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Thursday, April 3, 2014

I Don't Really Wanna Be The Queen

Relapse is a scary thing. You take drugs, you think that you are in control, but you are not. You go to the familiar places, see the same old faces, you shake, you shiver, you're cold, you're hot, your nose runs, your breath is short. You spend money that could be better spent on something else. Relapse does this to a person. Relapse does a lot of things to a person, least of all throws them off the straight and narrow path.

The sores come back a few days after you start using again. Sores that you had healed up. They start out as itchy blisters, but you pop them when you scratch them. They itch so badly. They don't bleed when they are popped, they ooze a clear pus-like liquid. Plasma. Your body is so desperately trying to fight off the infection, the injury. But it's a losing battle.

You keep at it. You hurt yourself. Not just physically. You are mentally hurting. That's why you tie off your arm, and the arm of your companion. That's why you share a needle. That's why you mix up the morphine and inject it without a second thought. That's why you're in the mess that you're in. Emotion sickness. You self medicate because you're too embarrassed to get help. You want it now, not in six to eight weeks when your anti-depressant kicks in. Alcohol and drugs give you that calming medicated feeling. They chase away your emotions. You feel nothing and nothing feels like nirvana compared to where you were before.

I relapsed. I did morphine earlier this afternoon with my husband's guitarist. I provided the morphine, I was the one who administered it. I am ashamed and saddened that I did this. I am tired from the morphine. I am sleepy. I want to just lay down and not wake up. I am forgetful. I took three insulin shots tonight because I couldn't remember which bottle of insulin I had just taken. I want to be clean.

I crave to be clean. I wanted to give that to Dennis for his birthday next week, but I failed. I have no one to blame but myself. I wanted to get high. I was hurting, emotionally. I felt like Dennis did not love me. I felt like I failed my children, as if they would be better off with another mother. After shooting up, I knew all of that was true. I know if I don't give up drugs, Dennis will leave me. I can't make it without him. I can't make it on my own. I cannot drive. I cannot find the courage to put down the needles, the pills.

To make a sad story sadder, I took three pills just a few minutes ago. I cannot help myself. My doctor wasn't kidding when he said that I needed help. I just can't do it. Is there a drug to cure drug addictions? If so, where can I buy it? I don't want to deal with doctors, cops, nurses. I want to help myself. I'm sure that if I can help myself, I will get better. But I need that push. That extra push to get clean.

Relapsing has made me feel worthless. I want to scream at myself. I want to punish myself. I did it because I am in a rut, and I paid dearly for it. I got sores on my hand, near where I shot up. They were blisters that itched and drove me crazy. I felt like I was jumping out of my skin. My arms felt like they were made out of rubber. Nothing felt right. I didn't get the wonderful high that I wanted. I felt like shit for an hour afterwards. My husband's guitarist didn't make a pass at me, but he let me lean against him as the morphine raced through our blood streams. Giving me access to clean needles was a mistake my doctor made. I feel that shooting up is something that I can do at leisure now. It's okay, it's safe now. There's no way I can get any blood-born pathogens if I use a clean needle every time.

It's not safe when I buy. There is always a chance that Byron will kick my ass again. He has beaten me up twice in our relationship of customer/dealer. There were times when  he demanded sex instead of money. He takes advantage of me. I let him. If I were a stronger person, I could walk away from this all. I could walk away from Byron when he's about to rape me, or demand that I suck his dick. I wouldn't need anything that he sells. I wouldn't come on to my husband's guitarist, his best friend, offer him sex while high. I wouldn't have pressured him into screwing me. I wouldn't have offered to suck his dick.

But these things happened.

I did them.

I did them all.

And because of that, I am an unfit mother. I am someone who doesn't deserve to have her children, her job, her husband. I want to associate with gutter trash? I should be in the gutter. It's just that simple.

