Citation: sn3s. "Sick to Success: An Experience with Heroin (exp85618)". Erowid.org. Nov 11, 2015. erowid.org/exp/85618
||(tar / resin)
It's morning of the third day. 72 hours of being dope sick. I awake in a puddle of my own sweat. My body is stretching and I am uttering groaning sounds unconsciously. I rip off my blanket which had been pasted to me and try to let the sweat evaporate, feeling strong chills as the air hits my skin. Any normal person would take a shower right about then, but not me. I'm thinking of scoring. The potential day to be had flashed through my head all at once destroying my resolve, and so humbling me to give in and just find a way to get high for that day. This would TRULY be the last time this time!
I had been using black tar heroin at the time for 4 years cumulatively, and had been trying to put an end to the daily madness of heroin abuse that had enveloped every aspect of my life. And failing miserably. My resources had been truly depleted. Thoughts and neural pathways in my brain fired together instantaneously thinking of where I might possibly come up with money '20 dollars, 20 dollars, THINK!' I paced around quite noisily trudging around in this shitty smelling, messy bedroom. I had been living in my dad's house in the middle of a retirement community. The kind of place that if you didn't have a car, you were truly left to ROT with only old people in sight for 7 square miles. I'm staring off into space now, into the vastness that is my room. The undeniable urge to leave the house envelopes me. Just then I kind of think of what the day would be like if I didn't go get dope, what would I do? Play nintendo? Go running? With the way I was feeling, I wasn't thinking of exercise, I was thinking about sweet black tar heroin. My mind finally breaks and soon I am making a plan to go get dope.
Ohhh, the plan. This is where things can get really intricate as far as scheming goes. It's basically, (1) get money, (2) find somebody to hook me up, (3) get high. Sounds simple, right? WRONG! I straighten out the clothes I've been wearing for 3 straight days and crack the door to my room, stepping out into the hallway. I'm instantly hit by a rush of anxiety while I go through in my head the desperate story I am about to tell my 67 year old father to get 20 dollars, DAMNIT. As I approach him I start in 'Hey, pop. I really need some money today.' 'What for?' this is about the time when I normally flip out. Sweat beads are forming all over my body and I'm feeling really hot. I can feel the sweat dripping down my armpit and into my boxer waistband. And this time is no different. All in all, SCORE! Cha ching! All my groveling and pleading has worked on dear old dad. 20 dollars in my pocket and its whoosh out the door to go get my dope. Now keep in mind I'm talking about taking my old dad's hard earned money and basically FLUSHING it down the toilet. I'm not feeling very good about doing such things to my dad who I loved.
But no time to think about that now. . . .this is GREAT! I think, as I'm driving away from this whole retirement community, headed for town, and ultimately one of my many hook ups. With every mile away from the bad house, I am feeling better, and I look at the clock 6:30am. Oh FUCK! The mexicans don't even open until 8:00! I decide to drive to my friend's apartment complex, and just chill in my car, listening to music for what was to be an eternity. Glancing at the clock in the dashboard watching minutes roll by. Was this really what it had come to? I thought about how when I had first started heroin, how I would get high EVERY DAY. It sure is a hectic kind of lifestyle. By this time in my life, however, things had settled down a bit, and I had had a few attempts to get clean. None of the attempts really approaching anything over 2 months, but still. It was a start. I basically was sitting there and thinking about how I couldn't keep on doing this kind of thing forever. But kept on convincing myself that I had deserved this through all that time spent huddled into a ball for 3 straight days on my floor in the retirement community. Then I start to think about 4 days from this day where I will be in the same place, on that same floor, withdrawing so fiercely. . . And hating every minute of it. But not now. Now you deserve to do this today, I told myself. I almost believed it.
It's 7:45am in the morning. I've just came from my car, where I had been waiting for what seemed like hours. It should finally be JUST late enough so that I can knock on my friend's bedroom window, and have him answer. Ok as I talk about my friends, I will refer to them as letters. My friend M lived in an apartment that I had talked him into going half in on in the beginning, but as time went along, I could not afford to stay and so got kicked out. I had basically fucked over M in more than that aspect, it turns out. For M, I was the one who first introduced the dreaded black tar to him. This first step he took. Infecting his life like a virus... I did not put a gun to his head, and even if I did, he pulled the trigger himself. It's HEROIN for christs sake, you should already know the dangers from simply the name alone. And if you're reading this, you can't fucking blame me for your addiction.
Anyways... I knock on the window and instantly hear him shuffling around to open the window. He's probably been half-expecting me to knock on his window every morning for the past few days. This was regular routine. 'M! Dude, let me in!' '*grumble* mmok.' I walk over to the front door and wait. After a while he lets me in. The apartment's inhabitants are as follows: A, the only female junky in the bunch and ex-girlfriend, currently looking like a dirty rat placed in a paper towel. The old comforter I had given them before I moved out. N passed out on the floor beside her. A and N were currently dating which didn't bother me a bit. They had both turned into indescribable creatures, A sporting hands and feet so heavily-soiled, that they were black. Both of them sleeping soundly in the dark living room.
