Bruises

I remember a time I relapsed. I am thinking about this instance after reading about bruises from relapse on another blog. I think she said her bruises from the relapse were yellowing...
My mind flashes back to a time that seems so long ago. And yet, it really was not that long, I guess. As time seems to just fly by as I get older and older...sometimes looking back it like it was all just a dream...with soft lines and fuzzy edges.
I am smacked...back in time. I am back at that tiny little apartment on some random road in that shitty little town in Virginia. It was a really cool little apartment. And it was the beginning of the end, wasn't it? Or was it the end of the end? I am not really sure, as yellow bruises take me back to the bowels of those darknesses. Yet, they are light with a halo.
That narrow little two story apartment on the back of an older, somewhat Colonial house. It was a cute little street, in a small town that was inundated with college kids in this area. The bedroom upstairs was nice, and big with its hardwood floors. And the tiny little bathroom, that was the only bathroom in the house. It had slanted ceilings, which made it seem lots smaller than it really was.
Blood splatters all over that bathroom. The floor, and its tiny little tiles, blue and grey...maybe a little bit of white that is faded to yellow. Blood droplets on the little blue tiles, big and bold. Red, bright red, as it falls so slowly, I watch it in my desperate madness. The taste of blood excites me. Warm and metallic...and bittersweet because it is flooded with dope. Blood splatters on the ceiling, a perfect spray, painting the ceiling like something by Ralph Steadman in its natural and organic squirt from the bent tip of the week old needle. Blood splatters from the door, as I was holed up in there, lately.
Cocaine is a bitch. When you shoot it, you just keep wanting to shoot more, and more, and more. Always in the fucking bathroom...veins punctured and perforated...hiding like thieves, stealing away from the constant invasion. But, I am obsessive. Hit the vein, pull back...and SHIT...I will fuck with that shot until the fucking blood inside coagulates, and then I can't get it to fucking move at all. Point the tip to the ceiling...cringing at the thought of wasted dope. I usually try to just squirt it in my mouth, but sometimes the coagulated blood, turning the color of deep rust as we are speaking, thickening and thickening, is just too tough. Sometimes...it becomes too dangerous to hold this clogged needle in my mouth...too much force is needed.

I wake up, days after the relapse began. Maybe months after the relapse began, and I think that was more accurate. Relapse, in those days, would begin slowly. Like I said, I think it was the end of the end. I could almost handle it then. At first, I would do pretty good...just using a little from time to time. I thought every time, this time I can do it. I believed I had finally figured out the secret formula. It worked, at first. It always works, at first. But, things are bound to escalate in this inevitable way of addiction.
Eventually, you come to...and something is a fucking mess. Then, the uphill battle begins again...and still months may creep by before you really get back into the arms of good grace. It is a slow and repetitive cycle, that I am thankful is finally broken.
I remember, waking up in the most comfortable bed I have ever owned, and my whole body was sore. The low, and slanted ceiling in here seemed to be caving in a little on my body in pain. I am in need...I am in desperate need. Need that is blinding, as I mechanically get out of bed, and go straight to the little bathroom. I am stepping over all kinds of shit, even though the bed is right next to the bathroom. Mechanical need, as I cook it up, and shoot up the last little bit I have for now. I am well...or shall I say, I am better.
Deep breath, as I look around. My stomach still battles a little with the need, but the rest of me has seemed to calm down. Getting quieter, and quieter, as the thoughts in my head seem to dull to a low, and slow lull. Hum, hum, humming. My tank top is still damp with beer, and my breath favors a little Jameson. I look down at my arms, still gripping the needle in my hand...
I see the image of a photograph. My hair is still damp from lying in the tub, kicking....I am still groggy from finally getting well and drifting into that deep, deep sleep. My arms, bruised all up and down. Yellowing in some spots, and dark and fresh in others. I am so spotted, it looks like a strange disease. I see the needle in the photograph dropping slowly from the girl figure's hands. Her long hair, wet and hiding her face, as she hangs it down in shame. The camera focused sharp on the needle dropping...the tip all shiny, seeming to have a tiny speck of blood dripping from it.
Blood splatters all over the bathroom. The ceiling, the door. The floor...drop, drop, droplets. I look around and clothes are piled up, wet and cold. I shiver...everything is wet. The tub is still full...I am reminded of my misery...kicking in the fucking bathtub. I shudder from hair so wet, all the way down to the bones. Water, all over the floor...It smells like mildew and death and dope.
I realize, I am broken and bruised. I am a perfect photograph of a fucking junky, and I see the perfect black and white image in my mind. I am the picturesque junky that shocks the world to see this place....
That was the end of the end. That was not the last time I used. And I did not kick that week. But, that was the last time I was addicted. That was not the last time I shot up, but that was the last time that I had a habit. After I kicked that habit, I dabbled around a little before the hammer finally came down. I shot a little dope here, banged a little coke there. I took and Oxycontin, and shot some more coke. I never used opiates for more than two days in a row, but I was shooting coke from time to time....drifting along...and if it had not been for the turn of events that happened next and changed my life, I could very well be in that cycle of addiction still.
It always ended the same. And it took me years to figure that out. I will say, that as time wore on my relapses became less frequent and each time they became shorter in duration...until the consequences of my addiction finally became too great, overwhelming me into a forced end. Jail. Two years probation. I was almost thirty five, for God's sake...and I was finally just done with it all. I wasn't going back to jail, and I stayed away from the shit. I got so far away from it, and back to who I was once was...I got back to writing, and I started to dream again. I wasn't just getting by anymore...I was taking it all back, with a vengeance.
And then, my son came along. Those changes within me were slow at first, and it wasn't until he was actually here that that drive from deep inside really started kicking in. That sense that it isn't just me anymore, and there is a lot more at stake...there is a lot more to drive me...to motivate me. My life have changed in inexplicable ways.
The path is still rocky, and at times I feel I am just stumbling along. I am not going to say that I don't think about it from time to time because I would be lying to say that I don't. And I am not going to say that I never think about using, because the thought will sometimes cross my mind. But, I know now that I do not really want to. I look at the face of my son, and I look into the face of my past, hearing all the ghosts that haunt me whispering...and then...I look into the future. And I finally see something there. And I am writing there. I am making a living with my words, for my son...for myself. And it feels good. Way better than getting high ever did.