A Note From The Writer



Welcome to the archived blog posts (when I was a wee blogger, wet behind the ears and not aware of spell check and various other gramatical structures!) I have kept the writings unedited or reworked as I am in the process of doing a massive rewrite of my entire life, many posts I have yet to publish and this blog was merely writing practise for the massive job of sorting out my emotions whilst retelling the story as cuttingly real and dramatic as the real memory was.. some of the posts contained are raw, streaming emotion.. many posts although painful to write, had a tremendously cathartic effect - cheaper than therapy one would say. I welcome new and old readers to keep in touch via my author email (sensualexplorersatHotmaildotcom) if you have any questions or wish to share the feelings and emotions raised by my work.
I will announce the publish date and title whenever it happens and I have been clean now for three years. It is possible.
But it is never easy. It's a lifelong journey, I will always be an addict, but I must stay one step ahead of myself and protect all that can be ruined in the eternal struggle to be
at ease once again, comfortable in this skin.
Thank you for being a part of my story.

Friday, October 22, 2004

Twenty One - Final Edit


Memoir
I am twenty one today. I don't know your customs but in Australia this is a landmark birthday. A celebration of achievement. A mark of success. It is your "coming of age". You have a big party, the kind of party that your grandparents go to and you look back at the photo's and go sheesh what was I thinking with that hairdo ?" Everyone has a great time, your Mum gets tipsy and you put it down as the moment that it seems to be all pushing forward..and you are finally ok with it.
Then there is me.
Back then, I wasn't ready to come of age. I wasn't ready at all.
My eyes look older and face a little sadder. Does anyone hear me? I don't think anyone is left around to listen. Fair Enough.
Today it is my birthday. I don't have any friends to invite over for a barbecue, I don't have tables bustling with presents, I don't have a boyfriend who thinks I am everything and special. I don't have people calling me on the telephone with well-wishes and warm fuzzies. I don't have whatever breakfast I want to eat, just for today. I don't have any clothes of my own, much less new ones or a special outfit. I don't have a future. My parents think I am dead. Maybe that will be easier now. I don't know how much I am breaking hearts, I don't know how many people notice the date and wonder ..Will my Father realise over a beer, long gone flat with the time lost, that he has not seen me for nearly two years now. We still see each other in our dreams. In my dreams, everything is forgotten and I am his little "pretty-pretty" again. I don't disspoint him. Will he order another , surrounded by sad strangers, will he ramble about me as if they missed knowing an angel?
I wonder..
Will he stoke his memories of me for this 21st Birthday ..and dare to hope that I still do the same? Becuase I do. I always do.
Maybe my mother will look out the window on this special day of mine and will she wonder ? Will she think of what could've been. I always do.
Maybe, I am hoping. Maybe that is not such a bad thing.
Maybe the nieghbours would talk over the back fence..
"Whatever happened to Heroinegirl? Such a sweet girl. Such a shame."
Maybe my friends wondered the same. Maybe some people laughed.
Then they go back to the newspaper or taking out the trash. Life goes on.
That is why you have to make it for you and only for you. If you knew how little people thought of you , you would not worry or care - half as much. People worry about themselves. No one owes you anything - you only owe it to yourself .
I love that fact about life ! It means we are all in with a shot at being whatever we want to be. I learnt a long time ago, you only ever quit life when you stop trying.
I have never really enjoyed a big fuss being made over myself. Bother and birthdays always make me feel really uncomfortable. The Stepmother was not really into Birthdays or special days , I remember that she was mostly tired and resentful that my dad was such a drunk. Normally I got a cake and some presents. It was always fair, never loving. A child can feel that.
For the first minute of my 21st birthday I woke up to the worst sickness as we were in the middle of the worst heroin drought in Australian history. It was dangerous and deadly times. People were being held at knifepoint for gear and we had been holed up in our room for three awful, awful days. The lowest of the low. Vomit and chills and terrible migranes that blinded , clinging in wild darkness to the towel rack as I doubled over in cramps, hurling bile into the toilet. The Ex was slumped in the shower, and had been there for most of the night. The air was heavy with pot. The smell of cigarettes sent me heaving into the bowl again. I begged him to stop. Today was not going to be anything special.
