I am so torn. Part of me wants to keep on telling the story of how things were, but the healthier part of me wants so much to race forward to the happier days, the mindset from which I write to you today. I don't want my blog to depress people, forever the consumate worrywart, I want my site to inspire - for people to crave more and more knowledge - as my story has a lot to give. Yet I deliberate - at times it will seem all I have to write is about bleakness - but there is so much more to me than just the usual junkie stereotype. I am not trying to sing for a supper.
I am not writing for pity nor rationalisation of what happened. I am ( sometimes too simply) a writer and I love nothing more from life itself , than to articulate in prose that can be as vivid as the universe, it gives me the words to describe it's own beauty. You just need to match the two and henceforth my obsession with writing.
In the five year span of the addiction, there were highlights, lowlights and a lot in between. I guess I am appealing to you, which way do you think we should go? This is a journey we share together, me and you, helping each other to a new level of understanding.
There has only been two times in my illustrious career as heroin-user/ purveyor of sorts, when my life had become a fraction too close to ending. Goodness, I don't like that title. It is too flippant. I honestly don't think the sex and the drugs are both intrinsically connected, in this story. Frankly they just enabled each other's fury - the drugs made the touching easier - the touching made the drugs easier to come by.
Generally speaking though, the majority of clientele are gentle and nervous and unsuspecting of drug abuse. Laxness in sex safety is something I encountered often, and suprised me. In many ways, my own disgust at my own drug demise was proof enough, that no man was ever safe. I knew what some girls were willing to do and what for. So I protected myself first, clients as secondary concern, seems harsh, but so is the reality of what we are doing, if you think about it.
Most clients were touchingly awkward, almost intrepid in exploring the boundaries of sexual deviance , as much as I. At first I was slightly overwhelmed with the mental gymnastics I performed to set up my mindset for selling myself. Don't get me wrong, I was not chiding myself for one moment nor worrying about what people would say. All that mattered is how I was handling it, how I felt about me and what I thought I could handle. As long as I kept that in check, I did not feel so bad. Then with that self belief - 'that this was just a job', and 'that this is what I could do and not get fucked up', I started to earn insane amounts of money.
Together, client and I , share a mutual need. To get the most from what we are doing whilst giving the least away to each other. And so we play this game.
It was indeed a client that first attempted to sway me away from drugs. I gave him a run for his money ( and a few other things ) and between us both being passionately stubborn, I ended up heading down the "wake-up-to-yourself road" and then , I found myself quite startlingly, alone.
I did not take it personal. Some steps you will always , always take alone.
It helped, in that I outgrow people very easily, it sounds callous, but it just seems to me that people in all thier individuality have unique experience to offer , so if someone doesn't personally inspire me or it still doesn't satisfy my social requirements, I normally lose interest. I amusingly reference myself to be like a photographer's flashbulb - before the camera takes the snapshot - I blind you for a moment , capture a smile and illuminate the world in a whole new light. Forever seeing the beauty, forever taking new smiles and forever thier is new experiences to color my kaleidescope of feeling.
Anyways, I am deviating, back to how I nearly died. Not from work, I was smarter professionally than personally , as is often the case with me.
Like a movie on fast forward, the clouds rolled past in crazy pace. Sun rising then sun setting, the tide coming closer then pulling back. Days peeling away like rubbish in a blowing wind. Scattered. Noisy. Unpredictable and dirty. Too soon, it was missed years to weep for. I still miss them.
I remember being so stoned, the the ceiling above lurched and loomed , like a broken rollercoaster hurtling towards the sky, then derailing in a sudden jerk of gravity and before you know it and the shock weakens your wake - you find yourself crashing down , down - down. I heard someone scream, I think it was me.
I had collapsed in the kitchen, my face hot and prickly against the cool tiles. The air was smoky and acrid, the saucepan full of pumpkin soup now burning to the insides of the pan. Minutes pass by. I don't know how long I had been in this position, yet I my stiffness betrayed the minutes I I felt. I just know something is wrong - I - I can't explain it and even if I could you wouldn't understand. I remember thinking, Is this what dying feels like ?
