I took my son to the doctor yesterday. He has been sick since he started daycare several months ago, and we have been to the doctor quite a lot. His doctor is a really nice man from Nigeria with a complicated name. He came highly recommended from the hospital where my son was born...and he took my son while his Medicaid was still pending. He really has a way with the children. He is kind and gentle, and very realistic. I really love him.
He runs a small family practice, and many of patients are on Medicaid. He also is licensed to prescribe suboxone. I did not know this when we first started going to him almost two years ago, but I noticed some information about it in his office. I have never asked him about it or anything, because it is not something I really care about at this point in my life. I never even really thought about after the day I saw the pamphlet...until yesterday.
My son and I waited in the waiting room yesterday, speckled with random people. There are always other people in there, and my son can be quite a handful at times, so I did not notice her at first. My son, who can be overly friendly, started making eye contact with everyone, waving and saying hi. I noticed her, as she tried to avoid his eye contact.
That was when I noticed the look of pain in her eyes. I recognized that pain, that pain from the void. That anxiousness and irritability that comes with dope sickness. I could read it in her eyes, and I knew it in her movements, stiff and uncomfortable. I could see the look I wore for years, the look of trying to hold it together in a place like this for just a little while longer. I recognized the pain. I could smell it.
And I thought about her shoes. I thought about all the times I have been in her shoes, trying to act normal. Through the pain, she avoided eye contact with my son...and I bet he was real annoying to her at that moment. I know a kid in a doctor's office could have driven me crazy as i sat there waiting for my medicine, or waiting to be seen my a doctor. A lot of suboxone doctors here will have you come in in withdrawal, and wait several hours then for the medication.
She probably took the bus here, and had no where to go for those hours. She probably didn't realize it would take this long. She had a long, deep scratch that stretched across her dark, black face from her eye to her chin, marking it with pink and white where the skin had been ripped away. Her hair was disheveled, and her eyes were distantly wild with the pain and insanities in her own mind.
I thought about the days i was in those shoes...sitting in a doctors office, hoping to be given something to make me feel fucking better. Trying to fake normalcy, when all my insides were screaming with both need and want. Everyone around me, getting on my last fucking nerve...especially myself, an all the fucking pain. Trying not to puke. Trying not to lose it all together. Trying to hold on just a bit longer, as all the shit is creeping slow...
And, I was tankful to be the one with the beautiful baby. And not the one waiting on some dope...in one form or another. I don't miss that fucking shit one tiny bit.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Stagnation vs. Change
Yesterday, I noticed two crack heads walking down the street, by my house. The live in my old neighborhood, and I used to see them almost everyday, walking the streets in search of money and the next hit. I actually wrote a post about them when I first started my blog, called "Crackheads on a Snowy Day." Seeing them yesterday, got me thinking...
They toted the same cart as before. They wore the same clothes, and they had that same adoring look for each other, with a hint of desperation behind their eyes. They looked exactly the same as they looked when I watched them spark up a rock almost a year ago in the snow. I think about stagnation. And I think about change.
This couple always reminded me a little of me and my ex husband. They were always together. The way they looked at each other, it was obvious how close they were. And they were always walking around the neighborhood in pursuit of their high. Not at all unlike me and my ex. That was a long, long time ago.
And a year later, these two crackheads look exactly the same. I think about all the years that went by when my ex and I were immersed in the addiction. I think about how we looked the same year after year, with our bruised arms and battered souls. And I think about how different I look now...
I think about how different things are now. I am no longer a junky. I am no longer living my life in constant pursuit. I am no longer skinny, with sunken eyes dressed in stripper clothes wherever I go. I am a little chunky, now...and I never show my stomach or milk full boobs. I am a mother now, and I have a car and my own place. All my bills are caught up, and I no longer get high before I go anywhere. Stagnant in the mire of addiction, even my physical appearance remained unchanged...now, I am changing and growing every day. Granted, I am growing older every day, which is something I never felt before...but I am growing closer and closer to what I want to be. And granted, my muscles and bones felt better back in those days of stagnation...but, now I am happier than I ever thought possible. In spite of everything. I am productive, turning out writing like there is nothing else in the world. I am finally whole, once more. I am changed...and I am better in spite of it all...because of it all. I am thankful to be back in the real world of the living. Change is good. Growth is good. Life is fucking good, too. Finally.
They toted the same cart as before. They wore the same clothes, and they had that same adoring look for each other, with a hint of desperation behind their eyes. They looked exactly the same as they looked when I watched them spark up a rock almost a year ago in the snow. I think about stagnation. And I think about change.
This couple always reminded me a little of me and my ex husband. They were always together. The way they looked at each other, it was obvious how close they were. And they were always walking around the neighborhood in pursuit of their high. Not at all unlike me and my ex. That was a long, long time ago.
And a year later, these two crackheads look exactly the same. I think about all the years that went by when my ex and I were immersed in the addiction. I think about how we looked the same year after year, with our bruised arms and battered souls. And I think about how different I look now...
