay for it all. Right now I need to go to sleep."
I slept for 20 hours. I woke up in the throws of severe heroin withdrawal. Later that day I would find myself attending my first NA meeting. No one describes heroin withdrawal like John and Yoko:
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
In Heroin Veritas
Forewarning: Some of you may find this post disturbing, more so than others. You have been warned.
There are many ways a person can measure their worth. I have found one of the most honest systems of measurement is to strip someone of all the things they feel make them important, leave them truly hungry and desperate, and then see how much of their bullshit ethics and flighty pacifist ideals they cling to. The truth of the matter is that when most people are in dire straits, and you were their best friend for years, once they lose sight of anything beyond their own noses, they wouldn't cross the street to piss on your head if you were in flames. I'd like to think I am better than most of those people. Much more so than any of you who will read this, I know what a real struggle is.
I had started using heroin back in November, I had used it in the past, but opiates were always a constant in my recreational/therapeutic drug menu. Weekend warrior in November, avid user by Christmas, and daily user before Ground hog Day. I have no idea how my employer didn't know I was a junkie. Everyday at 3:30PM I bolted for the door, cell phone up to my hand, either calling my "best friend" or one of our shared connections. Even if it meant buying Brandon a bag, I'd prefer to pick him up. He knew the best dealers, got the purest dope, and dope was always more fun when you had someone to use it with. Also, it was much safer to use with a friend. If one of you started to turn blue and pass out, the other could, usually rouse you, hopefully without the use of Naloxone.
My first accidental overdose happened on a Sunday evening. Brandon and I went to see his contact, Nico. Nico does not look like a pusher, nor does he talk like one. Nico is a gentleman. Brandon had called him while he was eating dinner at Beni Hana's. If nothing else explains how much money we were spending on heroin, this will: Nico invited us to come in to the place, sit down with him and his family, and eat dinner on his tab. We met his wife, some of his cousins, and his son. While we were there making small talk, Nico slipped off into the restroom, fixed up what we had asked for, and slipped it to Brandon as he took his seat. We left the restaurants, and being the junkies we were, I was snorting mine off the dashboard while I was driving, and Brandon was cooking a shot on the bottom of an old soda can in the floor board. This wasn't the kind of dope that had been going around. It was a deep, dark brown and smelled very strongly of vinegar. I could smell it through the wax paper before it was opened. The shit was good, no doubt about that. It was real good. Once we got back to Brandon's house, we realized that we had made a mistake. We didn't get enough. I don't say that to mean that we were jonesing for more, I just mean we would want some for the next few days. Dope this good didn't come around often.
We get back to Brandon's house, and being the kind of junkie I am, ate again. I am the only person that could ravenously eat under the influence of drugs. Benzos and opiates tend to have the strongest effect on my craving of foods, but I could do and eightball of blow, sit down at a kitchen table, and polish off a whole cherry pie on my own. After I ate again and Brandon and I played a few games of pool, we decided to call Nico to get some more that night so we wouldn't have to hustle in the days coming. Nico had dealt out his supply to his cousins that were at the dinner table. He gave us contact information for one of them, and we set out, across town to a motel by the airport in the pouring rain to score. I waited outside as Brandon went in and came back out. This was so sketchy. Anyone who had any idea of what a drug deal looked like could tell what just happened. When we arrived back at Brandon's he promptly went into the bathroom to shoot another bag. He warned me, he told me it was good. He came out of the bathroom and he was visibly altered. I had never seen him like this.
"Don't do both of your bags. Just do one. It's...." his eyes began to roll in his head a little. He was already on the nod, "it's some good shit, if you're not out of the bathroom in five minutes I'm coming in there."
Brandon had given me a "setup". For those of you who don't know what that means, it's all the gear you need to shoot up with, safely. There's a lot of shit that they show in the movies that isn't true. The thing I find most disturbing is the tie off. Maybe I have good veins, Brandon had destroyed most of his, but I have never, ever used a tie off. I could hit damn near any vein in my body without using one. Besides, using a tie off is a good way to get a clot if you're injecting into the vein, not drawing from it.
First thing first, I took the spoon out, laid it on the marble counter top, and flattened out handle. I did this so the spoon would sit evenly and be more balanced for when I go to draw up the dope into the syringe. Brandon had even put a few cotton balls in the bag. I, am not a fan of using cotton balls, I much prefer to tear a piece of the filter out of the end of a cigarette. The fibers aren't as fine and are less likely to draw up into the syringe. If you do push that poly or poly-cotton fiber into a vein, you will regret it. It is a sickness known to the junk world as "cotton fever". It has happened to me once, and will save you that bit for another time...
Also, in the movies, you always see people cooking heroin. Okay... let's get something straight. Heroin is a compound that is highly sensitive to heat, light, and moisture. Cooking it is all wrong. I dropped the dope into the spoon, took the orange cap of the 1cc insulin syringe Brandon had placed in the bag, and I crushed the brown rocks into a fine powder. I then filled the orange cap with water, pulled back, and let her go. By this point I had figured out that with a certain amount of force, I could pull the plunger back to 60 units and let it go quickly, the air would escape and I would be left with 20 units of water. I then sprayed the dope with the 20 units of water and stirred the mixture with the cap. Then I took the cotton from a cigarette, balled it up, and placed the fine edge of the needle on the cotton. The cotton's purpose is to keep anything bigger than the needle out of your veins, also, it allows you to soak up all the fluid from the surface of the spoon. After drawing up, I added another 20 units to the spoon, boiled it, and drew it up. I should have only had 40 units of water, but with all the dope, I was sitting at 85.
As I mentioned earlier, I have good veins. I don't have to use a tie off, few do. Also, you don't hit veins by sight, you hit them by feeling. Mine don't roll, and they protrude from my arms. In with the needle, I could feel it break the skin, and find its resting place inside my vein. I drew back, dark red, I was definitely in. Then I pushed the plunger in and emptied the contents into my arm. I almost passed out then and there. The room begin to move, I was dizzy, I had to force myself to breathe, and I was very nauseous. I was able to clean up my things, and secure my setup and my dope in my jacket. I walked, stumbled rather, out of the bathroom, and Brandon could tell I was most noticeably altered. I sat beside him at the computer while he was working on a new song. His father and older brother were in the room. The last thing I remember hearing was his older brother yelling, "CATCH HIM!"
This next portion is not from my memory, it was told to me later. I had most certainly overdosed. I was blue in the face and my lips were purple. I wasn't breathing, and I didn't have a pulse. I was clinically dead. Brandon began CPR on me while his father called 911. It was Brandon giving me CPR that saved my life. The next thing I feel is pain all over. My gut, my head, my entire body feels like it's being put through a meat grinder. I sit up, fighting 3 men my size that are trying to restrain me. They had no doubt pushed Naloxone into my system. It works by taking over the opioid receptors in the brain. It puts you into instantaneous withdrawal.
"I'm fine! I'm fine! Dear God, where am I? What's going on? Let go of me! Stop it!"
My outbursts had attracted the attention of a Bartlett police officer who had been called to the scene.
"Let me go. I'm refusing medical attention. I'm okay. I don't know what happened but I'm ok now." I wanted them to let me go so I could get my fix. I felt like shit from the Naloxone. Yes, that's how strong the physical addiction to opiates is, I had just killed myself and was begging to be released so I could do it again.
The firemen were very kind and told me that they would be happy to let me go after I signed an AMA form. AMA stands for Against Meical Advice, I was familiar with them. As soon as the police officer heard this he jumped into the back of the ambulance.
"You either go with them or you go with me, it's your choice."
I laid back down on the stretcher. At least the hospitals wouldn't feed me some wet ass bologna sandwich and taunt me while I went through withdrawals, try to make me sweat it out in an interrogation room and try to get names and phone numbers out of me, no, the hospital was definitely my choice.
They rolled me in, did the routine workup on me, "What have you been using? How long have you been using? How much did you use tonight?"
They got nothing out of me. I told them that I had prescriptions for Xanax, Effexor, and Hydrocodone syrup for a cough and that is how this happened and I didn't know why. They knew I was lying, I knew I was lying, but it beat telling them heroin and having to talk to an addiction specialist when all I could think about was getting out of there.
The problem with Naloxone is that it only lasts about an hour, heroin lasts several, so it must be re-administered several times. They would take my blood oxygen levels, for me to be stable to leave, they had to stay at 90. They would jump up to 95 and then within 45 minutes, would drop to 60. They assured me that if I fell asleep, I would die. The doctor came in and saw me, I told him I wanted to go home, but he said only after an evaluation and 3 days of rest. Ha! Rest, now I know is meant by celebrities going into rehab for "rest". At this point I kept pulling the mask off of my face while I slept that they secured it to me with rubber bands. I woke up a few times, the final time it was 6:00AM. I had to be at work in 2 hours.
Panic. I looked around the room. On a table I found my glasses, a plastic bag that had my clothes that the paramedics had cut to ribbons, and a vial of Naloxone. The Naloxone hadn't been opened and was there to use on me, no doubt, when my O2 levels had dropped again. I struggled to pull the mask off because I could feel that my lungs were full of some kind of fluid, probably vomit. The nurse came in as I had pulled it off and was throwing up. She insisted I keep it on. I told her that I could feel fluid in my lungs and if she knew anything about medicine, then she knew it was imperative that I cough it up.
I pulled the mask back and started coughing up mouth fulls of a chalky brown fluid. I did this several times until I no longer felt or heard the rattle in my chest. I could feel myself starting to go back under. I took the vial of Naloxone and put it in my bag with my clothes and I asked the nurse for another shot because it made me feel better, or so I said. They gave me the shot and my breathing went up to 99. I cleaned myself up as much as possible and asked the nurse to remove my IVs. She said she couldn't do that. She was not the kind nurse I had spoken to earlier. She knew I was a junkie, and she didn't feel like wasting her time on me, that much was apparent.
"Ma'am, I know you don't want to take care of me. I know you have better things to do, but I know that I'm not going to let you charge me and my insurance company $700 for a bag full of Sodium Bi-Carb and water. Take the IVs out or I will." I said this directly but politely.
