Hero In Addict (Chapter-Hell)
When I was leaving the methadone clinic one day, a good looking guy I met outside, offered to give me a ride home in his ice cream truck. Yep, you read that right. I accepted the ride because what could go wrong with having a strange man I met at a methadone clinic give me a ride home in his ice cream truck? If he murdered me, at this point it would just be a mercy kill, and I may have been grateful.
He didn't murder me though, and Aaron and I had a great talk on the windy ride home, considering the ice cream truck had no doors. Aaron was a man's man, but also sweet and loving. The ice cream truck was an indicator of how he made his living. He salvaged vehicles for a living, and did fairly well with it, but almost all of his income went to supplying us with enough drugs to satisfy our addicted bodies. We ended up living together, and Aaron started funding my dope habit as well. If you saw us walking down the street together, you'd probably think we were a cute couple having a nice little day antiquing, instead of on our way back from Park Heights to score dope.
Things started to really go off the rails these last few years of using. We would drive to the methadone clinic, drink the pale pink liquid being administered, and then go to a diner for breakfast. I would, without fail, have a steaming hot cup of flavored raspberry tea, and a bowl of oatmeal with milk, raisins, and brown sugar.
After that, we would drive to Baltimore to pick up heroin, and after that we would shoot the drugs intravenously into whatever veins weren't too badly destroyed.
The dichotomy of my two vastly different worlds would soon make it too difficult to prevent from colliding. My world became one and intertwined, once the darkness overshadowed my existence, nothing was safe. I couldn't even hide from the hopelessness in my dreams, despite my best efforts.
Aaron was a good guy, and I really liked him, but at that point, it was just nice to have a companion while killing myself. I relied on him less for companionship though, and more to be a chaperone while I killed myself much more effectively now that I had his help. I'm at a point where if I was simply buried in hopelessness, it would be a welcome retreat from the deep and bottomless, neverending pit of despair in which my mind and body are now relegated to rot inside.
Please God, just fucking kill me. Fucking, PLEASE GOD, just kill me!
I have been to Hell, and it is everything you've ever heard about it, and everything you haven't. It is your thoughts brutally gang raping your mind for every agonizing moment of your consciousness. It is all of your worst nightmares coming to life, while all your dreams die. It's praying to Satan to grant you the serenity of an eternity in the fiery, endless depths of Hell, because praying to God to kill me hasn't worked for years. It's a life where my last prayer to God was to deliver me from this daily servitude to my affliction, by granting me my wish of a permanently debilitating and painful car accident, so I no longer have to wonder where my next drugs are coming from. It's knowing that God doesn't exist because he doesn't permanently disable me, which is a far better fate, than being a slave to this affliction. This addiction, whose ravenous appetite I can no longer bare to sustain. It's not being able to kill myself because I've been practicing for so long that my body knows how to be dead more than it has ever known how to live. It's lowering my negotiations to whatever God or Gods might be listening, from killing me, to simply disabling me enough to require pain medication for the rest of my life. It's crying on the way home after being resurrected from death after overdosing. It's immediately shooting another shot of heroin into my vein on my second breath after being brought back to life from overdosing, and then crying when it doesn't kill me again. It's my first feeling on my first breath after being brought back to life, being devastation in opening my eyes again because the monsters that claw at my eyelids, inside my brain, finally stopped digging their talons inside what's left of my mind, before they painstakingly started again upon new breath. It's being fully unconscious six months out of the year, and the other six wishing I had enough drugs to render me unconscious for those six too. It's a place where the darkest darkness is illuminated upon comparison. It's the place where my addiction forces me to live while I'm dead inside my body, a mere dummy now to the narcotic fueled sinister ventriloquist that controls my every move.
I have begun now to take whatever measures necessary to escape the demons that live inside the death that is my life. If I can't kill myself, which I can't because I've tried with as many poisons in as vast a quantity that exist, I will render myself unconscious in a coma for as long as my body will allow. A "soma coma", to be exact. Soma are as close to quualudes that exist in circulation present day. They literally put me in near full respiratory failure as much as my body will allow, and as much as humanly and even inhumanely possible for as much as my body can tolerate, without actually killing me. Seven in one fail swoop, in combination with my now unfathomably staggering copious daily consumption, render me simply paralyzed and unable to speak or move, but awake still. Eight render me completely unconscious for five gloriously dead hours at a time till I have to do it all over again. Nine or more, I've found after much trial and error, including up to an entire bottle, simply only accomplish the same job that eight do. But then I'm just out all the rest of the pills necessary to render me unconscious the rest of every month. So, every five and a half hours, I wake up and repeat this regimen until my bottle is completely gone. Every half hour in between, I crawl to the kitchen because my body is still so paralyzed I can't move my legs, and I force myself to eat something. If I don't do this every other time I wake up, I end up completely paralyzed to the point that my arms won't work enough to perform the necessary action of twisting the cap off my pill bottle to take another 8 pills and render me unconscious again all over again. I've made this mistake before, and found myself merely paralyzed on the floor, unable to move, and trapped inside my treasonous mind and thoughts. Never again, now. Aside from the time in which I have to be conscious in order to drink the swill tasting liquid methadone in the morning, and the hour in late afternoon where I need to be semi conscious enough to hit myself with the poison filled savior of a syringe, I am now unconscious almost exclusively. Any actions or events that occur from here on out between twenty two till twenty four, while for all intents and purposes I am now this specialized form of dead, they need to be understood to occur in between when I no longer have soma to render me completely unconscious.
Satan, please, PLEASE, just fucking kill me!