After almost two hours of this agony , I lay exhausted and bathed in sweaty sunlight and tried to imagine what I would be doing today if I had never put the needle into my arm. I would be with my family. I would be with my friends. I would not be a whore. Do I bleed just to know I am alive ?
I am who I am, and the day just keeps going on. If I tried to care then the sickness just got worse. Whenever I got a little more weaker it was only because the heroin got stronger.
But as you know, this tale of woe does get better. Luck did indeed turn, the sun did shine upon me in time with kindness, just not at this time. I was not ready to get clean. I was not ready to control myself. So it singed me, it was as if the sunrays penetrated me with a reality that only accompanies the starkness of the day , which back then , burnt me with all it had.
A quick favor called in and the dealer is on his way. Not the usual guy, the guy at the very bottom of the list. The guy no-one calls unless it is really, really bad. When it is like this. You could hope as much as you wanted, but you could also mainly expect the gear would be cut mostly with icing sugar. Our usual dealer had been busted a week earlier and now everyone was crawling the walls. It doesn't matter if it's your birthday. Suddenly, that just ain't breaking headlines. We prayed for a moment, that this would end. That the drugs would work. When you get the dope , you can tell pretty much if you have recieved a hit with a fat cut . If it tastes sweet, you normally start to cry and your heart starts to pound. But you will inject it anyway. I promise you that. Then after a few incredulous moments of nothing..while you wait suspended in pathetic hope, facing each other to see if the other person is stoned, you both drain of colour as it sinks in that you have been ripped off again by a dealer that was probably sicker than you. Well, not anymore. He now has your money, and a better place to score.
It will then all return, you will realise that you are still sick, in fact sicker than before but now you don't have that two hundred bucks you just paid for sugar you have in your pantry.
So now, you need to work. Sick. You better do it soon too as you will only get sicker and then no guy will see you with the runs and shivers. And maybe that client knows , he senses your sickness, well then he has you. You will do anything. But will you make it through. I did it many times. It was hard. No one ever said that living on the underbelly of life was easy. Not all clients are innocent to this. Maybe he will sense your desperation. Maybe he will turn to leave..and you will cry and beg. Please stay. I need you. I really really do. Please... and then he will walk away ...and you will wonder how it ever got so bad.
But, we are willing to go down this path.
We pleaded with the dealer to come see us first but as usual, he is taking way too long , due to the masses of urgent and sick junkies on the list, and by now the landlord is pounding on the door. He wants rent. We cannot deal with him. He wants the cleaners to change the sheets. They are covered in mess and bunched in the tight bundle in the corner of the room. The ex is crying now. He is scared. We have never been this sick before. You just can't stop crying when your dope sick. Everything just hits you - and you are so fucking sad. It gets on top of you and your delirious with the most intense hatred of yourself and everything tastes like despair, the sun, the air and your own thoughts. After another back breaking hour we are permitted to go to The Dealer and brave the elements outside. Edgy and keener than ever before, we spring to life in a flurry of spare phone change and dark sunglasses. We are on. The landlord is screaming out to us, as we run away, never quite frightened, never quite proud. We will deal with him. Later.
The heat and the humidity arched through the peak of midday, as I wander alongside the ex like a modern day bambi, clutching his hand desperately as I amble and lurch, delirious and barely conscious. People stare , but we never see you. Blinded by the fright. Haven't you ever wondered why we don't realise how disgusting we are ?
My shoes hurt and they break as The Ex is dragging me along beside him. I have to leave them behind. When can we just..stop..walking ?
The ex hand-picked me some flowers from the petrol station garden while we waited. Then I left them on the bus. I wanted to remember I had them, but it was so easy to forget when you had bigger desires.
But there was plenty more blossoms, and plenty more blew away in the wind.
Plenty more , withered and died. But I never went a day without flowers. Is that not what true love is really about ? Or maybe I needed more ?
My birthday is already half over. I hope it ends soon, so I stop feeling all this emotion. Stop thinking that today should be something - it just couldn't. I only tore deep when I struggled against it. Struggle, was all I wanted.