"Sir, just lie back down. You're not going to take out your IVs, you know you won't...."
I had had enough. I took the tape off of my right forearm and slid the IV out. I'm a needle junkie, come on, did she really think that would bother me? Blood began spurting from my arm and she was mortified. She had really never seen anyone do that before. She got the attention of a much more seasoned nurse who came in and was very polite and kind. She commented on my tattoo and piercings, said she ran the shop where my piercings were done. She took the IV out of my left hand, gave me another shot of Naloxone, and I got dressed while she printed up an AMA form. I got my phone and called Brandon, he came and picked me up.
Before I even made it to his house the Heroin was starting to overpower the Naloxone yet again. Once we arrived, I drew the Narcan up into the syringe, capped it, taped the cap, and slid it down into my sock. I went to work that morning. I took one quarter of the dose then, and then continued with 25 units every two hours while I worked. I would feel the heroin creep up on me and I would just go into the bathroom and shoot some into my thigh. I worked the full day and shot my remaining bag once I got off work. This was my first of several overdoses before I would kick the habit.
There are many ways a person can measure their worth. I have found one of the most honest systems of measurement is to strip someone of all the things they feel make them important, leave them truly hungry and desperate, and then see how much of their bullshit ethics and flighty pacifist ideals they cling to. The truth of the matter is that when most people are in dire straits, and you were their best friend for years, once they lose sight of anything beyond their own noses, they wouldn't cross the street to piss on your head if you were in flames. I'd like to think I am better than most of those people. Much more so than any of you who will read this, I know what a real struggle is.
I had started using heroin back in November, I had used it in the past, but opiates were always a constant in my recreational/therapeutic drug menu. Weekend warrior in November, avid user by Christmas, and daily user before Ground hog Day. I have no idea how my employer didn't know I was a junkie. Everyday at 3:30PM I bolted for the door, cell phone up to my hand, either calling my "best friend" or one of our shared connections. Even if it meant buying Brandon a bag, I'd prefer to pick him up. He knew the best dealers, got the purest dope, and dope was always more fun when you had someone to use it with. Also, it was much safer to use with a friend. If one of you started to turn blue and pass out, the other could, usually rouse you, hopefully without the use of Naloxone.
My first accidental overdose happened on a Sunday evening. Brandon and I went to see his contact, Nico. Nico does not look like a pusher, nor does he talk like one. Nico is a gentleman. Brandon had called him while he was eating dinner at Beni Hana's. If nothing else explains how much money we were spending on heroin, this will: Nico invited us to come in to the place, sit down with him and his family, and eat dinner on his tab. We met his wife, some of his cousins, and his son. While we were there making small talk, Nico slipped off into the restroom, fixed up what we had asked for, and slipped it to Brandon as he took his seat. We left the restaurants, and being the junkies we were, I was snorting mine off the dashboard while I was driving, and Brandon was cooking a shot on the bottom of an old soda can in the floor board. This wasn't the kind of dope that had been going around. It was a deep, dark brown and smelled very strongly of vinegar. I could smell it through the wax paper before it was opened. The shit was good, no doubt about that. It was real good. Once we got back to Brandon's house, we realized that we had made a mistake. We didn't get enough. I don't say that to mean that we were jonesing for more, I just mean we would want some for the next few days. Dope this good didn't come around often.
We get back to Brandon's house, and being the kind of junkie I am, ate again. I am the only person that could ravenously eat under the influence of drugs. Benzos and opiates tend to have the strongest effect on my craving of foods, but I could do and eightball of blow, sit down at a kitchen table, and polish off a whole cherry pie on my own. After I ate again and Brandon and I played a few games of pool, we decided to call Nico to get some more that night so we wouldn't have to hustle in the days coming. Nico had dealt out his supply to his cousins that were at the dinner table. He gave us contact information for one of them, and we set out, across town to a motel by the airport in the pouring rain to score. I waited outside as Brandon went in and came back out. This was so sketchy. Anyone who had any idea of what a drug deal looked like could tell what just happened. When we arrived back at Brandon's he promptly went into the bathroom to shoot another bag. He warned me, he told me it was good. He came out of the bathroom and he was visibly altered. I had never seen him like this.
"Don't do both of your bags. Just do one. It's...." his eyes began to roll in his head a little. He was already on the nod, "it's some good shit, if you're not out of the bathroom in five minutes I'm coming in there."
Brandon had given me a "setup". For those of you who don't know what that means, it's all the gear you need to shoot up with, safely. There's a lot of shit that they show in the movies that isn't true. The thing I find most disturbing is the tie off. Maybe I have good veins, Brandon had destroyed most of his, but I have never, ever used a tie off. I could hit damn near any vein in my body without using one. Besides, using a tie off is a good way to get a clot if you're injecting into the vein, not drawing from it.
First thing first, I took the spoon out, laid it on the marble counter top, and flattened out handle. I did this so the spoon would sit evenly and be more balanced for when I go to draw up the dope into the syringe. Brandon had even put a few cotton balls in the bag. I, am not a fan of using cotton balls, I much prefer to tear a piece of the filter out of the end of a cigarette. The fibers aren't as fine and are less likely to draw up into the syringe. If you do push that poly or poly-cotton fiber into a vein, you will regret it. It is a sickness known to the junk world as "cotton fever". It has happened to me once, and will save you that bit for another time...
Also, in the movies, you always see people cooking heroin. Okay... let's get something straight. Heroin is a compound that is highly sensitive to heat, light, and moisture. Cooking it is all wrong. I dropped the dope into the spoon, took the orange cap of the 1cc insulin syringe Brandon had placed in the bag, and I crushed the brown rocks into a fine powder. I then filled the orange cap with water, pulled back, and let her go. By this point I had figured out that with a certain amount of force, I could pull the plunger back to 60 units and let it go quickly, the air would escape and I would be left with 20 units of water. I then sprayed the dope with the 20 units of water and stirred the mixture with the cap. Then I took the cotton from a cigarette, balled it up, and placed the fine edge of the needle on the cotton. The cotton's purpose is to keep anything bigger than the needle out of your veins, also, it allows you to soak up all the fluid from the surface of the spoon. After drawing up, I added another 20 units to the spoon, boiled it, and drew it up. I should have only had 40 units of water, but with all the dope, I was sitting at 85.
As I mentioned earlier, I have good veins. I don't have to use a tie off, few do. Also, you don't hit veins by sight, you hit them by feeling. Mine don't roll, and they protrude from my arms. In with the needle, I could feel it break the skin, and find its resting place inside my vein. I drew back, dark red, I was definitely in. Then I pushed the plunger in and emptied the contents into my arm. I almost passed out then and there. The room begin to move, I was dizzy, I had to force myself to breathe, and I was very nauseous. I was able to clean up my things, and secure my setup and my dope in my jacket. I walked, stumbled rather, out of the bathroom, and Brandon could tell I was most noticeably altered. I sat beside him at the computer while he was working on a new song. His father and older brother were in the room. The last thing I remember hearing was his older brother yelling, "CATCH HIM!"
This next portion is not from my memory, it was told to me later. I had most certainly overdosed. I was blue in the face and my lips were purple. I wasn't breathing, and I didn't have a pulse. I was clinically dead. Brandon began CPR on me while his father called 911. It was Brandon giving me CPR that saved my life. The next thing I feel is pain all over. My gut, my head, my entire body feels like it's being put through a meat grinder. I sit up, fighting 3 men my size that are trying to restrain me. They had no doubt pushed Naloxone into my system. It works by taking over the opioid receptors in the brain. It puts you into instantaneous withdrawal.
"I'm fine! I'm fine! Dear God, where am I? What's going on? Let go of me! Stop it!"
My outbursts had attracted the attention of a Bartlett police officer who had been called to the scene.
"Let me go. I'm refusing medical attention. I'm okay. I don't know what happened but I'm ok now." I wanted them to let me go so I could get my fix. I felt like shit from the Naloxone. Yes, that's how strong the physical addiction to opiates is, I had just killed myself and was begging to be released so I could do it again.
The firemen were very kind and told me that they would be happy to let me go after I signed an AMA form. AMA stands for Against Meical Advice, I was familiar with them. As soon as the police officer heard this he jumped into the back of the ambulance.
"You either go with them or you go with me, it's your choice."
I laid back down on the stretcher. At least the hospitals wouldn't feed me some wet ass bologna sandwich and taunt me while I went through withdrawals, try to make me sweat it out in an interrogation room and try to get names and phone numbers out of me, no, the hospital was definitely my choice.
They rolled me in, did the routine workup on me, "What have you been using? How long have you been using? How much did you use tonight?"
They got nothing out of me. I told them that I had prescriptions for Xanax, Effexor, and Hydrocodone syrup for a cough and that is how this happened and I didn't know why. They knew I was lying, I knew I was lying, but it beat telling them heroin and having to talk to an addiction specialist when all I could think about was getting out of there.
The problem with Naloxone is that it only lasts about an hour, heroin lasts several, so it must be re-administered several times. They would take my blood oxygen levels, for me to be stable to leave, they had to stay at 90. They would jump up to 95 and then within 45 minutes, would drop to 60. They assured me that if I fell asleep, I would die. The doctor came in and saw me, I told him I wanted to go home, but he said only after an evaluation and 3 days of rest. Ha! Rest, now I know is meant by celebrities going into rehab for "rest". At this point I kept pulling the mask off of my face while I slept that they secured it to me with rubber bands. I woke up a few times, the final time it was 6:00AM. I had to be at work in 2 hours.
Panic. I looked around the room. On a table I found my glasses, a plastic bag that had my clothes that the paramedics had cut to ribbons, and a vial of Naloxone. The Naloxone hadn't been opened and was there to use on me, no doubt, when my O2 levels had dropped again. I struggled to pull the mask off because I could feel that my lungs were full of some kind of fluid, probably vomit. The nurse came in as I had pulled it off and was throwing up. She insisted I keep it on. I told her that I could feel fluid in my lungs and if she knew anything about medicine, then she knew it was imperative that I cough it up.