I think about how different things are now. I am no longer a junky. I am no longer living my life in constant pursuit. I am no longer skinny, with sunken eyes dressed in stripper clothes wherever I go. I am a little chunky, now...and I never show my stomach or milk full boobs. I am a mother now, and I have a car and my own place. All my bills are caught up, and I no longer get high before I go anywhere. Stagnant in the mire of addiction, even my physical appearance remained unchanged...now, I am changing and growing every day. Granted, I am growing older every day, which is something I never felt before...but I am growing closer and closer to what I want to be. And granted, my muscles and bones felt better back in those days of stagnation...but, now I am happier than I ever thought possible. In spite of everything. I am productive, turning out writing like there is nothing else in the world. I am finally whole, once more. I am changed...and I am better in spite of it all...because of it all. I am thankful to be back in the real world of the living. Change is good. Growth is good. Life is fucking good, too. Finally.
A Note On Music
A little rambling post this morning before I go on to begin the next few hours of editing and revision...the scariest part of the book!!!
I want to ramble on a little about music, today. I love music. I love all kinds of music. Punk music is my heart and soul. Let me say, Social Distortion rules...and I can't wait for their new album coming in January (?). The Bouncing Souls, the Distillers, and of course, who could forget old school Ramones. (I actually have a punk rock bathroom complete with a Ramones shower curtain!)
I toured with Phish for several years, back in 95, 96, 97, and 98. I got into the whole hippie jam band thing for a while. Although, I still really like this stuff...I got tired of the closed minded attitude of so many of these neo-hippies. Hippies are supposed to be all about acceptance, but I was not accepted in some circles when I rolled onto the lot pumping NWA's "Fuck the Police." Apparently, hippies aren't supposed to like rap music.
I love house music, too. Progressive house music. Dancing all night on X in the 90s. My ex husband was a hard house DJ. Like Jersey Hard House, almost industrial. I like it hard.
People are always shocked to find out that I really get into hip hop. I keep up with all the new releases, and I love so many rappers. Yelawolf is my new favorite. He looks like a very red neck version of my ex husband. He is from a small country town, but his voice is a little like Andre 3000 from Outkast. So many great hip hop albums have been released in the last few months.. SB...this one is for you, I fucking LOVE Kanye's new Twisted Fantasy, and that mother fucker may just see my mother fucking hands at the concert! Also, Nicki Minaj, Pink Friday...TI's new album is amazing. And the best two released recently....Rihanna's Loud is awesome, and I gotta mention Eminem's Recovery, too.
Anyway...just thinking a little about music this morning...and I want to give my respect to these hip hop artists....
I want to ramble on a little about music, today. I love music. I love all kinds of music. Punk music is my heart and soul. Let me say, Social Distortion rules...and I can't wait for their new album coming in January (?). The Bouncing Souls, the Distillers, and of course, who could forget old school Ramones. (I actually have a punk rock bathroom complete with a Ramones shower curtain!)
I toured with Phish for several years, back in 95, 96, 97, and 98. I got into the whole hippie jam band thing for a while. Although, I still really like this stuff...I got tired of the closed minded attitude of so many of these neo-hippies. Hippies are supposed to be all about acceptance, but I was not accepted in some circles when I rolled onto the lot pumping NWA's "Fuck the Police." Apparently, hippies aren't supposed to like rap music.
I love house music, too. Progressive house music. Dancing all night on X in the 90s. My ex husband was a hard house DJ. Like Jersey Hard House, almost industrial. I like it hard.
People are always shocked to find out that I really get into hip hop. I keep up with all the new releases, and I love so many rappers. Yelawolf is my new favorite. He looks like a very red neck version of my ex husband. He is from a small country town, but his voice is a little like Andre 3000 from Outkast. So many great hip hop albums have been released in the last few months.. SB...this one is for you, I fucking LOVE Kanye's new Twisted Fantasy, and that mother fucker may just see my mother fucking hands at the concert! Also, Nicki Minaj, Pink Friday...TI's new album is amazing. And the best two released recently....Rihanna's Loud is awesome, and I gotta mention Eminem's Recovery, too.
Anyway...just thinking a little about music this morning...and I want to give my respect to these hip hop artists....
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Feedback Please
One more excerpt. This one describes the post traumatic stress that manifested as pure anxiety.
Feedback, please.
I cannot really remember when it started. It just seemed like one day, I could not seem to focus. I could not concentrate on my thoughts. And it seemed like my heart was racing. I could not sit still. I had this feeling inching down into my bones that was not unlike the uncomfortable, cannot sit still feeling that accompanies dope sickness. I knew it was not the dope; the methadone had me nodding out just a week before.
I sat down on the couch. I turned on the television. Flipped through channels. Too fast to really see anything. Too fast to really even catch a sound bite. Just various images. Flashing images, of all sorts of things. Flashing across the television screen, as I flip faster and faster. Trying to avoid the chaos. Flip, flip, flip…the sound of television static clicking between the flashing images. Flashing images in my mind. Alex. Blue. Johnny. Blue. Linda. Howling like a fucking cat. Flashing images of water. Just look the other way. Just pretend like you are watching the television as you flip, flip, flip. The sounds are driving me crazy.
Thoughts flitter. Birds flapping their wings, pounding my brain with the sound of flutter. Maybe I could read a book. Open up the pages, they feel rough in my hands. Close the cover, smooth to the touch…as I fingered the image of Anthony Keidis on the cover. Smooth cover. Rough pages. Uneven on the edges, when I run my hands along the sides of the closed book. Smooth cover, smooth and shiny, slipping slightly beneath my fingers. Open the book again. Read the first page. Read it over again. Read the first paragraph. I don’t know what it was about. Read it again. Uncomfortable. Stand back up.