I want to be a slut who will sleep with anyone who has a hit or two on them? I should become a prostitute and just screw men to get high and give me twenty bucks at a time for food and shelter. Live in motels. Never mind where I came from or who I am.

The reality of it all is that I am not this person. I do not deserve to live the life of an addict.

Yet here I sit with tears running down my cheeks, wondering what the hell happened to me. I was not like this when I was younger. I hate who I secretly have become. I have become the slut, the addict, in a rut with emotion sickness that is slowly killing me.

And I don't know what to do.
Relapse is a scary thing. You take drugs, you think that you are in control, but you are not. You go to the familiar places, see the same old faces, you shake, you shiver, you're cold, you're hot, your nose runs, your breath is short. You spend money that could be better spent on something else. Relapse does this to a person. Relapse does a lot of things to a person, least of all throws them off the straight and narrow path.

The sores come back a few days after you start using again. Sores that you had healed up. They start out as itchy blisters, but you pop them when you scratch them. They itch so badly. They don't bleed when they are popped, they ooze a clear pus-like liquid. Plasma. Your body is so desperately trying to fight off the infection, the injury. But it's a losing battle.

You keep at it. You hurt yourself. Not just physically. You are mentally hurting. That's why you tie off your arm, and the arm of your companion. That's why you share a needle. That's why you mix up the morphine and inject it without a second thought. That's why you're in the mess that you're in. Emotion sickness. You self medicate because you're too embarrassed to get help. You want it now, not in six to eight weeks when your anti-depressant kicks in. Alcohol and drugs give you that calming medicated feeling. They chase away your emotions. You feel nothing and nothing feels like nirvana compared to where you were before.

I relapsed. I did morphine earlier this afternoon with my husband's guitarist. I provided the morphine, I was the one who administered it. I am ashamed and saddened that I did this. I am tired from the morphine. I am sleepy. I want to just lay down and not wake up. I am forgetful. I took three insulin shots tonight because I couldn't remember which bottle of insulin I had just taken. I want to be clean.

I crave to be clean. I wanted to give that to Dennis for his birthday next week, but I failed. I have no one to blame but myself. I wanted to get high. I was hurting, emotionally. I felt like Dennis did not love me. I felt like I failed my children, as if they would be better off with another mother. After shooting up, I knew all of that was true. I know if I don't give up drugs, Dennis will leave me. I can't make it without him. I can't make it on my own. I cannot drive. I cannot find the courage to put down the needles, the pills.

To make a sad story sadder, I took three pills just a few minutes ago. I cannot help myself. My doctor wasn't kidding when he said that I needed help. I just can't do it. Is there a drug to cure drug addictions? If so, where can I buy it? I don't want to deal with doctors, cops, nurses. I want to help myself. I'm sure that if I can help myself, I will get better. But I need that push. That extra push to get clean.

Relapsing has made me feel worthless. I want to scream at myself. I want to punish myself. I did it because I am in a rut, and I paid dearly for it. I got sores on my hand, near where I shot up. They were blisters that itched and drove me crazy. I felt like I was jumping out of my skin. My arms felt like they were made out of rubber. Nothing felt right. I didn't get the wonderful high that I wanted. I felt like shit for an hour afterwards. My husband's guitarist didn't make a pass at me, but he let me lean against him as the morphine raced through our blood streams. Giving me access to clean needles was a mistake my doctor made. I feel that shooting up is something that I can do at leisure now. It's okay, it's safe now. There's no way I can get any blood-born pathogens if I use a clean needle every time.

It's not safe when I buy. There is always a chance that Byron will kick my ass again. He has beaten me up twice in our relationship of customer/dealer. There were times when  he demanded sex instead of money. He takes advantage of me. I let him. If I were a stronger person, I could walk away from this all. I could walk away from Byron when he's about to rape me, or demand that I suck his dick. I wouldn't need anything that he sells. I wouldn't come on to my husband's guitarist, his best friend, offer him sex while high. I wouldn't have pressured him into screwing me. I wouldn't have offered to suck his dick.