I pulled the mask back and started coughing up mouth fulls of a chalky brown fluid. I did this several times until I no longer felt or heard the rattle in my chest. I could feel myself starting to go back under. I took the vial of Naloxone and put it in my bag with my clothes and I asked the nurse for another shot because it made me feel better, or so I said. They gave me the shot and my breathing went up to 99. I cleaned myself up as much as possible and asked the nurse to remove my IVs. She said she couldn't do that. She was not the kind nurse I had spoken to earlier. She knew I was a junkie, and she didn't feel like wasting her time on me, that much was apparent.
"Ma'am, I know you don't want to take care of me. I know you have better things to do, but I know that I'm not going to let you charge me and my insurance company $700 for a bag full of Sodium Bi-Carb and water. Take the IVs out or I will." I said this directly but politely.
"Sir, just lie back down. You're not going to take out your IVs, you know you won't...."
I had had enough. I took the tape off of my right forearm and slid the IV out. I'm a needle junkie, come on, did she really think that would bother me? Blood began spurting from my arm and she was mortified. She had really never seen anyone do that before. She got the attention of a much more seasoned nurse who came in and was very polite and kind. She commented on my tattoo and piercings, said she ran the shop where my piercings were done. She took the IV out of my left hand, gave me another shot of Naloxone, and I got dressed while she printed up an AMA form. I got my phone and called Brandon, he came and picked me up.
Before I even made it to his house the Heroin was starting to overpower the Naloxone yet again. Once we arrived, I drew the Narcan up into the syringe, capped it, taped the cap, and slid it down into my sock. I went to work that morning. I took one quarter of the dose then, and then continued with 25 units every two hours while I worked. I would feel the heroin creep up on me and I would just go into the bathroom and shoot some into my thigh. I worked the full day and shot my remaining bag once I got off work. This was my first of several overdoses before I would kick the habit.
Monday, April 6, 2009
And my diagnosis is...
The DSM IV has various stratifications of this term, "Bipolar Disorder". I happen to be Bipolar Disorder II. It's not what you think. It's much more than the new and improved version of plain old manic-depression. You see, Bipolar Disorder I are the crazies that scare the world shitless. They are the guys that try to bankrupt the casinos after watching Ocean's Eleven, they're called upon by God to serve a higher purpose and throw of the chains that enslave humanity by breeding the platypus, sometimes they go on killing sprees with smiles on their faces, their motor skills are so fine tuned that they can walk blindfolded down the interstate and move out of the way of cars traveling at speeds of 80mph, they're the crazy women that happily go skipping of cliffs, champagne bottle in one hand while donning their wedding dress. Ok, you get the point right? They're the ones that make the news.
You don't hear much about the people like me. I'm Bipolar Disorder II. I'm not prone to flights of fancy and your delusions of grandeur brought on by Bipolar Disorder uno. My highs aren't so high, but my lows go much deeper. My highs only get to what is called "hypomania". Think of this as mania lite, "now with 30% MORE sleep!" There's not really any middle ground for me. I'm either a little bit higher than I should be or I'm way down depressed. With typical BPD, doctors are afraid their patients are going to "become a threat to themselves and others" so they over-prescribe a myriad of mood-stabilizers and anti-psychotics to suppress these dangerous, selfish, and compulsive thoughts and behaviors. I have been on such drugs: Depakote, Zyprexa, and Seroquel. All of these robbed me of my creativity, independent thought, brilliant memory recall, and drive. I became the world's happiest vegetable. I went from an A- student who never went to class because I was too depressed or too "activated" to becoming a B+ student who went every day and had to struggle to grasp the most basic concepts. I also gained so much weight so quickly that at 19 I got stretch marks on my sides (hot imagery, I know).
I was first diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder when I was 18, almost 19. I was having panic attacks, trouble getting any work done, could barely function socially for fear of the next panic attack. I was too depressed to get out of bed most days. I made my doctors aware of my past drug indiscretions and he prescribed Celexa. Celexa at this time was the mildest of the SSRIs (Selective Serotonin Reuptake-Inhibitors). It was meant to increase levels of serotonin in my brain and stave off the depression and anxiety. It did just that and it worked rather well for about 4 months. Then it just stopped working. I experienced side effects with it that were pretty common: dry mouth, sweating, persistent yawn without being tired, insomnia, increased energy, and I had a little trouble getting off. At this point I could fuck for hours and not get off. My dick was bruised as was my girlfriend's ego. Being that I don't lie to my parents, doctors, or lawyers, I told my doctor. He suggested we switch to Lexapro. It was *NEW* and shiny, and it was an isomer of Celexa, could be administered at lower doses with higher efficacy. It wouldn't have all those nasty side effects. He assured me...
Two weeks on Lexapro and I was noticing some strange effects. I was able to get off during sex, but I was really distressed. I would break down into tears at things which ordinarily I wouldn't find disturbing. While running the meat slicer at work I thought, "I wonder what it would feel like to run my arm down the blade?" What the fuck? Where did that come from? Odd... While looking off the balcony, across a field, I looked down. I thought, "I wonder what kind of design my body would make if I jumped off and became a splatter paint on the concrete below?" and I would chuckle. Then while driving I had equally disturbing thoughts about driving into the support pillars of an overpass. I shared these thoughts with my girlfriend. I told her that lately things like that had been crossing my mind. I wasn't suicidal, I assured her, but these really weird thoughts kept passing through my mind. She did not laugh. She was mortified. Then as CK was prone to do, she broke into histrionics.
"WHAT? How often do you think shit like this, J? That's just not fucking healthy! That's not normal! We're taking you to my doctor. Dr. Klein is a good man and he'll get you straightened out. Lexapro is not working for you. Besides, your doctor's name is Steve Martin. Didn't that tell you something? I'll call him and make you an appointment or you can just go with me on Thursday. Jesus, now I have to worry about every time I go home, coming in and finding your dead body."
My doctor's name was in fact Steve Martin, but he was a nice guy. We go to see Klein, CK was the 2nd of my girlfriends to have seen him. He knew me by reputation already. Apparently The Good Reverend had opened her mouth about every instance of ecstasy taking and pot smoking we had done. After a little interrogation of Katy and I, he was kind enough to give me 3 months worth of samples of Wellbutrin XR and told me it was a cure all for the kind of depression I was experiencing. Boy, was he right. I began taking Wellbutrin and the effects were immediate. I was full of energy and creativity, I found myself smoking fewer cigarettes, and I wasn't prone to raiding the fridge, something I frequently do when I'm depressed. Instead I was only sleeping for 3 or 4 hours a night, all of my class work was finished before deadline, and I felt very confident.
After the third day of taking Wellbutrin, I was making a lot more money selling cocaine. I attributed this to the fact that I wasn't sleeping very much, but I didn't care. I was happy. CK noticed that my ego was becoming a little inflated, that I was a little more hostile to people, talked down to them, and was really mean. I didn't care if they didn't understand. They were stupid, slow, and just another inconvenience. They couldn't go fast enough and they were always in my way, slowing me down. I hadn't noticed that I had stopped smoking, but I did notice that I couldn't stand to be in the same room with a lit cigarette. The smell made me nauseous. I tried smoking one for fun, because I genuinely enjoy the way they taste. It felt like sand paper was being rubbed against my throat and that something acidic was filling my lungs, my head spun, and I threw up in my mouth a little. Definitely effective at getting me to stop smoking.
After the first week, I had to force myself to eat. I would only eat when I felt my blood sugar was so low that I was going to pass out. Usually this happened after class while working at the deli. Doing all the prep work, I would just make myself a salad wrap and devour while doing counts in the freezer. Also, the freezer was the only place where I didn't feel like my skin was on fire. It was the only place I could be where I wasn't sweating profusely. It was nice. I started isolating myself from people as I saw them merely as sources of frustration. I was surrounded by people who couldn't think or move fast enough. My tongue was getting sharper and my temper shorter. Poor CK, she endured a lot. Mostly she endured me fucking her, all the time. No drug on the face of the earth has skyrocketed my libido like Welbutrin.
After two weeks of Wellbutrin the good doctor recommended I go from 150 to 300mg. I did as were his orders. The 150mg is the starter dose just to get you used to it. The 300mg is the maintenance dose. Things became stranger and stranger. Everyday seemed to get longer and longer, all the while my patience got shorter and shorter. I looked in the mirror and noticed that I looked very thin. Even I could see where I had lost weight. I stepped on the scales and had indeed lost weight. I was no longer 215lb, I was a solid 200. I had lost 15lb in two weeks. I weighed less than I did when I graduated high school. In the time since graduation, I had developed and kicked a cocaine habit and had stopped smoking. How is it possible that I had lost weight? The next two weeks were a blur to me. I know that I stoped sleeping in the conventional sense. I would just take the occasional power nap. I was staying up all hours of the night, associating with other drug dealers. I gained connections for any drug I could have wanted, although, I had no desire to use any of them.
After two weeks of a 300mg dose regimen, I stepped on the scales. I now weighed in at 185lb. I had lost another 15lb in two weeks. My manager at work mentioned how thin I had become and asked me if I was using cocaine. This really took me back because I fueled that deli with the cocaine that made its workers competent. She made me particularly uneasy with the questioning. I had in fact, not been using cocaine, but when I lifted up my shirt, I could count my ribs. I looked pretty sick. I had dark circles under my eyes, and my cheek bones protruded from my face. I took a physical exam at the university. My resting heart beat was 93bpm and my blood pressure was 133 over 85. They told me this was not healthy for a 19 year old. I believed them.