I walked around that little living room. Again. And again. I walked out on the balcony. The air seemed to be a little colder. And I am really nervous. My heart is pounding all the time. I cannot sit still. I am smoking tons of cigarettes, but I think I want another. Liquor. Liquor. The pills do not really seem to be working.
I take a couple Seroquel. Am I building a tolerance to these things? I took several of the small ones. I waited. Still nervous. Sit. Stand back up. Walk to the kitchen. Open the refrigerator. Look inside. I see everything. I see nothing. Thoughts of cigarettes, the need for something is screaming at me in a rushed and hurried pace. Thoughts of vodka. Cheap vodka. The cheap and flavored kind.
I discovered Burnett’s vodka in those days in Rhode Island. I have always been a Jameson drinker. And I generally drank for free in the club…and I always drank for cheap in New Orleans. Well, Jameson was expensive in Rhode Island. Everything was expensive in Rhode Island. Cigarettes were six dollars a fucking pack. And I had taken to smoking cloves, my voice had become gravelly…and I always smelled like apple pie. A half gallon of Burnett’s vodka was around ten bucks.
The flavors made it more palatable. Orange, grape, sometimes raspberry. Liam and were drinking about a half gallon a day. We mixed it with Gatorade. We mixed it with Sprite. We drank it straight. I mostly just swilled it right out of that big plastic bottle, chasing it with whatever was fruity. The alcohol did not seem to permeate through the anxiety a lot of days. I dank, and drank, and drank. Seemed like nothing was getting through that insane exterior that was keeping me pacing around the room.
The pacing. Pacing back and forth. Pacing back from one bedroom, to the next. Then around the table, and through the living room. Pacing through the kitchen, before I started the circuit all over again. I wanted to cuddle with the new kitten. But, I could only hold him while I was pacing. Back and forth I wore a hole in the carpet. Back and forth I wore a hole in the linoleum.
I woke up in the dark of morning every day, with several hours of a fitful sleep under my belt, and within minutes, the anxiety took over. The pacing began. The trek to the clinic was riddled with insanity. Sitting still on the fucking city bus was impossible. Middleton is a pretty small place, and in small places…it seems like you wait forever for the bus to come. I paced the streets where the bus stop was. I walked up and down that block, looking in the distance for the bus. It always seemed like an eternity in the dark, cold autumn mornings for that damn bus to appear.
Then, once on the bus…I was instantly relieved when I saw the bus approach. I felt like the wait was over and maybe I could get on with the next step. But, all the steps of my day were riddled with anxiety and everything seemed to run together. I wanted off that fucking bus, just as soon as I had gotten on. I could not sit still in my seat. Shifting my weight, and shifting around in my seat. Looking out the window. Feeling fucking trapped. Let the clinic get here quickly. Let me off this fucking bus…it feels like I cannot breath. I want to get off the fucking bus. Let me off this fucking bus…I am screaming in my mind. I am pacing in my mind. Back and forth. Back and forth. Running all over the same ground with broken thoughts and fucked up images. Yet, somehow, I am not sure what is wrong with me. Get me off the fucking bus.
Off the bus. I want to run. I need a fucking smoke. It has only been fifteen or twenty minutes since I got on the bus. I still need a fucking cigarette. I need one bad. I probably smoked five waiting for the bus…but I need another fucking cigarette. I need to do something with my hands. Occupy my hands…and maybe I will occupy my mind. Six bucks a pack, and I am smoking two packs a day sometimes. Cloves. Newports. Whatever….
I puff on the clove cigarette like a madwoman as I walk to the clinic. I am surprised I did not pass out on those little walks. It was only about three blocks, and I would inhale a whole smoke in that time. I walked at the insane pace, with the hurried gate that is only owned by a crazy person.
The methadone clinic sat on the corner. It had one of those caddy cornered doors facing each street. This little part of downtown Newport is really cool. I wish I could go back there now. I would like to look around. I really do not remember that much about it.
It is weird how my memory is so disjointed in this time. I think that the anxiety left my memory more busted up than any drug use ever could. I cannot clearly remember so much of that time in Rhode Island. It was running by too fast in my mind. Images flashing all day, and most of the night. I was blind to the world around me because I was constantly bombarded by the world inside me. I remember bits and pieces, and I am convinced everything in my mind was disjointed in those months.
I would get my dose, gulping down the methadone with orange kool-aid each morning. I left as quickly as I came in. I am sure I breezed in with a scared expression, and a panicked manner…rushing back to the dosing line. If there was a line, I fidgeted the whole time. Shifting my weight back and forth. Twitching my hands. Looking back to the left. Glancing back to the right. Shift my weight again. Look ahead. Look back. My mind spinning, thoughts running a marathon through my mind. Shifting back and forth. Fiddling with my ring on my hand. My skin feels rough and cold. My heart…beat,beat…beat,beat…beat,beat…beat,beat…and echo in my head of that panicked heartbeat. An echo in my head of Linda screaming. Always echoes in my head of that scream. I was frantic inside, trying to keep the cover on this insanity as I shift back and forth on my feet.
When the dosing was over, it was back to the fucking bus again. I was too frantic to talk to any of the strangers at the clinic. When I did try to communicate in those mornings, my words seemed to merely jumble up in my mind, and all I could do was look stupid while thoughts raced through my head. Duh, uh, duh, uh. Mumbling and bumbling and fumbling through attempts to speak. I hoped no one asked me a question. I hoped no one in authority even talked to me. I smoked another cigarette. All I wanted to do after the methadone hit the back of my throat was get back to the safety of the apartment, and start drinking again. At least the vodka made me for forget…a little. It helped me to sit…a little. It helped me to stop shifting and shaking…a little.