But these things happened.

I did them.

I did them all.

And because of that, I am an unfit mother. I am someone who doesn't deserve to have her children, her job, her husband. I want to associate with gutter trash? I should be in the gutter. It's just that simple.

I want to be a slut who will sleep with anyone who has a hit or two on them? I should become a prostitute and just screw men to get high and give me twenty bucks at a time for food and shelter. Live in motels. Never mind where I came from or who I am.

The reality of it all is that I am not this person. I do not deserve to live the life of an addict.

Yet here I sit with tears running down my cheeks, wondering what the hell happened to me. I was not like this when I was younger. I hate who I secretly have become. I have become the slut, the addict, in a rut with emotion sickness that is slowly killing me.

And I don't know what to do.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Never Getting Well

I screwed up a couple of times. The last one being last night. I really didn't need a fix, I just wanted to sleep. Sleep doesn't come easy for me. I lay awake at night by the hour with the perfumed candle burning brightly. The candle doesn't bother me, nor does the light from it keep me awake. I usually wake up from bad dreams.

Using, to me, is my way of life. There is no way I can get through this without some form of help. Being on insulin now doesn't help because there are hypos all around.

I felt pretty good when I wasn't using. I was happy. True happiness was a rarity.

I'm happy to say that Dennis didn't fall from grace with me. It was just me. Just my own little problems. Just my own little issues that seem to never be fixed.

Pray for me. I want to kick this. I want to get well. I don't want to be an addict forever. I don't want to struggle with this forever. I want to feel happy all the time, not depressed and vulnerable. Not afraid and weak.

Drugs scare me. Coming off drugs scares me even more. Withdrawal scares me. Maybe some day I won't be so afraid.
I screwed up a couple of times. The last one being last night. I really didn't need a fix, I just wanted to sleep. Sleep doesn't come easy for me. I lay awake at night by the hour with the perfumed candle burning brightly. The candle doesn't bother me, nor does the light from it keep me awake. I usually wake up from bad dreams.

Using, to me, is my way of life. There is no way I can get through this without some form of help. Being on insulin now doesn't help because there are hypos all around.

I felt pretty good when I wasn't using. I was happy. True happiness was a rarity.

I'm happy to say that Dennis didn't fall from grace with me. It was just me. Just my own little problems. Just my own little issues that seem to never be fixed.

Pray for me. I want to kick this. I want to get well. I don't want to be an addict forever. I don't want to struggle with this forever. I want to feel happy all the time, not depressed and vulnerable. Not afraid and weak.

Drugs scare me. Coming off drugs scares me even more. Withdrawal scares me. Maybe some day I won't be so afraid.

Thursday, February 27, 2014

Drug Free Month

Husband and I are trying our hardest to not fall off the bandwagon this coming month. It's big news because we both have been hitting the bottle and the narcotics hard. Me especially. They threw me in the hospital twice this month and that's something that I wish I had not done. My doctor says I need help (no shit!) but I just don't know where to seek it. I want to get well, I really do. This blog is about recovery and I need to recover as best as I can.

Drugs have made me the person I am. I won't lie about it. Because I have done them I have the family I have, the education I have, the children I have, and the life that I have had. They have also contributed to my health in a severely negative way. I have shelves of journals that tell the same tale. I have notebooks that I have written the same thing over and over again in. They all say the tale of recovery then failure. They go back to 1992.

Drugs don't define me.

I worked up the nerve to talk about my problem with my doctor, and he said I needed help but did not offer it.

Heroin has become my world and earlier this month I drug an innocent person into that world. I watched their eyes glaze over as I injected the poison into their blood stream. I did that. I introduced them to a world that has taken me for rides that only others can imagine. Rides that have recently ended in hospital ED's and rooms. I don't like being in the hospital. They ask too many questions, there are too many coppers wandering around, and I just don't like being away from my home life.