The next 5 days were a complete blur to me. I do not really remember much other than becoming completely delusional, going from no money after having paid bills and in a single night, I raised $500, used that money to buy a quarter ounce of methamphetamine, bagged it up into quarter grams, still not using any of it, attended a party, turned that $500 investment into $800 and left the party with 2.5g of meth, used that money to buy a quarter ounce of cocaine, went on a shopping spree, and still had $200 in my pocket. I was riding with Sarah and CK and they told me we were going to go to CK's mother's house to house-sit while she was out of town. I remember the drive there because Sarah and CK were terrified at my erratic behavior. CK kept asking me if I had been blowing coke or smoking meth. I answered honestly that I had not. She eventually put 2 and 2 together and recognized that I was having a full blown manic episode. Upon arrival to her parent's house she noticed how I was very agitated and couldn't focus. The details of that night are very blurry to me as I don't remember much. Some how, even though I whole heartedly disagreed with her, she convinced me to take a sleeping pill. I took it and nothing happened. I took another, nothing. After 3 hours of delirium I became stark mad. I was completely delusional, having hallucinations, and talking in complete nonsense. 45 minutes after my third dose of trazadone, I fell out. I woke up 4 hours later and had that same energy. CK had taken the liberty of scheduling an appointment for me. After we arrived, she explained the details to my doctor. I was very quickly diagnosed as Bipolar Disorder and given a prescription for Zyprexa and Celexa.
You don't hear much about the people like me. I'm Bipolar Disorder II. I'm not prone to flights of fancy and your delusions of grandeur brought on by Bipolar Disorder uno. My highs aren't so high, but my lows go much deeper. My highs only get to what is called "hypomania". Think of this as mania lite, "now with 30% MORE sleep!" There's not really any middle ground for me. I'm either a little bit higher than I should be or I'm way down depressed. With typical BPD, doctors are afraid their patients are going to "become a threat to themselves and others" so they over-prescribe a myriad of mood-stabilizers and anti-psychotics to suppress these dangerous, selfish, and compulsive thoughts and behaviors. I have been on such drugs: Depakote, Zyprexa, and Seroquel. All of these robbed me of my creativity, independent thought, brilliant memory recall, and drive. I became the world's happiest vegetable. I went from an A- student who never went to class because I was too depressed or too "activated" to becoming a B+ student who went every day and had to struggle to grasp the most basic concepts. I also gained so much weight so quickly that at 19 I got stretch marks on my sides (hot imagery, I know).
I was first diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder when I was 18, almost 19. I was having panic attacks, trouble getting any work done, could barely function socially for fear of the next panic attack. I was too depressed to get out of bed most days. I made my doctors aware of my past drug indiscretions and he prescribed Celexa. Celexa at this time was the mildest of the SSRIs (Selective Serotonin Reuptake-Inhibitors). It was meant to increase levels of serotonin in my brain and stave off the depression and anxiety. It did just that and it worked rather well for about 4 months. Then it just stopped working. I experienced side effects with it that were pretty common: dry mouth, sweating, persistent yawn without being tired, insomnia, increased energy, and I had a little trouble getting off. At this point I could fuck for hours and not get off. My dick was bruised as was my girlfriend's ego. Being that I don't lie to my parents, doctors, or lawyers, I told my doctor. He suggested we switch to Lexapro. It was *NEW* and shiny, and it was an isomer of Celexa, could be administered at lower doses with higher efficacy. It wouldn't have all those nasty side effects. He assured me...
Two weeks on Lexapro and I was noticing some strange effects. I was able to get off during sex, but I was really distressed. I would break down into tears at things which ordinarily I wouldn't find disturbing. While running the meat slicer at work I thought, "I wonder what it would feel like to run my arm down the blade?" What the fuck? Where did that come from? Odd... While looking off the balcony, across a field, I looked down. I thought, "I wonder what kind of design my body would make if I jumped off and became a splatter paint on the concrete below?" and I would chuckle. Then while driving I had equally disturbing thoughts about driving into the support pillars of an overpass. I shared these thoughts with my girlfriend. I told her that lately things like that had been crossing my mind. I wasn't suicidal, I assured her, but these really weird thoughts kept passing through my mind. She did not laugh. She was mortified. Then as CK was prone to do, she broke into histrionics.
"WHAT? How often do you think shit like this, J? That's just not fucking healthy! That's not normal! We're taking you to my doctor. Dr. Klein is a good man and he'll get you straightened out. Lexapro is not working for you. Besides, your doctor's name is Steve Martin. Didn't that tell you something? I'll call him and make you an appointment or you can just go with me on Thursday. Jesus, now I have to worry about every time I go home, coming in and finding your dead body."
My doctor's name was in fact Steve Martin, but he was a nice guy. We go to see Klein, CK was the 2nd of my girlfriends to have seen him. He knew me by reputation already. Apparently The Good Reverend had opened her mouth about every instance of ecstasy taking and pot smoking we had done. After a little interrogation of Katy and I, he was kind enough to give me 3 months worth of samples of Wellbutrin XR and told me it was a cure all for the kind of depression I was experiencing. Boy, was he right. I began taking Wellbutrin and the effects were immediate. I was full of energy and creativity, I found myself smoking fewer cigarettes, and I wasn't prone to raiding the fridge, something I frequently do when I'm depressed. Instead I was only sleeping for 3 or 4 hours a night, all of my class work was finished before deadline, and I felt very confident.
After the third day of taking Wellbutrin, I was making a lot more money selling cocaine. I attributed this to the fact that I wasn't sleeping very much, but I didn't care. I was happy. CK noticed that my ego was becoming a little inflated, that I was a little more hostile to people, talked down to them, and was really mean. I didn't care if they didn't understand. They were stupid, slow, and just another inconvenience. They couldn't go fast enough and they were always in my way, slowing me down. I hadn't noticed that I had stopped smoking, but I did notice that I couldn't stand to be in the same room with a lit cigarette. The smell made me nauseous. I tried smoking one for fun, because I genuinely enjoy the way they taste. It felt like sand paper was being rubbed against my throat and that something acidic was filling my lungs, my head spun, and I threw up in my mouth a little. Definitely effective at getting me to stop smoking.
After the first week, I had to force myself to eat. I would only eat when I felt my blood sugar was so low that I was going to pass out. Usually this happened after class while working at the deli. Doing all the prep work, I would just make myself a salad wrap and devour while doing counts in the freezer. Also, the freezer was the only place where I didn't feel like my skin was on fire. It was the only place I could be where I wasn't sweating profusely. It was nice. I started isolating myself from people as I saw them merely as sources of frustration. I was surrounded by people who couldn't think or move fast enough. My tongue was getting sharper and my temper shorter. Poor CK, she endured a lot. Mostly she endured me fucking her, all the time. No drug on the face of the earth has skyrocketed my libido like Welbutrin.
After two weeks of Wellbutrin the good doctor recommended I go from 150 to 300mg. I did as were his orders. The 150mg is the starter dose just to get you used to it. The 300mg is the maintenance dose. Things became stranger and stranger. Everyday seemed to get longer and longer, all the while my patience got shorter and shorter. I looked in the mirror and noticed that I looked very thin. Even I could see where I had lost weight. I stepped on the scales and had indeed lost weight. I was no longer 215lb, I was a solid 200. I had lost 15lb in two weeks. I weighed less than I did when I graduated high school. In the time since graduation, I had developed and kicked a cocaine habit and had stopped smoking. How is it possible that I had lost weight? The next two weeks were a blur to me. I know that I stoped sleeping in the conventional sense. I would just take the occasional power nap. I was staying up all hours of the night, associating with other drug dealers. I gained connections for any drug I could have wanted, although, I had no desire to use any of them.
After two weeks of a 300mg dose regimen, I stepped on the scales. I now weighed in at 185lb. I had lost another 15lb in two weeks. My manager at work mentioned how thin I had become and asked me if I was using cocaine. This really took me back because I fueled that deli with the cocaine that made its workers competent. She made me particularly uneasy with the questioning. I had in fact, not been using cocaine, but when I lifted up my shirt, I could count my ribs. I looked pretty sick. I had dark circles under my eyes, and my cheek bones protruded from my face. I took a physical exam at the university. My resting heart beat was 93bpm and my blood pressure was 133 over 85. They told me this was not healthy for a 19 year old. I believed them.
The next 5 days were a complete blur to me. I do not really remember much other than becoming completely delusional, going from no money after having paid bills and in a single night, I raised $500, used that money to buy a quarter ounce of methamphetamine, bagged it up into quarter grams, still not using any of it, attended a party, turned that $500 investment into $800 and left the party with 2.5g of meth, used that money to buy a quarter ounce of cocaine, went on a shopping spree, and still had $200 in my pocket. I was riding with Sarah and CK and they told me we were going to go to CK's mother's house to house-sit while she was out of town. I remember the drive there because Sarah and CK were terrified at my erratic behavior. CK kept asking me if I had been blowing coke or smoking meth. I answered honestly that I had not. She eventually put 2 and 2 together and recognized that I was having a full blown manic episode. Upon arrival to her parent's house she noticed how I was very agitated and couldn't focus. The details of that night are very blurry to me as I don't remember much. Some how, even though I whole heartedly disagreed with her, she convinced me to take a sleeping pill. I took it and nothing happened. I took another, nothing. After 3 hours of delirium I became stark mad. I was completely delusional, having hallucinations, and talking in complete nonsense. 45 minutes after my third dose of trazadone, I fell out. I woke up 4 hours later and had that same energy. CK had taken the liberty of scheduling an appointment for me. After we arrived, she explained the details to my doctor. I was very quickly diagnosed as Bipolar Disorder and given a prescription for Zyprexa and Celexa.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sleep Suicide
I had been to the doctor 6 times, in 5 months for strep throat. Finally I had met the requirements of my insurance company for getting my tonsils and adenoids removed. My doctor referred me to an ear, nose, and throat specialist and gave me a prescription for a potent antibiotic. The ear, nose, and throat doctor had my entire medical history in front of him documenting my troubles with anxiety and depression, but insisted that I should stop smoking in the weeks up to my surgery. This was the same surgeon who had removed a blood clot from my face when I was nine. There was no reason for me not to trust him.
I began taking Chantix and I can only compare it to having taken Ritalin. I woke up, took the pill, stopped at TigerMart on my way into work, got a biscuit and a large cup of coffee. I noticed about an hour later I wasn't struggling to wake up as was usual for a Wednesday morning. I felt more energized, driven. I was sweating a little bit, but I wasn't hot or uncomfortable. This trend continued for a few days.