Vodka. Gotta get the vodka. Of course, Liam and I emptied another bottle last night. The sun had barely come over the horizon. The bus ride here was mostly in the dark. Now, the sun seemed to be blaring all around me. Singing like an alarm that another fucking day had begun. Back on the bus, and I just wanted to get back off again. I felt like I am fucking trapped. I could not get out of here, even if I wanted to. The city flowed past me, as I barely took notice. All I could think about is vodka. And getting the fuck off the bus. I was ready for another fucking cigarette. I will need to get more smokes before I get home. I will be chain smoking while I wait for the liquor store to open.
After an eternity, the bus finally got to my destination. We passed several liquor stores. They were all closed. The two near the bus stop are also closed. I cannot take it. I was shaking, and shifting, as I waited to get off. Open the fucking door already; I wanted to scream at the driver. When the door opened, I came exploding out as if I was shot from a strange trajectory.
I guess I needed to stop at the store. I could tell the methadone was sinking down in my bones because I was starting to get hungry. Grocery store it is. Maybe I should get Liam first. I started across the street, headed home. I changed my mind. I needed to go to the store. My stomach rumbled. I stopped short, turned around. When I got to the other side, I hesitated again. Unsure. Unsure where to go. Home? Store? I continued to the grocery store. It wasn’t far.
Up and down the isles. The pacing had settled in again. At least here, in the grocery store, I could look at everything with my mad pacing. I was sure I got something sweet for breakfast. Sweets were all I craved on methadone. Cigarettes. Oh, and I went ahead and got a 12 pack. Headed back to the apartment.
When Liam woke up, I was drinking and smoking. I was pacing back and forth with a beer. This was generally how my morning went. Get to the clinic. Come home and drink. And smoke. And smoke. And pace, and pace, and pace.
Feedback, please.
I cannot really remember when it started. It just seemed like one day, I could not seem to focus. I could not concentrate on my thoughts. And it seemed like my heart was racing. I could not sit still. I had this feeling inching down into my bones that was not unlike the uncomfortable, cannot sit still feeling that accompanies dope sickness. I knew it was not the dope; the methadone had me nodding out just a week before.
I sat down on the couch. I turned on the television. Flipped through channels. Too fast to really see anything. Too fast to really even catch a sound bite. Just various images. Flashing images, of all sorts of things. Flashing across the television screen, as I flip faster and faster. Trying to avoid the chaos. Flip, flip, flip…the sound of television static clicking between the flashing images. Flashing images in my mind. Alex. Blue. Johnny. Blue. Linda. Howling like a fucking cat. Flashing images of water. Just look the other way. Just pretend like you are watching the television as you flip, flip, flip. The sounds are driving me crazy.
Thoughts flitter. Birds flapping their wings, pounding my brain with the sound of flutter. Maybe I could read a book. Open up the pages, they feel rough in my hands. Close the cover, smooth to the touch…as I fingered the image of Anthony Keidis on the cover. Smooth cover. Rough pages. Uneven on the edges, when I run my hands along the sides of the closed book. Smooth cover, smooth and shiny, slipping slightly beneath my fingers. Open the book again. Read the first page. Read it over again. Read the first paragraph. I don’t know what it was about. Read it again. Uncomfortable. Stand back up.
I walked around that little living room. Again. And again. I walked out on the balcony. The air seemed to be a little colder. And I am really nervous. My heart is pounding all the time. I cannot sit still. I am smoking tons of cigarettes, but I think I want another. Liquor. Liquor. The pills do not really seem to be working.
I take a couple Seroquel. Am I building a tolerance to these things? I took several of the small ones. I waited. Still nervous. Sit. Stand back up. Walk to the kitchen. Open the refrigerator. Look inside. I see everything. I see nothing. Thoughts of cigarettes, the need for something is screaming at me in a rushed and hurried pace. Thoughts of vodka. Cheap vodka. The cheap and flavored kind.
I discovered Burnett’s vodka in those days in Rhode Island. I have always been a Jameson drinker. And I generally drank for free in the club…and I always drank for cheap in New Orleans. Well, Jameson was expensive in Rhode Island. Everything was expensive in Rhode Island. Cigarettes were six dollars a fucking pack. And I had taken to smoking cloves, my voice had become gravelly…and I always smelled like apple pie. A half gallon of Burnett’s vodka was around ten bucks.
The flavors made it more palatable. Orange, grape, sometimes raspberry. Liam and were drinking about a half gallon a day. We mixed it with Gatorade. We mixed it with Sprite. We drank it straight. I mostly just swilled it right out of that big plastic bottle, chasing it with whatever was fruity. The alcohol did not seem to permeate through the anxiety a lot of days. I dank, and drank, and drank. Seemed like nothing was getting through that insane exterior that was keeping me pacing around the room.
The pacing. Pacing back and forth. Pacing back from one bedroom, to the next. Then around the table, and through the living room. Pacing through the kitchen, before I started the circuit all over again. I wanted to cuddle with the new kitten. But, I could only hold him while I was pacing. Back and forth I wore a hole in the carpet. Back and forth I wore a hole in the linoleum.
