Category : Books-Non-Fiction

Sub Category : Biography

     I became a young child that day.
           A vulnerable boy and a hopeless friend.
           It's as if your imaginary best friend, who came into this world solely for you, has left forever.
           I hope Heaven is true, for there she would be waiting. Waiting to hold me in her arms again, telling me everything's okay. I would be with her one last time. But this time, there would be no booze; no drugs; no addiction; no pain. My tragic life would be over, at last. 
           I'm an alcoholic, a drug addict, and a chronic relapser. I've unintentionally allowed my body to be infiltrated. Possessed by a demon. So, in my pathetic world, full of constant pain and sorrow, heroin runs the streets.
           With her gritty hooks, heroin has controlled me, like a malevolent master pulling the strings wired to his powerless puppet, allowing terrible things to occur.
           People often blame weed as being the culprit, gateway drug that opens one up into a new world of harder drugs. For me, weed could be the gate, but alcohol is what opened it. Heroin is what locked it behind me. A lengthy lock-up in an abhorrent world of addiction. Forever frozen in a state of absolute agony.
           One gun, one bullet, would bring the freedom I longingly seek. 
I knew I’d never forget that nightmare. Every one of my senses could recall what became the worst day of my life: The sight of a lifeless body, the feel of her frozen face, the saline taste of tears, the smell of death and sweat, and the strange silence that accompanied it all: the absence of all hope.           
           I had known it was heroin that took her last breath. There was nothing in her gaudy purse that exhibited she had taken too much of anything else. I could recall her drinking, while popping a pill or two—nothing different from what we had been accustomed to pulling-off every night. 
           Though, before that night she passed, I hadn’t seen her in two weeks. I had entertained the idea of maybe something had happened to her—good or bad—which I wasn’t aware of. I’d wanted her nowhere near the addiction I was knee-deep in.       
           Thus, for two weeks, I locked myself down in my frozen, flea-infested apartment. All the while, she kept to her secrets in the same complex, two-stories above, high up with the angels.  
           I had been all alone, until Bubba had moved in.    
           Bubba wasn’t just my roommate, he was moreover my drug dealer. In other words, I did nearly everything he wanted so I could have my fix. He’d supply me with dope—a.k.a. heroin or smack—for his share of rent money, while I was still one of his biggest customers. I would spend whatever money my parents had given me for food and emergencies on more dope. 
           We had a nightly routine that we would never miss: As I would come home from class at the Art Institute of Austin for audio engineering and production, he would come home from whatever it was he did—hustling, he said—then we would blast off into sweet serenity. He would always bring home a couple bars, a.k.a. Xanax, with a gram or two of crack, and most importantly, plenty of dope. 
           We would first ingest two Xanax each then proceed to smoke all the crack we had. The crack would usually last about an hour at most. It would be enough to almost, but not entirely, cancel out the Xanax that we’d taken, which took away any anxiety that the crack would induce. 
            I would be on top of the world, feeling just right until, the crack/cocaine feeling would wear off.
           When you run out of crack, or cocaine, a depression begins to set in, next to an awful sense of paranoia. The doors and windows were always locked and the blinds were always kept closed. Just in case the Feds outside tried to get in, with or without a warrant. 
           Of course, there was never anybody outside watching us. But cocaine—and other uppers—will make you so delusional that you will think the feds were outside in the trees and behind the bushes, watching your every move. Like the ‘Neighborhood Watch’ program families have, you become the ‘Watch the Neighborhood’ program.  Addicts go completely insane over this pulse-pounding paranoia.
           That’s what the Xanax was for, to keep us grounded. Like we were chained at the ankles to prevent us from flying away. So, when we finished all the crack we had—and yes, we would always finish it, there’s no such thing as leftover crack—we’d both inject The Devil’s Juice… a.k.a. heroin.
           Heroin was my favorite way of escaping reality. It was my drug of choice because… 
           1. There is no comedown from smack.
           2. It overpowers any other drug that you take. And…
           3. It is simply the best feeling one can ever experience.
           It’s not just the drug alone that people fall addicted to, though. It's the whole process and ritual of cooking the dope, and then shooting it.
           People who say they’re afraid of needles are far better off staying that way. But of course, I used to say the same thing.
           I fell in love with sticking myself. I loved it so much, I even loved sticking other people if they couldn’t do it, but only if they had done it before. I was, in no way, going to let another person be addicted to this shit. Even when I was dope sick, I’d still inject myself with warm water. I wasn’t just addicted to the smack, but the needle too.
           Scanning up, down and around the arm, looking for that thin bulge protruding up from the skin.
           Bingo.          
           And once you find that sweet spot, you hit it with the needle. Once you see the blood jolt up and register into the syringe…
          There she blows!           
           Slam it all home.
           Almost immediately, after the whole injection, you feel a ‘pins and needles’ reaction on the top of your head, streaming to the back of your neck. The euphoria is like no other thing you’ve experienced. The slight vinegar taste crawls up your throat and exhausts through your mouth. 
           This sweet, overwhelming sense of relief hits you and floods your veins like a warm blanket covering your previously cold body. You have not a care in the world now. It wraps you in its arms—better than any mother’s—and protects you from any and every negative thought you could have. In fact, there are no negative thoughts. You are filled with breathtaking bliss and heart-warming harmony. And that is just the rush.
           After the rush hits, you’re stuck in a friendly dream-like state known as “nodding-out.” I’ve heard many people describe it as the feeling you get when you wake up ten minutes before your alarm goes off, knowing you have that little extra time to sleep. I believe it is like that, but more gratifying because you’re high and there is no alarm to wake up to. So you have the pleasure of feeling this way for hours. And like I said before, there is no awful comedown. This is why it is so damn addicting.
           When the high wears off, you just want more; however, not in a cocaine or crack-fiending way. You just want to feel that awesome high again. So much, that you will want to do anything for it. Anything to feel that first high again, but you won’t. You will never feel as high as the first time. That’s why they call it “chasing the dragon.”’ Perpetually, chasing that first high. Then, if you don’t end up dead in a decrepit ditch, you’ll discover yourself in jail or rehab. Both, a hell of their own, now that the dragon chases you.
           A little ironic… don’t you think?