The fifth day I took Chantix, I noticed I had trouble sleeping. The two kids from next door had come over and smoked pot with me until about midnight. Elizabeth and Josh were both delightful kids. They were both only 18 and I continually picked on them for not having been born in the 80s. They were the first people I ever really associated with who weren't alive during the 80s; no memories of Thunder Cats, G.I. Joe, or the original Transformers. As midnight was nearing, I really wanted to stay awake and hang out with them, but I knew I had to be at work early, at the east location, at 7am. They left and I went to my room and collapsed on the bed, still fully dressed.
A few hours later I woke up, my mouth was very dry. This had become a regular occurrence as well. My thirst was insatiable and I had to piss every hour or so. I woke up, opened one of the plastic bottles I had recycled and filled with water, these lined one quarter of my refrigerator, drained it, and headed back in the direction of what I thought was my bed room. Apparently I was still mostly asleep, because I was very disoriented and had gotten turned around. Being so tired, I didn't care, I collapsed on the couch. What seemed like minutes later, I woke up on the couch, remembered I didn't have my alarm in the same room with me, and headed back to bed.
I wake up again, an hour later. Only now I am standing in my living room. This is very odd. I distinctly remember my bed, and now I'm standing in my living room. I'm no longer fully dressed and my clothes are on the opposite side of the room. I am in socks and boxers. I returned to bed. I woke up an hour before my alarm should have gone off, still dark outside, only now I am asleep on top of the clothes I had taken off earlier. I was sleep walking. Also, as was very out of the ordinary for me, I had ceased to dream. I thought about it and I hadn't dreamt a single night since I had started taking Chantix. Feeling completely drained, I made some hot tea, turned on the Chili Peppers album "One Hot Minute", and jumped in the shower. I was completely drained. As was my usual morning regimen I took my Effexor, my Chantix, and my antibiotics.
The entire day I felt like I hadn't slept at all. At my desk at work I had made a pyramid of "caffeine shots" that were offered free with TigerMart coffee. Everyday I had grabbed a hand full of them and jammed them into my pocket. I was making a pyramid out of them at work and some of my co-workers found it amusing that it was growing. I also gave them the caffeine shots, they were appreciative. The lack of sleep continued. I began consuming more and more of the caffeine shots to be able to get through the day. I was falling asleep at my desk, nodding off for a minute at the time and then snapping back to attention. It was like I was back on heroin, on the nod, only my body ached, my head was throbbing, and I was emotionally empty. I felt depressed, I had no interest in anything, even food had lost its taste. I didn't feel alive any more. The strange sleep walking had continued. I was waking up in various rooms in the house. There were nights where I wouldn't sleep at all or would only sleep for an hour or two. My patience and attention span were gone. Then the nightmares began.
I was having that nightmare where I would run and run from something. It was as if I was in a scene from 28 weeks later, but everything was black and white. There were no sounds or interactions with people that I remember, I was just running. I would wake up in a panic, gasp for breath, and would be unable to return to sleep. This trend continued for a week until one night I lost it. After missing so much sleep, my body finally gave in one afternoon. I had returned home from work, let my dog out, played with him for 15 minutes, and shut him in my bedroom with me because I knew I had to sleep. Zeus was thrilled to be able to sleep with me, as I usually made him sleep in his kennel. We curled up together, I closed my eyes, and don't even remember going to sleep.
I didn't feel Zeus get up and move, I just didn't feel him. I opened my eyes, something was wrong. I had that ominous sense of dread, anxiety. Zeus was gone. Something was wrong, something was going to go wrong. I began to search for him in the house. All the doors inside were open; pantry, bathroom, both bedrooms, cabinet doors, and the door to the laundry room. Zeus was nowhere to be found. I tried to open the front door but it was stuck. It didn't even budge. I looked out the windows and the world outside was monochrome. It was raining, but the rain was this black oil that fell slower than the rain. It was almost as if it wasn't falling, but rather creeping down from the sky. Long tentacles of black oil stretched down from the sky so thin until they would snap and turn into droplets.
This rain began to gather and collect on the windows and cover them up. I don't know why but I felt paniced. I had to get out of the house. I tried to open the windows. First the large one in the living room near my fig tree. It didn't matter which way the latch was flipped, it wouldn't open. I got a spreading knife from the kitchen and tried to pry around the edges of the window thinking maybe they had been painted shut. They had not and my efforts were fruitless. I tried one window after another. None of them would open. I went to the bathroom because when I showered, I usually opened the translucent window above the tub. I knew it would work. I couldn't open it and now the oil was coming in from around the window and under the doors.
The dark water began to fill up my apartment. I tried to break windows. I picked up a vase, an incense holder, my statue of some Catholic saint, the tiny statue of Ganesh I threw them one after the other into the same window and nothing. They hit and bounced back, not even making a mark. I was now chest deep in this dark water and climbed up on the kitchen sink. I jumped up off of the counter and caught the edge of the loft above my washer and dryer. I pulled myself up. I looked down and watched as the dark water continued to rise. I decided there was nothing else I could do, so I let myself rest on top of the loft. I could feel this cold water cover me. I fought and hit the ceiling, finally giving in and breathing.
I woke up, covered in sweat, with Zeus giving me his, "stupid human..." face. It was now midnight, I had slept for seven hours. Zeus and I stayed up all night and he sat in my lap while I played Zelda. I vowed never to take Chantix ever again. I began smoking again, but was smoking a pack a day, up from a pack every three. I didn't care because once again I could dream.
I began taking Chantix and I can only compare it to having taken Ritalin. I woke up, took the pill, stopped at TigerMart on my way into work, got a biscuit and a large cup of coffee. I noticed about an hour later I wasn't struggling to wake up as was usual for a Wednesday morning. I felt more energized, driven. I was sweating a little bit, but I wasn't hot or uncomfortable. This trend continued for a few days.
The fifth day I took Chantix, I noticed I had trouble sleeping. The two kids from next door had come over and smoked pot with me until about midnight. Elizabeth and Josh were both delightful kids. They were both only 18 and I continually picked on them for not having been born in the 80s. They were the first people I ever really associated with who weren't alive during the 80s; no memories of Thunder Cats, G.I. Joe, or the original Transformers. As midnight was nearing, I really wanted to stay awake and hang out with them, but I knew I had to be at work early, at the east location, at 7am. They left and I went to my room and collapsed on the bed, still fully dressed.
A few hours later I woke up, my mouth was very dry. This had become a regular occurrence as well. My thirst was insatiable and I had to piss every hour or so. I woke up, opened one of the plastic bottles I had recycled and filled with water, these lined one quarter of my refrigerator, drained it, and headed back in the direction of what I thought was my bed room. Apparently I was still mostly asleep, because I was very disoriented and had gotten turned around. Being so tired, I didn't care, I collapsed on the couch. What seemed like minutes later, I woke up on the couch, remembered I didn't have my alarm in the same room with me, and headed back to bed.
I wake up again, an hour later. Only now I am standing in my living room. This is very odd. I distinctly remember my bed, and now I'm standing in my living room. I'm no longer fully dressed and my clothes are on the opposite side of the room. I am in socks and boxers. I returned to bed. I woke up an hour before my alarm should have gone off, still dark outside, only now I am asleep on top of the clothes I had taken off earlier. I was sleep walking. Also, as was very out of the ordinary for me, I had ceased to dream. I thought about it and I hadn't dreamt a single night since I had started taking Chantix. Feeling completely drained, I made some hot tea, turned on the Chili Peppers album "One Hot Minute", and jumped in the shower. I was completely drained. As was my usual morning regimen I took my Effexor, my Chantix, and my antibiotics.
The entire day I felt like I hadn't slept at all. At my desk at work I had made a pyramid of "caffeine shots" that were offered free with TigerMart coffee. Everyday I had grabbed a hand full of them and jammed them into my pocket. I was making a pyramid out of them at work and some of my co-workers found it amusing that it was growing. I also gave them the caffeine shots, they were appreciative. The lack of sleep continued. I began consuming more and more of the caffeine shots to be able to get through the day. I was falling asleep at my desk, nodding off for a minute at the time and then snapping back to attention. It was like I was back on heroin, on the nod, only my body ached, my head was throbbing, and I was emotionally empty. I felt depressed, I had no interest in anything, even food had lost its taste. I didn't feel alive any more. The strange sleep walking had continued. I was waking up in various rooms in the house. There were nights where I wouldn't sleep at all or would only sleep for an hour or two. My patience and attention span were gone. Then the nightmares began.
I was having that nightmare where I would run and run from something. It was as if I was in a scene from 28 weeks later, but everything was black and white. There were no sounds or interactions with people that I remember, I was just running. I would wake up in a panic, gasp for breath, and would be unable to return to sleep. This trend continued for a week until one night I lost it. After missing so much sleep, my body finally gave in one afternoon. I had returned home from work, let my dog out, played with him for 15 minutes, and shut him in my bedroom with me because I knew I had to sleep. Zeus was thrilled to be able to sleep with me, as I usually made him sleep in his kennel. We curled up together, I closed my eyes, and don't even remember going to sleep.
I didn't feel Zeus get up and move, I just didn't feel him. I opened my eyes, something was wrong. I had that ominous sense of dread, anxiety. Zeus was gone. Something was wrong, something was going to go wrong. I began to search for him in the house. All the doors inside were open; pantry, bathroom, both bedrooms, cabinet doors, and the door to the laundry room. Zeus was nowhere to be found. I tried to open the front door but it was stuck. It didn't even budge. I looked out the windows and the world outside was monochrome. It was raining, but the rain was this black oil that fell slower than the rain. It was almost as if it wasn't falling, but rather creeping down from the sky. Long tentacles of black oil stretched down from the sky so thin until they would snap and turn into droplets.
This rain began to gather and collect on the windows and cover them up. I don't know why but I felt paniced. I had to get out of the house. I tried to open the windows. First the large one in the living room near my fig tree. It didn't matter which way the latch was flipped, it wouldn't open. I got a spreading knife from the kitchen and tried to pry around the edges of the window thinking maybe they had been painted shut. They had not and my efforts were fruitless. I tried one window after another. None of them would open. I went to the bathroom because when I showered, I usually opened the translucent window above the tub. I knew it would work. I couldn't open it and now the oil was coming in from around the window and under the doors.