I woke up in the dark of morning every day, with several hours of a fitful sleep under my belt, and within minutes, the anxiety took over. The pacing began. The trek to the clinic was riddled with insanity. Sitting still on the fucking city bus was impossible. Middleton is a pretty small place, and in small places…it seems like you wait forever for the bus to come. I paced the streets where the bus stop was. I walked up and down that block, looking in the distance for the bus. It always seemed like an eternity in the dark, cold autumn mornings for that damn bus to appear.
Then, once on the bus…I was instantly relieved when I saw the bus approach. I felt like the wait was over and maybe I could get on with the next step. But, all the steps of my day were riddled with anxiety and everything seemed to run together. I wanted off that fucking bus, just as soon as I had gotten on. I could not sit still in my seat. Shifting my weight, and shifting around in my seat. Looking out the window. Feeling fucking trapped. Let the clinic get here quickly. Let me off this fucking bus…it feels like I cannot breath. I want to get off the fucking bus. Let me off this fucking bus…I am screaming in my mind. I am pacing in my mind. Back and forth. Back and forth. Running all over the same ground with broken thoughts and fucked up images. Yet, somehow, I am not sure what is wrong with me. Get me off the fucking bus.
Off the bus. I want to run. I need a fucking smoke. It has only been fifteen or twenty minutes since I got on the bus. I still need a fucking cigarette. I need one bad. I probably smoked five waiting for the bus…but I need another fucking cigarette. I need to do something with my hands. Occupy my hands…and maybe I will occupy my mind. Six bucks a pack, and I am smoking two packs a day sometimes. Cloves. Newports. Whatever….
I puff on the clove cigarette like a madwoman as I walk to the clinic. I am surprised I did not pass out on those little walks. It was only about three blocks, and I would inhale a whole smoke in that time. I walked at the insane pace, with the hurried gate that is only owned by a crazy person.
The methadone clinic sat on the corner. It had one of those caddy cornered doors facing each street. This little part of downtown Newport is really cool. I wish I could go back there now. I would like to look around. I really do not remember that much about it.
It is weird how my memory is so disjointed in this time. I think that the anxiety left my memory more busted up than any drug use ever could. I cannot clearly remember so much of that time in Rhode Island. It was running by too fast in my mind. Images flashing all day, and most of the night. I was blind to the world around me because I was constantly bombarded by the world inside me. I remember bits and pieces, and I am convinced everything in my mind was disjointed in those months.
I would get my dose, gulping down the methadone with orange kool-aid each morning. I left as quickly as I came in. I am sure I breezed in with a scared expression, and a panicked manner…rushing back to the dosing line. If there was a line, I fidgeted the whole time. Shifting my weight back and forth. Twitching my hands. Looking back to the left. Glancing back to the right. Shift my weight again. Look ahead. Look back. My mind spinning, thoughts running a marathon through my mind. Shifting back and forth. Fiddling with my ring on my hand. My skin feels rough and cold. My heart…beat,beat…beat,beat…beat,beat…beat,beat…and echo in my head of that panicked heartbeat. An echo in my head of Linda screaming. Always echoes in my head of that scream. I was frantic inside, trying to keep the cover on this insanity as I shift back and forth on my feet.
When the dosing was over, it was back to the fucking bus again. I was too frantic to talk to any of the strangers at the clinic. When I did try to communicate in those mornings, my words seemed to merely jumble up in my mind, and all I could do was look stupid while thoughts raced through my head. Duh, uh, duh, uh. Mumbling and bumbling and fumbling through attempts to speak. I hoped no one asked me a question. I hoped no one in authority even talked to me. I smoked another cigarette. All I wanted to do after the methadone hit the back of my throat was get back to the safety of the apartment, and start drinking again. At least the vodka made me for forget…a little. It helped me to sit…a little. It helped me to stop shifting and shaking…a little.
Vodka. Gotta get the vodka. Of course, Liam and I emptied another bottle last night. The sun had barely come over the horizon. The bus ride here was mostly in the dark. Now, the sun seemed to be blaring all around me. Singing like an alarm that another fucking day had begun. Back on the bus, and I just wanted to get back off again. I felt like I am fucking trapped. I could not get out of here, even if I wanted to. The city flowed past me, as I barely took notice. All I could think about is vodka. And getting the fuck off the bus. I was ready for another fucking cigarette. I will need to get more smokes before I get home. I will be chain smoking while I wait for the liquor store to open.
After an eternity, the bus finally got to my destination. We passed several liquor stores. They were all closed. The two near the bus stop are also closed. I cannot take it. I was shaking, and shifting, as I waited to get off. Open the fucking door already; I wanted to scream at the driver. When the door opened, I came exploding out as if I was shot from a strange trajectory.
I guess I needed to stop at the store. I could tell the methadone was sinking down in my bones because I was starting to get hungry. Grocery store it is. Maybe I should get Liam first. I started across the street, headed home. I changed my mind. I needed to go to the store. My stomach rumbled. I stopped short, turned around. When I got to the other side, I hesitated again. Unsure. Unsure where to go. Home? Store? I continued to the grocery store. It wasn’t far.
Up and down the isles. The pacing had settled in again. At least here, in the grocery store, I could look at everything with my mad pacing. I was sure I got something sweet for breakfast. Sweets were all I craved on methadone. Cigarettes. Oh, and I went ahead and got a 12 pack. Headed back to the apartment.