So I want to try to get clean next month. March will be a drug-free month if I can help it. I am going to try hard. My last day I used: February 17, 2014. I want to make it to St. Patrick's day without using. Then I can call myself a success. Wish me luck!
Husband and I are trying our hardest to not fall off the bandwagon this coming month. It's big news because we both have been hitting the bottle and the narcotics hard. Me especially. They threw me in the hospital twice this month and that's something that I wish I had not done. My doctor says I need help (no shit!) but I just don't know where to seek it. I want to get well, I really do. This blog is about recovery and I need to recover as best as I can.

Drugs have made me the person I am. I won't lie about it. Because I have done them I have the family I have, the education I have, the children I have, and the life that I have had. They have also contributed to my health in a severely negative way. I have shelves of journals that tell the same tale. I have notebooks that I have written the same thing over and over again in. They all say the tale of recovery then failure. They go back to 1992.

Drugs don't define me.

I worked up the nerve to talk about my problem with my doctor, and he said I needed help but did not offer it.

Heroin has become my world and earlier this month I drug an innocent person into that world. I watched their eyes glaze over as I injected the poison into their blood stream. I did that. I introduced them to a world that has taken me for rides that only others can imagine. Rides that have recently ended in hospital ED's and rooms. I don't like being in the hospital. They ask too many questions, there are too many coppers wandering around, and I just don't like being away from my home life.

So I want to try to get clean next month. March will be a drug-free month if I can help it. I am going to try hard. My last day I used: February 17, 2014. I want to make it to St. Patrick's day without using. Then I can call myself a success. Wish me luck!

Monday, January 20, 2014

Sick Day

It's abnormal for me to talk to anyone and get a decent response. So many people are pissed off at me for no reason other than I try to be nice to them. So fuck it. I'm not going to be nice to people who are not nice to me. Two can play at their game.

I've had some hydrocodone here at work. Ooooh, doing drugs on the clock! Bad! I really don't care. They can't prove it and I won't admit to it.

Last night I dreamed that I was out with my friend Josh. That we went to homecoming together. Homecoming consisted of people sitting in a movie theater-like room watching bad videos on a screen. Once we got there, Josh dumped me. I was alone in Indiana somewhere, the flatlands, but people kept telling me it was Indy for some reason. Josh thinks my dreams are cute. I don't know what to say other than it's not cute, I woke up with a head ache, wanting to go back to sleep, but knowing that I had to go into work today.

Maybe after work I'll try to get unsick. I hate being sick.
It's abnormal for me to talk to anyone and get a decent response. So many people are pissed off at me for no reason other than I try to be nice to them. So fuck it. I'm not going to be nice to people who are not nice to me. Two can play at their game.

I've had some hydrocodone here at work. Ooooh, doing drugs on the clock! Bad! I really don't care. They can't prove it and I won't admit to it.

Last night I dreamed that I was out with my friend Josh. That we went to homecoming together. Homecoming consisted of people sitting in a movie theater-like room watching bad videos on a screen. Once we got there, Josh dumped me. I was alone in Indiana somewhere, the flatlands, but people kept telling me it was Indy for some reason. Josh thinks my dreams are cute. I don't know what to say other than it's not cute, I woke up with a head ache, wanting to go back to sleep, but knowing that I had to go into work today.

Maybe after work I'll try to get unsick. I hate being sick.

Sunday, January 12, 2014

Addiction Rules Your Life

I want a new life. I want to be someone else. When I think of all of the things that I have done to myself over the years, I cry. Drugs, sex with random people, alcohol, fights, it all adds up, and it all subtracts from my lifespan. I've suddenly fallen in love with life, which I'm sure will be short lived, and I have stopped myself short of doing things that I know I'd regret.

