Free Junkie Love by Phil Shoenfelt Page B

forgot all about my worries of the night before.
    • • •
     
    I began to dole out progressively smaller amounts of gear to Cissy each morning, until after a week her habit had stabilised, and less than a quarter-gramme a day would keep her straight. I managed to resist the temptation to take another shot myself;but after about ten days, while Cissy was out visiting a friend one afternoon, I chopped out a little line and sniffed it. I told myself that this was a much safer form of ingestion, and that anyway, ten days between doses of the drug was long enough for it to pass through my system — there would be no danger of my developing even a small habit from this. But I missed the rush, and thirty minutes later I found myself tying-off and locating the same vein in my left arm. Again, the shot nearly floored me, and the rush was so powerful this time that I had to run to the bathroom and throw up.
    To someone who has never indulged, it must seem a mystery how anybody could possibly enjoy taking a drug that has this effect on the body (not to mention other potential dangers, such as overdose, hepatitis, HIV , and a whole host of minor infections, abscesses and possible damage to various bodily organs that go with the territory). All I can say is that the feeling is akin to being poised on top of a very high roller-coaster, staring down into the precipice and experiencing a mingled sensation of terror and excitement as the car accelerates and you feel your stomach fly up into your mouth — the main difference here being that seconds later you are in paradise. It’s a feeling for nihilists and hedonists — for people who have either given up trying to make sense of existence, and want a quick and easy way out, or for people who don’t give a shit about a future they can’t see or believe in, and want only the most intense and immediate rush that life can offer.
    Of course, in the beginning, you might just slide into it. Maybe someone offers you a chase at a party and you quite like the buzz you get off it; maybe you indulge a few times at a friend’s house, and it’s nothing particularly earth-shattering or special to you. But for those who have a genetic predisposition to smack (and the problem is, you don’t know whether you have or not until you’ve tried it), such casual indulgence rapidly becomes an impossibility. Very quickly the drug takes over allareas and aspects of existence, until nothing else really matters except the rush, the warmth, and the freedom from anxiety that only heroin can bestow upon its legion of devotees.
    I must have nodded out for a couple of hours, because suddenly Cissy was in the room, and she was not pleased.
    “I knew this would happen, I just knew it! What, have you been using every day since you scored, or is this the first time? I thought you were supposed to be helping me, or was that just an excuse you were looking for? Jesus, now I’ve got this on my head as well — you gettin’ back into gear — that’s all I fuckin’ need … shit!”
    I didn’t even bother trying to lie, or make excuses. The evidence was right there before me on the table: spoon, syringe, cotton, matches and gear, and although I knew I should feel humbled and apologetic, I felt myself getting angry instead.
    “Look, it’s only one time, for Christ’s sake! I’m not gonna get back into it on a regular basis, am I? That’d be really stupid … an’ anyway, you’re not exactly in a position to be preaching.”
    “Yeah, but you’re supposed to be helping me, you’re supposed to be being strong. How am I gonna stop if I see that you’re using all the time as well?”
    I knew she was right, but at the same time I felt arrogant and without remorse — just angry at myself for getting caught.
    “So, I fucked up, I admit it — I’m guilty as charged, if that makes you feel any better. Look, it’s only twice, I’m not gonna get back into using every day, honest.” As soon as the words were