When Liam woke up, I was drinking and smoking. I was pacing back and forth with a beer. This was generally how my morning went. Get to the clinic. Come home and drink. And smoke. And smoke. And pace, and pace, and pace.
Another Excerpt from the Book
Okay, so here is another excerpt...
This is when I wake up the first morning after evacuation in Rhode Island...it descibes the state of my mind in those first few days after evacuating New Orleans...
Let me know what you think.
I woke up that morning in Rhode Island, not at first unlike many of the other mornings I had recently awoke. Still groggy from a plethora of pills, opening my eyes a little leery and unsure of my surroundings. Images always flashed back in my head during those first few moments after waking up. At least for the first few weeks. I always woke up, of where I was. Then, the barrage of images, sounds, memory flooding back onto me.
Water, rushing and rising. Water all around me, up to my chest. Wet and warm, with my clothes sticking to me. Wet shoes tracking water inside until everything has water seeping into its core. Water, bloating bodies and buffering boundaries between the wards. Water, black as an oil slick shining on the surface in the light of the moon.
Darkness. Stars bright, shining down on the city that was previously starless. The moon, shedding the only light when the sun had retired, sparkling its reflection on the slight lapping waves. The sound of the water, lapping the houses in the pitch black of the night. The darkness that still sinks down into the hearts of all those who witnessed those days.
Deserted streets, and utter chaos. Buildings churning with people and a rejection that spit them back out. My own deserted soul comes following me here to Rhode Island. And I am still left cold and unfeeling, as this barrage of images pushes me way past the limits of my sanity. I look the other way…I am distracted by all I have known these last ten years.
Sickness creeps in a little, only around the edges. Flashing images, and my heart rate is raised a little, pushing out the mundane madness of withdrawal…and all these fucking pills have to be holding me over a little. I remember the cooler…full of our looted prate’s booty of pharmaceuticals. I look over at Liam, sleeping with his arm draped over the chest. We are still on that back porch in our minds.
I flash back there momentarily. Scavengers, desperate for drugs and the mayhem around had made us all a little more aggressive and feisty. Liam and I slept with one hand on our drugs for so many days; I guess it had become habit. I know the minute Johnny fell asleep, we were in his stash…I am sure they did the same with us. In the world of a junky, a friend will steal from you quicker than a stranger might. The friend has the inside advantage…they know what you got, and where you got it.
In a circle of junky friends, there is always one or two that steal. I was never one of those. I always earned my dope money; even if I had to twist my morals to get the money…I never stole. Liam, on the other hand, was quite the thief. He did not think twice about stealing to get what he wanted, and I know he stole from me more time than I can count. I wonder if he would admit to it now…or if he would still deny it to the hilt, like always.
Liam, sleeping so peacefully in a comfortable bed. I looked down at him sleeping that morning with those adoring eyes I often had for him. I noticed the perfect shape of those lazy bedroom eyes, and that chiseled nose, with his long, shaggy hair falling over his eyes. His veins, strong and bold. Long and lean, his thin legs were still adorned with a little sculpted muscle. I remember looking at him with that look in my eye that morning, as I had so many other mornings but this morning felt different. Looking back onto that morning, I realize the only other person I have ever looked at that way is my son.
This is when I wake up the first morning after evacuation in Rhode Island...it descibes the state of my mind in those first few days after evacuating New Orleans...
Let me know what you think.
I woke up that morning in Rhode Island, not at first unlike many of the other mornings I had recently awoke. Still groggy from a plethora of pills, opening my eyes a little leery and unsure of my surroundings. Images always flashed back in my head during those first few moments after waking up. At least for the first few weeks. I always woke up, of where I was. Then, the barrage of images, sounds, memory flooding back onto me.
Water, rushing and rising. Water all around me, up to my chest. Wet and warm, with my clothes sticking to me. Wet shoes tracking water inside until everything has water seeping into its core. Water, bloating bodies and buffering boundaries between the wards. Water, black as an oil slick shining on the surface in the light of the moon.
Darkness. Stars bright, shining down on the city that was previously starless. The moon, shedding the only light when the sun had retired, sparkling its reflection on the slight lapping waves. The sound of the water, lapping the houses in the pitch black of the night. The darkness that still sinks down into the hearts of all those who witnessed those days.
Deserted streets, and utter chaos. Buildings churning with people and a rejection that spit them back out. My own deserted soul comes following me here to Rhode Island. And I am still left cold and unfeeling, as this barrage of images pushes me way past the limits of my sanity. I look the other way…I am distracted by all I have known these last ten years.
Sickness creeps in a little, only around the edges. Flashing images, and my heart rate is raised a little, pushing out the mundane madness of withdrawal…and all these fucking pills have to be holding me over a little. I remember the cooler…full of our looted prate’s booty of pharmaceuticals. I look over at Liam, sleeping with his arm draped over the chest. We are still on that back porch in our minds.
I flash back there momentarily. Scavengers, desperate for drugs and the mayhem around had made us all a little more aggressive and feisty. Liam and I slept with one hand on our drugs for so many days; I guess it had become habit. I know the minute Johnny fell asleep, we were in his stash…I am sure they did the same with us. In the world of a junky, a friend will steal from you quicker than a stranger might. The friend has the inside advantage…they know what you got, and where you got it.