I was hurting the other night and I went to see Byron, my drug dealer, for some morphine. He was really sympathetic. More so than a drug dealer should be. I took the morphine before I left the parking lot. Driving home semi-high was a mistake. Coming home in general, to a house with kids, was a mistake. Buying the morphine was a mistake. Taking the morphine was a mistake. I wanted pills to swallow, but all Byron had were injections. Cost me over one-twenty to get it.

Yesterday I had withdrawal all damned day. I needed a cigarette. I needed more morphine or heroin. Today I'm not so bad, but it's not going to last. I'm going to need a hit sooner rather than later.

Addiction rules your life. Once you get into it, being weak, you may never get out. I am one of those people who will never recover from this. I try and I try and I never seem to recover from drug addiction. I always will call Byron, until the police catch him, and then I will graduate onto another dealer. I never thought I would live like this. I never thought that I would live so long doing this. When I took that first hit, I thought I would just try it and then never touch it again. Or that I could do it whenever and I wouldn't need it. I never thought I would need it.

Days and weeks flew by and I was taking hits every day. I couldn't help myself and I couldn't get enough heroin. I took fentanyl legally, and then I overdosed on it once a month. I took pills. I took too many pills. When I had my daughter, I had access to oxy contin being in quarantine for MRSA the first time, I could have all the morphine and oxy I wanted.

I have friends. I have loved ones. Most of them don't know about my little habit, and the ones who do don't speak to me very often. I'm almost certain that they don't want to know me anymore, and I'm fine with that. I don't go out of my way to make friends with someone. They just naturally want to be friends with me, and I'm grateful for our time together, but if they want to break it off, that's ok too.

I'm going to bed now.
I want a new life. I want to be someone else. When I think of all of the things that I have done to myself over the years, I cry. Drugs, sex with random people, alcohol, fights, it all adds up, and it all subtracts from my lifespan. I've suddenly fallen in love with life, which I'm sure will be short lived, and I have stopped myself short of doing things that I know I'd regret.

I was hurting the other night and I went to see Byron, my drug dealer, for some morphine. He was really sympathetic. More so than a drug dealer should be. I took the morphine before I left the parking lot. Driving home semi-high was a mistake. Coming home in general, to a house with kids, was a mistake. Buying the morphine was a mistake. Taking the morphine was a mistake. I wanted pills to swallow, but all Byron had were injections. Cost me over one-twenty to get it.

Yesterday I had withdrawal all damned day. I needed a cigarette. I needed more morphine or heroin. Today I'm not so bad, but it's not going to last. I'm going to need a hit sooner rather than later.

Addiction rules your life. Once you get into it, being weak, you may never get out. I am one of those people who will never recover from this. I try and I try and I never seem to recover from drug addiction. I always will call Byron, until the police catch him, and then I will graduate onto another dealer. I never thought I would live like this. I never thought that I would live so long doing this. When I took that first hit, I thought I would just try it and then never touch it again. Or that I could do it whenever and I wouldn't need it. I never thought I would need it.

Days and weeks flew by and I was taking hits every day. I couldn't help myself and I couldn't get enough heroin. I took fentanyl legally, and then I overdosed on it once a month. I took pills. I took too many pills. When I had my daughter, I had access to oxy contin being in quarantine for MRSA the first time, I could have all the morphine and oxy I wanted.

I have friends. I have loved ones. Most of them don't know about my little habit, and the ones who do don't speak to me very often. I'm almost certain that they don't want to know me anymore, and I'm fine with that. I don't go out of my way to make friends with someone. They just naturally want to be friends with me, and I'm grateful for our time together, but if they want to break it off, that's ok too.

I'm going to bed now.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Out of Control

My drug use has caught up with me.

My doctor knows, and he was being all discreet about it until I needed him at my hearing today, and then he made his views public. He saw the needle marks, he knew that I had been visiting Byron, he knew that I had done meth. It's becoming out of control again. I never had infected needle marks on my arms, though. That part that he told was a lie.

