Citation: Benjamin. "A Few Lines on Heroin: An Experience with Heroin (exp9989)". Erowid.org. Jul 12, 2005. erowid.org/exp/9989
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Heroin was the last thing I would have imaged my friend was referring to when he hinted at a present he was holding for me. I actually envisioned Nathan sitting by the phone holding a potted fern or some other such nonsense, giggling at the thought my deflated expectations. Nevertheless, when I arrived at his apartment that night I was confronted by a petite, foul smelling rock of black tar heroin provided by a rather seedy individual who's name I'll refrain from using.
After exchanging names and innocent, non-drug related conversation, the aforementioned sleazy individual procured a coffee grinder for preparing heroin. I watched, fascinated, as he sprinkled a seemingly small amount of chives into the grinder, followed by several tabs of Benadryl. He launched into a rather longwinded lecture on the intricacies of 'cutting cheese' and offered tips on where to by Benadryl and coffee grinders. I politely declined.
I had to admit, I was more than a bit anxious at this point. Several long, darkish brown rails lay waiting for my nostrils to gather them up one by one. I paused before bending over them, straw in hand. This, after all, was heroin. I had run the typical gambit of teenage narcotic consumption; large quantities of marijuana, acid, amphetamines, cocaine, ecstasy and even a few oddballs like PCP. But, as I said, this was heroin. I know well the throes of psychological addiction; I used to smoke several bowls every night before falling asleep. But never, not even in the coke days, had I been held in the vice-like grip true physical withdrawal. With all the other drug induced experiences of my life standing in petty in comparison to the one I was about to undergo, I leaned over and began to blow my first rail.
I began to notice one particular effect very quickly; it hurt like fucking hell. I had snorted coke and a number of crushed pills, but nothing had caused my pore nostrils such a searing, burning pain. But, the importance of that pain shrunk as I began to feel the effects of the drug. Everything began to slow down a bit, or rather I began to slow down. I sat down on the couch and chilled for a bit as a feeling of warmth and pleasure crept over every inch of my skin. After some amount of time (time becomes fairly irrelevant) I was very, very high.
Heroin is like no other physical sensation I have ever felt. No, its not like rolling, so don't even ask. When you're on scag, you don't need some candy bracelet wearing yokel to massage you're back or blow Vapo-rub in your face. You don't need anything of the sort, and you don't need anything at all. I've heard it compared to an orgasm, but no orgasm I've had has taken blanketed my entire body with absolute, unadulterated GOODNESS for so long. Nothing outside of the heroin experience matters. The only world that exists is the small, warm and very, very comfortable bubble of pleasure that has enveloped your drooping human frame. Someone will inevitably pipe up and ask how it feels or what its like, and you'll nod or smile like an idiot or mumble something. You'll find it very hard to respond; thinking is not worth the time or effort, feeling is all that matters. I'm convinced that there is no such thing as an experience more visceral than heroin. When you're on heroin, you know that no-one feels as good as you do, and subsequently no-one else matters. Soon after you come to this understanding, you will begin to nod off. Right before descending into a tumult of bizarre dreams you'll know that no rosy cheeked cherub has ever slept so well.
And then you'll wake up, just as I did. You might feel a bit frightened by the whole experience; I certainly did. I won't lie and say it was awful, because it wasn't. On the contrary, it was fucking beautiful. But, it was the kind of beautiful that's reserved for dying and seeing god, so I think I'll leave it alone from here on out.
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