The dark water began to fill up my apartment. I tried to break windows. I picked up a vase, an incense holder, my statue of some Catholic saint, the tiny statue of Ganesh I threw them one after the other into the same window and nothing. They hit and bounced back, not even making a mark. I was now chest deep in this dark water and climbed up on the kitchen sink. I jumped up off of the counter and caught the edge of the loft above my washer and dryer. I pulled myself up. I looked down and watched as the dark water continued to rise. I decided there was nothing else I could do, so I let myself rest on top of the loft. I could feel this cold water cover me. I fought and hit the ceiling, finally giving in and breathing.
I woke up, covered in sweat, with Zeus giving me his, "stupid human..." face. It was now midnight, I had slept for seven hours. Zeus and I stayed up all night and he sat in my lap while I played Zelda. I vowed never to take Chantix ever again. I began smoking again, but was smoking a pack a day, up from a pack every three. I didn't care because once again I could dream.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Mario Should Have Stuck to Mushrooms
I've never been one to push drugs on other people, but at one point I had acquired a copious amount of 2C-I. Through semi-regular use it was something I had grown accustomed to using. I knew the body load, the effects of the visuals, how well I could function, etc. Hell, I would take it and go to work. Unlike other psychedelics it gave me the focus of a high dose of amphetamines and as long as I ignored the geometric patterns overlapping the faces of my co-workers and superiors, my job performance was well above par. I remember one night while working on the second floor, the windows were really throwing me off. They were that tinted, tempered kind of mirror glass, but not only were they like that on the outside of the building, they were also like that on the interior. So here I was, performing my job, while being able to see images myself and my co-workers in every direction. It was like a bad scene from "Enter the Dragon". Needless to say I survived the night and was able to fly under the radar. I made it home safely on my motorcycle in the morning; always a joy to ride while on psychedelics.
After taking up to 90mg orally in a single day, 30mg doses repeated every 6 hours, I decided to take it to the next level. A few years prior Josh Robbins had overdosed on a similar compound 2C-T-7. He had insufflated a rather large dose. You see, unlike 2C-I, Josh snorted a drug which, in and of itself, has MAOI properties. Autopsy reports indicated levels of ephedrine and MDMA in combination with the 2C-T-7 as a result of his death. Well, after doing research and learning that 2C-I had no MAOI like properties, I decided I would insufflate my usual 30mg dose. For me this was not a problem. It burned. I have snorted methamphetamine, MDMA, MDA, and probably my own weight in cocaine, but nothing has ever burned like this. Instantly I wanted to vomit, but I fought the urge, drank some Tang (the best drink on the planet), and I felt much better. The onset was extremely sharp, and as with other phenethylamines, the dose response curve is much steeper when you insufflate the drug as opposed to ingesting it. The feeling was so unnerving that I wanted to peel out of my skin. This is a common occurrence for me when I take large doses of psychedelics and I usually have to shower to feel better. I took a long shower, pulled myself together, and felt like a new man. I enjoyed the rest of day laughing at various things, walking around midtown, and working on my motorcycle.
The next weekend I told a co-worker, Mario, of my experience with 2C-I and being quite the psychonaut himself, wanted to try it. He asked me how he should do it.
"J, you said 30mg is a heavy dose, should I snort it or just swallow it?"
I hadn't really thought out my response very well, and after having just snorted 30mg myself, I guess the sadistic part of my personality wanted to share with him the pain I felt coursing through my sinus cavities.
"No man, don't swallow it. The bio-availability is much higher if you snort it. It burns for a few minutes and tastes like cat piss smells, but that's the worst of it."
This was not the best advice I could have given him. This was probably the closest thing to bad advice. Looking back on it, I couldn't believe I told someone to insufflate 30mg of 2C-I for their first experience. My room mate, Floyd, didn't believe in putting anything up his nose; he swallowed his cap. We were enjoying some old Merry Melody cartoons when I noticed Mario was completely silent. He was glaring at me. I had never seen this look on his face before. He was sweating profusely, fidgeting, and obviously very agitated.
"I think I'm going to throw up now." That was all he said.
"Don't fight it man, you'll feel better after you purge. Think of it like mescaline. You can go outside or feel free to use the bathroom. Try throwing some cold water on your face. You're body temperature is probably just elevating rapidly from all the excess serotonin."
Throwing up is something that has never really bothered me. I go with what my body tells me. If I feel nauseated, I throw up, it's mildly unpleasant while it happens, and then I feel better. This is not the case for everyone. I'm not saying I enjoy vomiting. It certainly isn't one of my favorite pastimes, but I generally feel better after a good purge. Mario is one such person who certainly did not like to vomit. He went to the bathroom and my roomie and I forgot how long he had been in there. We could hear water running, the toilet flush a few times, and then nothing. Floyd says, "Maybe you should check on Mario, he's been in there forever."
I went and knocked on the bathroom door. "Yo, Mario, you okay man?"
"FUCK YOU! Why did you tell me to do that? Why did you tell me to snort it? God damn you!"
I felt a little bad, but I couldn't help but giggle. I was tripping balls. You'd giggle too...
"Yea man, but I mean, are you okay? Can I get you something? A cold towel? Maybe you should take a shower, it usually helps me feel better when I trip really hard."
I was trying my best to be there for my friend. Mario was one of my favorite co-workers and to this day one of the most intelligent and kind people I know.
"Dude, I'm really embarrassed. I shit myself. I was throwing up into the toilet and then at the same time, I shit myself."
Okay, I'll be honest. I'm a good friend, but I giggled again. I made sure he couldn't hear me this time. I had to ask.
"Seriously man? Like, you shit yourself? How bad is it?"
"It's bad," he replied. "Real bad."
Mario just kept repeating himself, "Why did you tell me it was okay to snort that much? God, why did I listen to you? I've never felt so bad in my life. I can't get that taste out of my nose and now I'm covered in shit! Why did you tell me to do that? WHY DID YOU TELL ME TO DO THAT?"
"It's okay man, I'll go get you a change of clothes. I've got some clean boxers, shorts, and a t-shirt you can wear. They'll be a little big on you, but they should be really comfortable clothes for tripping."
I was doing my best here to make him feel more at ease and make myself feel less guilty. Just to put things into perspective, I'm 6'4", weigh 240lb, and at this time had a 38" waist. Mario is about 6', weighs all of 160lb dripping wet, and probably has a 32" waist. There is no way my clothes would fit, but I knew between the three of us, we could safety pin him or something. I gathered up a pair of shorts with an elastic waist, an anti-Bush T-shirt, I figured he needed something positive, and a pair of boxers and passed them through the door to him. He suggested I get some plastic grocery sacks and I took his advice. He passed me back the bath mat and his excrement covered clothing inside the Kroger bags.
There's nothing quite like having to help your friend change out of his clothes, do a load of laundry, and clean a bath mat covered in shit and vomit while on a head full of hallucinogens. It was a very humbling experience and not an easy one to explain to the neighbors. At this point however, they had learned to stop questioning my odd behavior and the sounds that came from my apartment. They probably thought there was some kind of S&M scat play that had gotten out of control and I was washing off the evidence with the hose outside.
Mario got out of the shower, into clean clothes, and enjoyed the rest of the evening. I don't think he'll ever trust my dose suggestions concerning any drug ever again. We are friends to this day.
After taking up to 90mg orally in a single day, 30mg doses repeated every 6 hours, I decided to take it to the next level. A few years prior Josh Robbins had overdosed on a similar compound 2C-T-7. He had insufflated a rather large dose. You see, unlike 2C-I, Josh snorted a drug which, in and of itself, has MAOI properties. Autopsy reports indicated levels of ephedrine and MDMA in combination with the 2C-T-7 as a result of his death. Well, after doing research and learning that 2C-I had no MAOI like properties, I decided I would insufflate my usual 30mg dose. For me this was not a problem. It burned. I have snorted methamphetamine, MDMA, MDA, and probably my own weight in cocaine, but nothing has ever burned like this. Instantly I wanted to vomit, but I fought the urge, drank some Tang (the best drink on the planet), and I felt much better. The onset was extremely sharp, and as with other phenethylamines, the dose response curve is much steeper when you insufflate the drug as opposed to ingesting it. The feeling was so unnerving that I wanted to peel out of my skin. This is a common occurrence for me when I take large doses of psychedelics and I usually have to shower to feel better. I took a long shower, pulled myself together, and felt like a new man. I enjoyed the rest of day laughing at various things, walking around midtown, and working on my motorcycle.
The next weekend I told a co-worker, Mario, of my experience with 2C-I and being quite the psychonaut himself, wanted to try it. He asked me how he should do it.
"J, you said 30mg is a heavy dose, should I snort it or just swallow it?"
I hadn't really thought out my response very well, and after having just snorted 30mg myself, I guess the sadistic part of my personality wanted to share with him the pain I felt coursing through my sinus cavities.
"No man, don't swallow it. The bio-availability is much higher if you snort it. It burns for a few minutes and tastes like cat piss smells, but that's the worst of it."
This was not the best advice I could have given him. This was probably the closest thing to bad advice. Looking back on it, I couldn't believe I told someone to insufflate 30mg of 2C-I for their first experience. My room mate, Floyd, didn't believe in putting anything up his nose; he swallowed his cap. We were enjoying some old Merry Melody cartoons when I noticed Mario was completely silent. He was glaring at me. I had never seen this look on his face before. He was sweating profusely, fidgeting, and obviously very agitated.
"I think I'm going to throw up now." That was all he said.
"Don't fight it man, you'll feel better after you purge. Think of it like mescaline. You can go outside or feel free to use the bathroom. Try throwing some cold water on your face. You're body temperature is probably just elevating rapidly from all the excess serotonin."