Anyone know why Blogger is double posting my posts? It's really annoying.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Fallen Angel

An excerpt from comatised:

On Thursday I fell from grace. I'd like to say that there was too much pressure and that I just couldn't control myself, but that would be a lie. I consciously went out and did what I did and I hate myself for doing it. I hate that I took our money that was supposed to be for other things and bought that poison. I hate that I left my phone at home so that I couldn't be reached to be talked out of what I was doing. I worried Dennis and he nearly called the police. I knew if I heard his voice asking where I had gone, I would turn around and come home. I didn't want to come home. I didn't want to hear his voice. I just wanted the release of heroin and that's what I went after.

The new guy selling as a much more potent batch than Byron. Byron sold a cheaper, sleezier batch, but this guy sells a batch so strong that one sees fuzzy tan blankets over their eyes. It was hard to stumble to my car, but I was able to do so. The new guy also is far more afraid to sell to those who don't use. Use in front of him, or you can't buy from him. I'm secretly glad that I chose to use in front of him, rather than bring it home and have to hide it for a few hours until Dennis fell asleep and Zinnia stopped crying for the night.

The drive home was interesting. The tan blanket was gone by the time I reached the car. I was seeing sparks, waves in front of my eyes. Lights, puddles, the moon, they all reflected that light in front of my eyes. I wasn't light headed, but I was dizzy. The world was moving at a normal speed, so I felt I was safe to drive. I've driven home waaaay more tipsy than that before. In a way, I wasn't really high. I felt good, but I felt better than when I was high the last time.

The morning after, I hated myself. I made excuses for myself and then immediately hated myself some more. The morning after, there was no excuse for what I had done. Worried my family, lied, "borrowed" the car without anyone knowing. I want to say that I had fun, but I can't even convince myself that I did that. I am just weak. I cannot beat this, and I'm beginning to think that I never will. That I will always be like this, sneaky, sick and generally a weirdo, after one thing. Jimmy was right about me. I'll never change, and at the rate I am going, I will never have anyone close to me because of it.
An excerpt from comatised:

On Thursday I fell from grace. I'd like to say that there was too much pressure and that I just couldn't control myself, but that would be a lie. I consciously went out and did what I did and I hate myself for doing it. I hate that I took our money that was supposed to be for other things and bought that poison. I hate that I left my phone at home so that I couldn't be reached to be talked out of what I was doing. I worried Dennis and he nearly called the police. I knew if I heard his voice asking where I had gone, I would turn around and come home. I didn't want to come home. I didn't want to hear his voice. I just wanted the release of heroin and that's what I went after.

The new guy selling as a much more potent batch than Byron. Byron sold a cheaper, sleezier batch, but this guy sells a batch so strong that one sees fuzzy tan blankets over their eyes. It was hard to stumble to my car, but I was able to do so. The new guy also is far more afraid to sell to those who don't use. Use in front of him, or you can't buy from him. I'm secretly glad that I chose to use in front of him, rather than bring it home and have to hide it for a few hours until Dennis fell asleep and Zinnia stopped crying for the night.

The drive home was interesting. The tan blanket was gone by the time I reached the car. I was seeing sparks, waves in front of my eyes. Lights, puddles, the moon, they all reflected that light in front of my eyes. I wasn't light headed, but I was dizzy. The world was moving at a normal speed, so I felt I was safe to drive. I've driven home waaaay more tipsy than that before. In a way, I wasn't really high. I felt good, but I felt better than when I was high the last time.

The morning after, I hated myself. I made excuses for myself and then immediately hated myself some more. The morning after, there was no excuse for what I had done. Worried my family, lied, "borrowed" the car without anyone knowing. I want to say that I had fun, but I can't even convince myself that I did that. I am just weak. I cannot beat this, and I'm beginning to think that I never will. That I will always be like this, sneaky, sick and generally a weirdo, after one thing. Jimmy was right about me. I'll never change, and at the rate I am going, I will never have anyone close to me because of it.
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