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.

Resentment

Fifteen days ago, I fell from grace.

I walked out of my home to see a family member at a show, and ended up shooting up, not once, but twice. I was pissed at myself for that. I could only think of all the things I had lost by making that mistake. My memory was blotchy. I couldn't remember things normally, and I had a few flash memories of said male family member on top of me.

But that couldn't happen, right?

If it did, it's the first time heroin took my conscious mind with it.

Or maybe it was something more than the herion. Maybe my own mind thought that the memory was too painful to keep, and forced me to forget. Fuck'd if I know.

It can't be heroin.

My mind went blank on the Sky Ride at the fair. I was a little afraid of it, and when the car rocked back and fourth violently as it was lurched forward to the steep, eighty-five foot cable, I clamped my eyes shut and started murmuring that everything would be okay. It wasn't going to fall. The last thing I remember is my friend James taking  my hand and telling me it would be fine. I peeked at him, just for a split second, and saw his sincere smile, and then shut my eyes again. The next thing I remember was the gondola docking at the same station we had taken off from. My mind had kept me from remembering a twenty minute ride? What the hell did I do Friday?!

After the ride, James led me to a park bench, and we sat down while I took in the reality that we had not fallen from the high cable, and we were still alive. He hugged me, he kissed my cheek. I accepted his affection, and suggested we go on the Giant Wheel -- a Ferris Wheel that was twenty feet taller than the sky ride that I had just been on.

I have no memory of the ride on the Giant Wheel.

James told me we were the last to get on, and someone had gotten tangled in a gondola they were leaving, and we were stranded at the tip of the wheel for at least forty-five minutes.

No memory of that. No memory of panicking. James insisted that I did not panic, or even see distressed after he took my hand on the Sky Ride.

I want so badly to ask if I screwed him on either ride, but, believe it or not, I am embarrassed. I'm also angry. I'm angry at my husband for jumping into the gondola two spaces a head of us, and for only buying a one-way token. I couldn't walk the midway, so to get back to our families after the Giant Wheel ride, we had to take the Sky Ride again. Or so I was told. I blinked walking away from the Giant Wheel, and opened my eyes to find myself in the car, on the way home.

Fifteen days ago, I fell from grace.

I walked out of my home to see a family member at a show, and ended up shooting up, not once, but twice. I was pissed at myself for that. I could only think of all the things I had lost by making that mistake. My memory was blotchy. I couldn't remember things normally, and I had a few flash memories of said male family member on top of me.

But that couldn't happen, right?

If it did, it's the first time heroin took my conscious mind with it.

Or maybe it was something more than the herion. Maybe my own mind thought that the memory was too painful to keep, and forced me to forget. Fuck'd if I know.

It can't be heroin.

My mind went blank on the Sky Ride at the fair. I was a little afraid of it, and when the car rocked back and fourth violently as it was lurched forward to the steep, eighty-five foot cable, I clamped my eyes shut and started murmuring that everything would be okay. It wasn't going to fall. The last thing I remember is my friend James taking  my hand and telling me it would be fine. I peeked at him, just for a split second, and saw his sincere smile, and then shut my eyes again. The next thing I remember was the gondola docking at the same station we had taken off from. My mind had kept me from remembering a twenty minute ride? What the hell did I do Friday?!

After the ride, James led me to a park bench, and we sat down while I took in the reality that we had not fallen from the high cable, and we were still alive. He hugged me, he kissed my cheek. I accepted his affection, and suggested we go on the Giant Wheel -- a Ferris Wheel that was twenty feet taller than the sky ride that I had just been on.

I have no memory of the ride on the Giant Wheel.

James told me we were the last to get on, and someone had gotten tangled in a gondola they were leaving, and we were stranded at the tip of the wheel for at least forty-five minutes.

No memory of that. No memory of panicking. James insisted that I did not panic, or even see distressed after he took my hand on the Sky Ride.

I want so badly to ask if I screwed him on either ride, but, believe it or not, I am embarrassed. I'm also angry. I'm angry at my husband for jumping into the gondola two spaces a head of us, and for only buying a one-way token. I couldn't walk the midway, so to get back to our families after the Giant Wheel ride, we had to take the Sky Ride again. Or so I was told. I blinked walking away from the Giant Wheel, and opened my eyes to find myself in the car, on the way home.