Throwing up is something that has never really bothered me. I go with what my body tells me. If I feel nauseated, I throw up, it's mildly unpleasant while it happens, and then I feel better. This is not the case for everyone. I'm not saying I enjoy vomiting. It certainly isn't one of my favorite pastimes, but I generally feel better after a good purge. Mario is one such person who certainly did not like to vomit. He went to the bathroom and my roomie and I forgot how long he had been in there. We could hear water running, the toilet flush a few times, and then nothing. Floyd says, "Maybe you should check on Mario, he's been in there forever."
I went and knocked on the bathroom door. "Yo, Mario, you okay man?"
"FUCK YOU! Why did you tell me to do that? Why did you tell me to snort it? God damn you!"
I felt a little bad, but I couldn't help but giggle. I was tripping balls. You'd giggle too...
"Yea man, but I mean, are you okay? Can I get you something? A cold towel? Maybe you should take a shower, it usually helps me feel better when I trip really hard."
I was trying my best to be there for my friend. Mario was one of my favorite co-workers and to this day one of the most intelligent and kind people I know.
"Dude, I'm really embarrassed. I shit myself. I was throwing up into the toilet and then at the same time, I shit myself."
Okay, I'll be honest. I'm a good friend, but I giggled again. I made sure he couldn't hear me this time. I had to ask.
"Seriously man? Like, you shit yourself? How bad is it?"
"It's bad," he replied. "Real bad."
Mario just kept repeating himself, "Why did you tell me it was okay to snort that much? God, why did I listen to you? I've never felt so bad in my life. I can't get that taste out of my nose and now I'm covered in shit! Why did you tell me to do that? WHY DID YOU TELL ME TO DO THAT?"
"It's okay man, I'll go get you a change of clothes. I've got some clean boxers, shorts, and a t-shirt you can wear. They'll be a little big on you, but they should be really comfortable clothes for tripping."
I was doing my best here to make him feel more at ease and make myself feel less guilty. Just to put things into perspective, I'm 6'4", weigh 240lb, and at this time had a 38" waist. Mario is about 6', weighs all of 160lb dripping wet, and probably has a 32" waist. There is no way my clothes would fit, but I knew between the three of us, we could safety pin him or something. I gathered up a pair of shorts with an elastic waist, an anti-Bush T-shirt, I figured he needed something positive, and a pair of boxers and passed them through the door to him. He suggested I get some plastic grocery sacks and I took his advice. He passed me back the bath mat and his excrement covered clothing inside the Kroger bags.
There's nothing quite like having to help your friend change out of his clothes, do a load of laundry, and clean a bath mat covered in shit and vomit while on a head full of hallucinogens. It was a very humbling experience and not an easy one to explain to the neighbors. At this point however, they had learned to stop questioning my odd behavior and the sounds that came from my apartment. They probably thought there was some kind of S&M scat play that had gotten out of control and I was washing off the evidence with the hose outside.
Mario got out of the shower, into clean clothes, and enjoyed the rest of the evening. I don't think he'll ever trust my dose suggestions concerning any drug ever again. We are friends to this day.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Lawyers, Guns, and Cocaine
Warren Zevon was right. Lawyers, guns, and money can get you out of nearly any predicament. If you find that they can't, you're fucked. I have always said that there are three groups of people to whom you never lie under any circumstances: your parents, your doctors, and your lawyers. If you find yourself lying to a member of a person in any of those groups, you're fucked, but you can only blow coke with a member of one of those groups, unless Tony Curtis is your father. This is the night I met my lawyer.
I had just completed a stressful day of doing my supervisor's job of pulling and analyzing mind-numbing statistics for a call center. The only fun part of this was that I, through the use of a little charm and politics, swayed her as to who was "unpromotable". I still find it funny that an rapid-cycling-circus-act of an amphetamine junkie like myself was able to continually have the highest statistics and win the highest award the company gave out. Oh hospitality industry, I fucked you like a Bangkok whore. Anyway, I called up Jack and told him I was in dire need of some pain killers, a few xanax bars, a fifth of gin, 2 liters of tonic water, a few limes, 10 hits of ecstasy and Martina, who I would fuck senselessly. All of these things would help alleviate the negative effects of amphetamine and remove the lack of REM hallucinations which were beginning to set in. Being the sot that I was at the time, I had about half a fifth of gin and a little Sprite on hand so they would do until his untimely arrival. Martina staggered her way through the door with some vodka and Poma, something I detest to this day. "Close enough," I thought. These will have to do until Jack arrives. I proceeded to try to erase all memory of the day I had at work at the toll the amphetamines had had on my patience after being awake for 96 continuous hours.
Jack shows up at my house with Black. For those of you who aren't in the know and are too scared to venture outside of suburbia, "Black" is like "John" of the hood. I never knew Black's real name, I didn't want to know. Jack knew him and that was close enough for me. The two walk into my apartment with a duffel bag. Jack had not followed instructions and inside were not the contents for which I had asked. Jack needed to store a few things in my house. Being the good friends that we were I told him that this wouldn't be a problem, but of course I would get to sample whatever this stash might be. They proceeded to remove the contents one at a time. First they removed an ounce of cocaine which looked like a bar of soap, then two shoe boxes full of marijuana, each one weighing a pound, and finally two pints of hydrocodone syrup. Black always refused to call them pints, no matter how many times he heard me say the word. He always insisted on calling them "paints" and no matter the color of the syrup, it was always referred to as "that purple". Given that "that purple" cost $30 a fucking ounce, and the bottles were sealed, I wasn't about to pay that kind of money. Instead Black thanked me for the use of my house to do his deal, handed me a baggy with 6 hits of ecstasy, and left. Jack informed me that in no way could I use the syrup because he had gotten that on credit and he would have to charge me for it, I understood. Off of his ounce of cocaine he shaved off about 2 grams and told me I was welcome to have it. I hate cocaine. It is merely the molecular structure for a pattern of psychological addiction which does not lead to intelligent or creative thought. It is a foul substance, but given that I didn't have anything else to do with my time, I figured, why not?
After doing a few rails I remembered how much I detested this foul powder and called up my room mate's friend and a good lawyer, Big Rod. Big Rod is one hell of a guy and had half a script of Percodan left over from having his wisdom teeth removed. I told him that if he brought me the Percodan he could shove his face in all the blow he wanted. What Jack thought to be about two grams, when broken down, was enough to cover a dinner plate. I knew this would be a long night. Big Rod shows up and gives me about 50mg of oxycodone. I knew that the ten tablets were 5mg each, they had the 512 imprint code on them, I knew that well. I chewed them up, rinsed some gin around in my mouth, and swallowed the foul concoction. Being that there were now three of us, Martina, Big Rod, and I each snorted two hits of "ecstasy". I knew that these would not be MDMA, but rather some combination of MDMA, MDA, and meth, because Black had assured me he knew they were good because he couldn't sleep after taking them. (On a side note, a high enough dose of pure MDMA can induce sleep, and will not keep you awake; MDA, amphetamine, and meth all will.)
Big Rod began to tell us the stories of law school and he would not shut up. Martina and I were fucked up and enjoyed his stories and spent most of our time making our own coloring books. They were as fucked up as what you might see on coloringbookland.com but maybe a little more innocent and definitely more creative. The combination of the "ecstasy" and pain killers was nice, but all the alcohol had made me a little sloppy. I decided to do more cocaine. For those of you who aren't aware, alcohol increases the levels of cocaine metabolite in your blood stream by 30% and taking opiates with cocaine has killed many a rock star and is usually referred to as "speed-balling". Apparently the amount of cocaine I had done was a bit much and I was becoming a little paranoid. I knew the cops were going to kick in the door at any moment arrest me for having Jack's stash and I would be there totally defenceless. I couldn't have that, no sir. I went into my room, dropped my high capacity clip into my .45 auto, tucked it into my waist band, loaded my twelve gauge and stuck it behind the door to my bed room. I did this without Martina noticing, Big Rod was a little more, how we say "aware".
Big Rod insisted he and I go out on the porch for a smoke.
"Bro, why all the heavy weaponry? What's going on? Are you okay man? I think the shit's starting to get to you."
"No, no. They're out there. They're on the other aide of that fence and they're waiting for just the right moment to kick the door in and arrest us all, but I'm not going down without a fight. I've got 13 rounds in this clip and I'm a dead good shot."
Big Rod pulled out 4mg of Xanax.
"I was saving these for later, but I'll trade them to you for the rest of your cocaine, there's only about a quarter of a gram left. Also, if the cops do break the door in, I'm a lawyer, you'll be fine."
After the Xanax removed the effects of the cocaine I certainly felt fine. Big Rod finished the cocaine, talked for a few more hours, and passed out on the couch. I proceeded to fuck Martina several times, I still don't know how her boyfriend didn't hear us.
I had just completed a stressful day of doing my supervisor's job of pulling and analyzing mind-numbing statistics for a call center. The only fun part of this was that I, through the use of a little charm and politics, swayed her as to who was "unpromotable". I still find it funny that an rapid-cycling-circus-act of an amphetamine junkie like myself was able to continually have the highest statistics and win the highest award the company gave out. Oh hospitality industry, I fucked you like a Bangkok whore. Anyway, I called up Jack and told him I was in dire need of some pain killers, a few xanax bars, a fifth of gin, 2 liters of tonic water, a few limes, 10 hits of ecstasy and Martina, who I would fuck senselessly. All of these things would help alleviate the negative effects of amphetamine and remove the lack of REM hallucinations which were beginning to set in. Being the sot that I was at the time, I had about half a fifth of gin and a little Sprite on hand so they would do until his untimely arrival. Martina staggered her way through the door with some vodka and Poma, something I detest to this day. "Close enough," I thought. These will have to do until Jack arrives. I proceeded to try to erase all memory of the day I had at work at the toll the amphetamines had had on my patience after being awake for 96 continuous hours.