In a circle of junky friends, there is always one or two that steal. I was never one of those. I always earned my dope money; even if I had to twist my morals to get the money…I never stole. Liam, on the other hand, was quite the thief. He did not think twice about stealing to get what he wanted, and I know he stole from me more time than I can count. I wonder if he would admit to it now…or if he would still deny it to the hilt, like always.
Liam, sleeping so peacefully in a comfortable bed. I looked down at him sleeping that morning with those adoring eyes I often had for him. I noticed the perfect shape of those lazy bedroom eyes, and that chiseled nose, with his long, shaggy hair falling over his eyes. His veins, strong and bold. Long and lean, his thin legs were still adorned with a little sculpted muscle. I remember looking at him with that look in my eye that morning, as I had so many other mornings but this morning felt different. Looking back onto that morning, I realize the only other person I have ever looked at that way is my son.
Small Excerpt from the Book
I am posting a tiny excerpt from the book...let me set the scene.
This scene is in Rhode Island, after I have been evacuated from New Orleans. I am just starting to feel the dope sickness once again...
Weed can take away the pain for a while, as it helps you relax, and you kind of slip into a semi-nothingness…the uncomfortable sinking Sickness is mellowed slightly around the edges. Sedatives are good for kicking, too because they help you sleep. A kicking junky wishes he could just sleep for three days, but that is impossible as the Sickness is looming over your bed. Seroquel and Phenobarbitol were what I liked to take to help me sleep. It would only let me rest a couple of hours, but anything was a relief in the pits of hellish withdrawal. We had all three strengths of Seroquel in this cooler, and several bottles of each. But, that wouldn’t quite do it. Benzodiazapines are good for kicking, and a xanex can really mellow out the rough exterior of the kick…making it just a little more comfortable. There was a huge bottle of T3s, Tylonel 3 with Codiene. But, those are really weak…and a shit ton of them would not help as much as it would hurt my empty and rumbling stomach. There was nothing in that cooler full with hundreds of bottles of pills that could help me. I took a couple of Vicodin, and a handful of T3s, and I tried to relax.
I could not sit down. I left the apartment, headed out to just walk. I could not think about anything but the Sickness, and I could not sit down because the old, familiar foe that was pure discomfort was creeping back in. Dope, dope, fucking dope, the circular dance in my head begun, and its disparaging damage sank deep down in the dark crevices of my dead, and dying spirit. I was crumbling. My stomach was grumbling that empty grumble from the Sickness.
That empty grumbling is what eventually drives me crazy. As the Sickness sets in, my stomach is almost always empty. The stomach of a junky is completely empty at least 70% of his existence. The Sickness, which creeps in daily in strange and untreated hours in a junky’s world, hurls up everything you have eaten, as you puke and wretch, with this disgusting yellow bile seemingly emmitted from every pore. When the dope man finally shows up, your veins are quieted, and your body is longer screaming and wretching. But, you are not hungry. You are still weak, and shaking, and the last thing you could handle is food. But, it would make that grumbling come to an end.
Oh, that god awful grumbling. Stomach just flipping, and skipping, and nipping at your insides. Collapsing inward, hunger cries turned into a call for nausea. Fucking empty stomach is what starts it all, it starts the first bits of nausea, and then it just escalates in my mind and body…until the constant wretchhing starts. Wretching, gagging myself…trying to puke. Trying to eject all this fucking poison out of my system. That is what it is like, your body is trying to eject all the poisons and toxins from your body, and the Sickness is wringing your entire body out like a wet towel, with liquid bile and leftover poisonous toxins squeezed out from every possible hole. I just know I am not going to be able to take this fucking shit.
Not again. Not here. Not now. I just can’t do it. I cannot handle puking and shitting and walking around like a mad woman. Lying in bed and moaning and groaning. Hours in the bathtub, when we share a bathroom with these random people, anyway? Hell no. I am not kicking in this foreign land. I just do not have the strength to go through that shit again. Grumbling, grumbling madness gets a grip on my gastrointestinal track as well as on my fucking mind. Hell no. Hell no…I can’t take this fucking shit now. And all the while, that fucker Liam is just sleeping his fucking ass off. And I am wallowing in the mire and muck of this painful madness. Hell no. Fuck no. I just cannot. I just can’t.
Still in a bit of a frenzy, I dig through the kitchen drawers in search of a phonebook. My mind reeling back and forth, no phone book in the drawers. I look on the table. And I look with the books, and by the TV, and by the stereo. Back into the kitchen again, digging through the drawers once more. Until, I look by the phone….
Ahhhh, the fucking phonebook. Methadone. I flip through the pages, fingering the corners of the pages, reading the tabs. A, B, Cs floating by with alphabetical listings of everything from here to Providence. M…Maintenance, McDonald’s, Mechanics, ahhh…there it is, Methadone. See Drug Treatment. Flipping back once more, with a grumbling stomach driving me to panic and Sickness. D…Damage Repair, Debt Consolidation, Dirt, Docks, Driving, and ….Drug Treatment. I only hope they have a methadone program near here. I hope there is something available to me here. I hope that I will not have to go to Providence…that would be a real pain in the ass on the fucking bus.
This scene is in Rhode Island, after I have been evacuated from New Orleans. I am just starting to feel the dope sickness once again...