My breath was a faint rasp. Laboured, like it was snarled on my innards and could not escape. The Ex was somewhere in the unit, I could sense something in my peripheral vision -yet I was not concious enough- to fathom what it was.
I could hear only his occasioning murmuring and incoherrent voice in the fog.
Was he desperately calling my name or was I desperately trying to hear it ?
I wish I could turn back time. I wish I had not ever tried heroin. This is how your gonna die. In a fucking kitchen at midday , with your dead boyfriend.
I had a big job the night before and had earnt a record amount of money , entertaining a group of scholars on a houseboat on the fringes of town. I had kindly "rewarded" ourselves with a bigger shot than usual and now it was caining us. We had clearly had too much and we knew this about five seconds after it hit our veins.
We were dancing with death and it was a dangerous buzz. I wondered if my lips were blue. Like in the movies. 'I am a sad kinda moviestar' I thought as my eyes closed over.
Had The Ex died yet? His breath, however choked , was no longer within earshot. Silence now. Death stalking through our unit, picking through the pieces. Trying to find treasure of the useless forms that withered below. "Please see something good in me to save me God "
The Ex ?
He could not help me. He was battling for his life. I had to stay alive and maybe save him. Oh my. I am so frightened for us. So much , I want to just rest my head.
'Don't shut YOUR FUCKING EYES.' It was all I keep saying.
I just want my love to tell me they love me. Then , I promise to give up.
But my lips were blue, and they did not part for breath nor speak.
I couldn't move and all of sudden I was 'oh so tired'.
"Dont shut your eyes " I kept repeating.
Over and over.
" Dont shut YOUR FUCKING EYES on me !!"
Moaning in the distance. Oh my fucking god I am dying. It was all I could do from slipping under, was to scare myself shitless.
I can't tell you how resolute I was. I believe when faced with the immediate threat of death, and I mean - immediate - your body does some really powerful things. My body did not want to die. I was not going out like this.
Plumes of acrid smoke fill the tiny kitchen, the saucepan hissing and spitting and spweing forth toxic smoke, which made me all the more drowsy.
The fog got deeper. I hadn't eaten for a day or so and my head was shutting down. I felt The Ex's strong hands pick up my spindly shoulder blades and throw me into the sink. A glass of cold water over my face. "Im fine" I waved him away, annoyed.
"Im not going to die" I rasped. I looked in his face and I knew. He looked so scared, like I had never seen before in our five years together. I don't want to play anymore, I dont want to lose you it said.
Then I am sobbing and coming to, peels of concious licking into my eyes, my skin color going from pallid to poor in a few moments. Someone loves me to save my life. Here I come.
More water, and then dragging me out into the lounge. Where are we going. I don't care - as long as I am not dying.
Your going to drop" he slapped my face . "Fuck off " I attempt to spit out. Somehow though I fall asleep or something mid sentence.
A hard crack to the right cheek. The sting , dull but sharp, a red flash across my washed out expression.
"Your ruining my hit" I say groggily, struggling to appear normal.
The Ex, in turn was blue at the corners of his mouth and his eyes where pure whites. I slapped his face in return and laughed a hollow evil laugh.
We were not beating each other to death. We were keeping each other alive.
Sounds fucking crazy right. Absofuckinglutely.
"Why dont we both just fucking die, you go first bastard. I'll meet you in hell".
It was sad to speak like this , the love of my life, and all I have to give is deliberate shards of hate and pain, polished with every time we traded our standards for the demands of the drug. Until deep within our eyes, our pupils glittered stones of pupils held no wanting of love, but for the drug itself.
But somehow, he held on, perhaps he knew I wouldnt bring him back anymore, if I was dying myself.
It was two o clock in the afternoon.
Just another day.
No one knew what we were doing. No one knew where we were living. No one knew if I was alive or dead. Not that I made it easy. It was like I just fell off the face of the earth.
And that is just the way a junkie likes it. I am never proud of this , or this day.
A scratching sound at the door, louder than rodents.
An eviction notice was slid under the door.
"Fuck you" I said, to no-one in particular.
Then I fell asleep on the kitchen floor with Justin in my arms.
Thanks guys, that was a hard one tonight.
See you guys later.