I step across the living room and follow M back into his room, where I instantly pull out my wallet and hand M the 20 dollars I had gotten from my dad. '3 hits?' M asked me. 'yeah I guess so.' 3 hits was M's price for hooking me up. He would get a bag for himself, of course. He always did. He would always be able to save money or have money. He had a job, and he actually went to it. So he took my money and I urged him to call the mexicans. The bastard had the nerve to actually roll a cigarette and light it before he picked up the phone. Me looking on, M talked to the mexicans. 'yo! Hey umm. . . Its M***, you come to my apartment?' M making special care to efficiently over-pronounce everything he was saying to the non-english speaking mexicans. 'thirty minutes? Ok my friend. Ok bye.' FUCK! I thought, 30 minutes usually was a bad omen for the mexicans to say. The mexicans can take up to 3 hours sometimes to deliver a proper bag. Enough bags for everyone, if you're lucky, and things work out properly. Whatever time the mexicans gave you, you can pretty much make sure right off that that time can be multiplied by sometimes 5 times. 30 minutes, thats like. . . AT LEAST an hour and a half. Ok so the mexicans are finally called. I CHOOSE not to deal with the mexicans myself, this way I don't get caught. But the downside is that I have to hookup through friends like M.
By this time I am nearly on the verge of tears and almost SMELLING the bag I am to ingest. After a few moments of letting M wake up, N walks in, and we shake hands. N is a homie and I love him to this day. He went off into the Navy somewhere. 'did you call?' N asks, 'yeah!, 30 mins.' I reply, watching as his face turns into sudden disgust. My same exact reaction. This is the most perilous part of the hook-up.
for this part in our most descriptive drug journey, everybody is different. N takes to watching saturday morning cartoons on t.v. M plays video games. A is either still usually sleeping, or chatting online. Me, I'm freaking out, with nothing to do. Everybody is VERY anxious to get their dope. We are all heroin addicts in this apartment, respectively. All of us have been through serious highs and lows. Still living the adolescent naive dream that we could keep up this habit forever. Hell the apartment lease was only a year long. So as said earlier, all junkies have a method they use to wait for their dope to arrive. I usually take a walk around the apartment complex. Telling my friends to call me if the dope comes, I walk out of the front door. Big chill goes through my body, my joints all ache with hideous ferocity. I am barely able to walk, I feel hella weak, but it shouldn't be long now. Just the thing to take off the edge of waiting for dope. This period of waiting can be such a bitch, if you are sitting in a car, in a parking lot somewhere. Keep on calling the mexicans, once at the 45 minute mark, once at the hour and 15 minute mark. . . . I know this is what my friends are doing, no need to call them on my cell and ask them if the mexicans came yet. . .
My mind screams as I realize that I should settle down. These bitches might take more than 2 and a half hours! I'm walking around a little more until I can't stand walking anymore. When I come back to the apartment, I hear M's cell phone go off. Instantly running full speed from the living room to his room, sprinting the distance in a few couple strides, come upon M's cell phone even before he could! I lift up the phone and ready 'mexicans' on the front. FUCKING HELL FUCKING YEAH! Throw M the phone on my way to go dance in the kitchen, and he's out the door. I grab the roll of foil that is inside the kitchen drawer and grab two pieces. One for M. N is right here and we are opening up this long-awaited, and well deserved bag. First tearing the balloon with my fingernails. Digging into and unwrapping the tin foil around that little piece of plastic that holds the dope. Being careful not to let the powder spill out of the little white bag. 'WHERES THE SUCKER?!' I yell into the flustered face of M who is now tearing as equally ravenously at his bag. He takes a precious hand away from his dope for a second to hand me his sucker that was on the floor. LIGHTER! I stick a gooey hit of h to the foil.
Oh balls. This is the payoff. Hunched in a ball, protectively cradling the tin foil and h in one hand while lighting it with the left, the right hand striking the lighter, M's straw in my mouth and the h bubbling up on the foil. First hit is harsh and I complete the entirety of the hit without coughing. Holding in my hit as long as I can, I take another. And another. A feeling settles over my body, getting rid of all my aches. I move my shoulders around and don't notice any chills. My sweating has stopped. Big dark puddles of sweat remain for a while on my shirt. I didn't even nod. But at least I'm not sick any more. No glorious high. Nothing to report besides. . . I don't feel sick any more. 20 dollars was only just enough for me to not be sick.
No glorious high. Nothing to report besides. . . I don't feel sick any more. 20 dollars was only just enough for me to not be sick.
I leave the apartment and decide to go back home, along the way I think to myself of the horrible pain I will be experiencing for being so stupid as to relapse on my third day sober. But no time to think about that now. I'm only on my first.
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