Weed can take away the pain for a while, as it helps you relax, and you kind of slip into a semi-nothingness…the uncomfortable sinking Sickness is mellowed slightly around the edges. Sedatives are good for kicking, too because they help you sleep. A kicking junky wishes he could just sleep for three days, but that is impossible as the Sickness is looming over your bed. Seroquel and Phenobarbitol were what I liked to take to help me sleep. It would only let me rest a couple of hours, but anything was a relief in the pits of hellish withdrawal. We had all three strengths of Seroquel in this cooler, and several bottles of each. But, that wouldn’t quite do it. Benzodiazapines are good for kicking, and a xanex can really mellow out the rough exterior of the kick…making it just a little more comfortable. There was a huge bottle of T3s, Tylonel 3 with Codiene. But, those are really weak…and a shit ton of them would not help as much as it would hurt my empty and rumbling stomach. There was nothing in that cooler full with hundreds of bottles of pills that could help me. I took a couple of Vicodin, and a handful of T3s, and I tried to relax.
I could not sit down. I left the apartment, headed out to just walk. I could not think about anything but the Sickness, and I could not sit down because the old, familiar foe that was pure discomfort was creeping back in. Dope, dope, fucking dope, the circular dance in my head begun, and its disparaging damage sank deep down in the dark crevices of my dead, and dying spirit. I was crumbling. My stomach was grumbling that empty grumble from the Sickness.
That empty grumbling is what eventually drives me crazy. As the Sickness sets in, my stomach is almost always empty. The stomach of a junky is completely empty at least 70% of his existence. The Sickness, which creeps in daily in strange and untreated hours in a junky’s world, hurls up everything you have eaten, as you puke and wretch, with this disgusting yellow bile seemingly emmitted from every pore. When the dope man finally shows up, your veins are quieted, and your body is longer screaming and wretching. But, you are not hungry. You are still weak, and shaking, and the last thing you could handle is food. But, it would make that grumbling come to an end.
Oh, that god awful grumbling. Stomach just flipping, and skipping, and nipping at your insides. Collapsing inward, hunger cries turned into a call for nausea. Fucking empty stomach is what starts it all, it starts the first bits of nausea, and then it just escalates in my mind and body…until the constant wretchhing starts. Wretching, gagging myself…trying to puke. Trying to eject all this fucking poison out of my system. That is what it is like, your body is trying to eject all the poisons and toxins from your body, and the Sickness is wringing your entire body out like a wet towel, with liquid bile and leftover poisonous toxins squeezed out from every possible hole. I just know I am not going to be able to take this fucking shit.
Not again. Not here. Not now. I just can’t do it. I cannot handle puking and shitting and walking around like a mad woman. Lying in bed and moaning and groaning. Hours in the bathtub, when we share a bathroom with these random people, anyway? Hell no. I am not kicking in this foreign land. I just do not have the strength to go through that shit again. Grumbling, grumbling madness gets a grip on my gastrointestinal track as well as on my fucking mind. Hell no. Hell no…I can’t take this fucking shit now. And all the while, that fucker Liam is just sleeping his fucking ass off. And I am wallowing in the mire and muck of this painful madness. Hell no. Fuck no. I just cannot. I just can’t.
Still in a bit of a frenzy, I dig through the kitchen drawers in search of a phonebook. My mind reeling back and forth, no phone book in the drawers. I look on the table. And I look with the books, and by the TV, and by the stereo. Back into the kitchen again, digging through the drawers once more. Until, I look by the phone….
Ahhhh, the fucking phonebook. Methadone. I flip through the pages, fingering the corners of the pages, reading the tabs. A, B, Cs floating by with alphabetical listings of everything from here to Providence. M…Maintenance, McDonald’s, Mechanics, ahhh…there it is, Methadone. See Drug Treatment. Flipping back once more, with a grumbling stomach driving me to panic and Sickness. D…Damage Repair, Debt Consolidation, Dirt, Docks, Driving, and ….Drug Treatment. I only hope they have a methadone program near here. I hope there is something available to me here. I hope that I will not have to go to Providence…that would be a real pain in the ass on the fucking bus.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
The Power of the Internet
So the book is getting closer and closer to being finished. My current goal is by Monday, but that could change...
The power of the Internet...
In my story in the book, I am in a manic state of post traumatic stress after the Hurricane. I go to describe the methadone clinic in Rhode Island, and I am having trouble picturing it in my head. I cannot even remember the name.We all know how the details can get a little fuzzy in our memories, especially for those of us whose memories are laden with multiple substances...
I google "methadone clinic in Newport RI", and the name and information instantly pop up. I click on the bold blue name of the clinic, and right before my eyes google maps provided me with a picture. You can even get up so close that you are right at the front door of the clinic, getting ready to walk in...
And all the memories of the place come rushing back over me, until I am almost there once more
Oh, the power of the fucking Internet!
The power of the Internet...
In my story in the book, I am in a manic state of post traumatic stress after the Hurricane. I go to describe the methadone clinic in Rhode Island, and I am having trouble picturing it in my head. I cannot even remember the name.We all know how the details can get a little fuzzy in our memories, especially for those of us whose memories are laden with multiple substances...
I google "methadone clinic in Newport RI", and the name and information instantly pop up. I click on the bold blue name of the clinic, and right before my eyes google maps provided me with a picture. You can even get up so close that you are right at the front door of the clinic, getting ready to walk in...
And all the memories of the place come rushing back over me, until I am almost there once more
Oh, the power of the fucking Internet!
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