Jack shows up at my house with Black. For those of you who aren't in the know and are too scared to venture outside of suburbia, "Black" is like "John" of the hood. I never knew Black's real name, I didn't want to know. Jack knew him and that was close enough for me. The two walk into my apartment with a duffel bag. Jack had not followed instructions and inside were not the contents for which I had asked. Jack needed to store a few things in my house. Being the good friends that we were I told him that this wouldn't be a problem, but of course I would get to sample whatever this stash might be. They proceeded to remove the contents one at a time. First they removed an ounce of cocaine which looked like a bar of soap, then two shoe boxes full of marijuana, each one weighing a pound, and finally two pints of hydrocodone syrup. Black always refused to call them pints, no matter how many times he heard me say the word. He always insisted on calling them "paints" and no matter the color of the syrup, it was always referred to as "that purple". Given that "that purple" cost $30 a fucking ounce, and the bottles were sealed, I wasn't about to pay that kind of money. Instead Black thanked me for the use of my house to do his deal, handed me a baggy with 6 hits of ecstasy, and left. Jack informed me that in no way could I use the syrup because he had gotten that on credit and he would have to charge me for it, I understood. Off of his ounce of cocaine he shaved off about 2 grams and told me I was welcome to have it. I hate cocaine. It is merely the molecular structure for a pattern of psychological addiction which does not lead to intelligent or creative thought. It is a foul substance, but given that I didn't have anything else to do with my time, I figured, why not?
After doing a few rails I remembered how much I detested this foul powder and called up my room mate's friend and a good lawyer, Big Rod. Big Rod is one hell of a guy and had half a script of Percodan left over from having his wisdom teeth removed. I told him that if he brought me the Percodan he could shove his face in all the blow he wanted. What Jack thought to be about two grams, when broken down, was enough to cover a dinner plate. I knew this would be a long night. Big Rod shows up and gives me about 50mg of oxycodone. I knew that the ten tablets were 5mg each, they had the 512 imprint code on them, I knew that well. I chewed them up, rinsed some gin around in my mouth, and swallowed the foul concoction. Being that there were now three of us, Martina, Big Rod, and I each snorted two hits of "ecstasy". I knew that these would not be MDMA, but rather some combination of MDMA, MDA, and meth, because Black had assured me he knew they were good because he couldn't sleep after taking them. (On a side note, a high enough dose of pure MDMA can induce sleep, and will not keep you awake; MDA, amphetamine, and meth all will.)
Big Rod began to tell us the stories of law school and he would not shut up. Martina and I were fucked up and enjoyed his stories and spent most of our time making our own coloring books. They were as fucked up as what you might see on coloringbookland.com but maybe a little more innocent and definitely more creative. The combination of the "ecstasy" and pain killers was nice, but all the alcohol had made me a little sloppy. I decided to do more cocaine. For those of you who aren't aware, alcohol increases the levels of cocaine metabolite in your blood stream by 30% and taking opiates with cocaine has killed many a rock star and is usually referred to as "speed-balling". Apparently the amount of cocaine I had done was a bit much and I was becoming a little paranoid. I knew the cops were going to kick in the door at any moment arrest me for having Jack's stash and I would be there totally defenceless. I couldn't have that, no sir. I went into my room, dropped my high capacity clip into my .45 auto, tucked it into my waist band, loaded my twelve gauge and stuck it behind the door to my bed room. I did this without Martina noticing, Big Rod was a little more, how we say "aware".
Big Rod insisted he and I go out on the porch for a smoke.
"Bro, why all the heavy weaponry? What's going on? Are you okay man? I think the shit's starting to get to you."
"No, no. They're out there. They're on the other aide of that fence and they're waiting for just the right moment to kick the door in and arrest us all, but I'm not going down without a fight. I've got 13 rounds in this clip and I'm a dead good shot."
Big Rod pulled out 4mg of Xanax.
"I was saving these for later, but I'll trade them to you for the rest of your cocaine, there's only about a quarter of a gram left. Also, if the cops do break the door in, I'm a lawyer, you'll be fine."
After the Xanax removed the effects of the cocaine I certainly felt fine. Big Rod finished the cocaine, talked for a few more hours, and passed out on the couch. I proceeded to fuck Martina several times, I still don't know how her boyfriend didn't hear us.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
it was real
I woke up and the pain was exquisite. I tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but I couldn't move. My eyes were dry, my tongue felt like it would crack and bleed if I moved it around in my mouth, I was swollen all over, and my legs weren't responding. I had tubes coming out of both arms, and I had a catheter running out of my penis. It was rather uncomfortable. What I thought had been a dream was very much real. I hoped I would wake up back in the warm comfort of my apartment, away from all this. I wanted none of it to be real.
I was thirsty. It was the only thing I could think about. Apparently I was being monitored very closely because my stirring had alerted a nurse to the increase in my cardio activity. In walked a black nurse, very petite, in her late 30s or early 40s. She had a very kind face, and concerned eyes. She had not seen me prior to being in the hospital, but judging by her reaction, I didn't look good.
"Mr. Payne, do you know where you are?"
"I'm at Methodist Hospital, on the 4th floor in the intensive care unit. I almost died from hypothermia and I have kidney failure. Ma'am I'm very thirsty. I'm sorry, you know my name, but I didn't catch yours?"
"Marla, my name is Marla and I'll be your nurse for the weekend."
"Marla, I'm so thirsty. Is there anyway you could get me some water, please? My eyes and mouth feel so dry." Here I did my best to sound pathetic, like a whimpering puppy. I was hoping to appeal to any part of her that was human.
"I'm sorry Mr. Payne, the doctor has you on fluid restriction because of your kidney failure. You're awfully swollen and your body is retaining a lot of fluid."
She reached down and lightly felt of my ankle. From where she had grabbed, I could see the imprints of her fingers. My leg was swollen to about twice its size. I jerked, rather, from my solar plex up seemed to convulse. It felt as if someone had stabbed me in my foot and in my hip with electrically charged daggers. I groaned.
"I'm sorry did I hurt you? Are you ok? On a scale of 10, rate your pain level."
"No, no, it wasn't you. I've been getting these electrical shock feelings in my leg. They run from my toe up to my hip. It's one of the most painful things I've ever experienced, but on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd say my pain is about an 8."
When I was first admitted, I had refused all pain medications due to an ongoing battle with opiate addiction. I had talked to the doctor that morning and had convinced her that even though I was recovering, it was cruel and unusual punishment to let me just lie there in such pain. Something about watching a 6'4", 260lb man have tears going down his face while failing to maintain a sense of pride as tubes ran all out of him must have struck a chord with the doctor. She had ordered 1mg of Dilaudid every 4 hours.
"I'll be right back," and she left the room and returned quickly. She removed a plastic syringe from her white scrub top, and screwed it into my IV.
"The doctor ordered an injection of hydromorphone 1mg. This will help with the pain. It may make you itchy, or feel like your hair is growing. They are common side effects and nothing to worry about. Also, this might burn a little, so I'm going to push it in slow."
She was one of the most kind people I had ever met. Instantly I felt relaxed, I could breathe easy. My eyes no longer burned, my body felt lighter, and my legs had stopped throbbing. This warm sensation started in my chest, crept its way up my spine, and did a little tap dance at the base of my skull. The pain was gone, along with the hopelessness of my situation. It woke something up inside of me. It was a feeling I hadn't felt for some months now. It was an unhealthy desire, very ominous. The act took all of 15 seconds and I had given up fighting a war that I had been winning for months. I knew I was back to square one.
I was thirsty. It was the only thing I could think about. Apparently I was being monitored very closely because my stirring had alerted a nurse to the increase in my cardio activity. In walked a black nurse, very petite, in her late 30s or early 40s. She had a very kind face, and concerned eyes. She had not seen me prior to being in the hospital, but judging by her reaction, I didn't look good.
"Mr. Payne, do you know where you are?"
"I'm at Methodist Hospital, on the 4th floor in the intensive care unit. I almost died from hypothermia and I have kidney failure. Ma'am I'm very thirsty. I'm sorry, you know my name, but I didn't catch yours?"
"Marla, my name is Marla and I'll be your nurse for the weekend."
"Marla, I'm so thirsty. Is there anyway you could get me some water, please? My eyes and mouth feel so dry." Here I did my best to sound pathetic, like a whimpering puppy. I was hoping to appeal to any part of her that was human.
"I'm sorry Mr. Payne, the doctor has you on fluid restriction because of your kidney failure. You're awfully swollen and your body is retaining a lot of fluid."
She reached down and lightly felt of my ankle. From where she had grabbed, I could see the imprints of her fingers. My leg was swollen to about twice its size. I jerked, rather, from my solar plex up seemed to convulse. It felt as if someone had stabbed me in my foot and in my hip with electrically charged daggers. I groaned.
"I'm sorry did I hurt you? Are you ok? On a scale of 10, rate your pain level."
"No, no, it wasn't you. I've been getting these electrical shock feelings in my leg. They run from my toe up to my hip. It's one of the most painful things I've ever experienced, but on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd say my pain is about an 8."
When I was first admitted, I had refused all pain medications due to an ongoing battle with opiate addiction. I had talked to the doctor that morning and had convinced her that even though I was recovering, it was cruel and unusual punishment to let me just lie there in such pain. Something about watching a 6'4", 260lb man have tears going down his face while failing to maintain a sense of pride as tubes ran all out of him must have struck a chord with the doctor. She had ordered 1mg of Dilaudid every 4 hours.
"I'll be right back," and she left the room and returned quickly. She removed a plastic syringe from her white scrub top, and screwed it into my IV.
"The doctor ordered an injection of hydromorphone 1mg. This will help with the pain. It may make you itchy, or feel like your hair is growing. They are common side effects and nothing to worry about. Also, this might burn a little, so I'm going to push it in slow."
She was one of the most kind people I had ever met. Instantly I felt relaxed, I could breathe easy. My eyes no longer burned, my body felt lighter, and my legs had stopped throbbing. This warm sensation started in my chest, crept its way up my spine, and did a little tap dance at the base of my skull. The pain was gone, along with the hopelessness of my situation. It woke something up inside of me. It was a feeling I hadn't felt for some months now. It was an unhealthy desire, very ominous. The act took all of 15 seconds and I had given up fighting a war that I had been winning for months. I knew I was back to square one.
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