I did want to keep real. I always knew I would get better. I was a lucky one.
After an urgent exchange of dope and dime, The Ex and I agree to inject in the public toilets behind the local church. Although the last time we did this, the police were called , I cannot wait until I get home. But I don't have to today because today I am 21 ! A special treat. Hooray. Plus I know he is just as keen as me, so we sniff and gag our way through the preparation, terse and deliberate. No love. Only need. Only heroin. No talking. Just blurred movement.
I can almost taste it although I would much rather breakfast.
Honest.
Outside this sordid scene I can hear singing from the church choir - glorious singing - is so wonderful and melodic floating in, almost sweetening the rancid stench of the cubicle. Singing for me and my special day Then I just smell the opiate and I watch with widening eyes as the barrel plunges into my ready and aching arms. It hurts nowdays. Then the singing stops. It is, so bare and so dirty and sad. I feel like an animal. After "fixing ourselves" we will go to the shelter and get some bread and frozen pies. These are donated by charity to help kids "like us" I didn't like to take them, but I figured that the food would at least support The Ex, as god knows we were drowning. Fast. We clean up our needles and faces as we emerge, stoned and starving from the battered toilet. A gnarled old man walks into our shadows. He speaks with anger and spittle sprays forth. They were waiting for us , and they were mad. I don't know how long they had been outside.
" Dirty fucking junkies!" The choir rallies with him. Inching in with indignation. He hates me. He fears me. He does not understand me. He doesn't need to. Not yet. He doesn't see me under the skeleton. Instinctively, I go to challenge him , to make him feel bad , but instead we just run from the throng of people trying to trap us in the small courtyard , pushing past the hands and the words.
"Aids , All they do is spread Aid's" Shaking of heads. I was like the bride of frankenstein.
Lucky today was my birthday. I licked a river of blood that had dried in a crimson streak down my forearm , I had not noticed it in the panic , and it was all about keeping up appearances.
I guess there would be no more frozen pies, so we walked home hungry. I wish I waited at home now, but then again I only thought that cos I was stoned. It was all different then. When the screaming stopped. When the tap tap tap - on the shoulder was satisfied. When the drug was working.. I had lost us another source of food , The Ex didn't speak to me for the rest of the long walk home. I started to cry, just big self pity crocodile tears, just because - you know..
It was my birthday.
My mobile phone beeped. It was a regular client. He had a present for me and wanted to see me and take me for lunch. I was touched that he would remember it was my special milestone, and I accepted the "dose of normalcy". I still have the teddy bear he gave me. I can still taste the wine. I still remember being in that fancy resturant, in a borrowed fancy dress and I felt like a birthday girl. And I got to keep my clothes on. He drank me in, like I was sweeter than the wine. I still remember how we toasted each other's success and how I was moved beyond tears, I was moved to feel that this man, cared for me. Was that possible ? The little teddy bear had a bright red ribbon and a very brave smile, to this day I treasure it. It is all I have of that special day. I did not have to be with other clients as he paid me for the whole day and paid me well enough that it made that day special, as I could finally have time to think about what was actually happening in my life.
Time to breathe. What a wonderful gift. I will never forget it.
I know he felt stupid when he gave me his thoughful gifts and small card to me. He spoke about how I was the most beautiful person and how I deserved so much more than he could ever give. He was a generous and well heeled pilot and he offered to send me to the finest rehab in the state. The only condition was I had to leave The Ex. Of course, on this basis, I had to decline. I knew that without me, he would die. I knew it with every inch of my tortured soul. He understood that I was loyal and said that, as a result he could not bare to see me anymore. He was in love with me and it confused me and relieved me, in paradox. He was a special man and one of my favorite clients. This post is for him and for all the lovely clients, whom extend to us the sincerities of chivalry and the kindness of honesty within the sometimes restrictive relationship between WG and client.
Reluctantly, The client dropped me home and I have never seen him look so sad.
He drove away and for yet another heart wrenching moment I stared at my escape route dissapear into the neon sunset of the far city lights. In the cold and empty night that was left, I could still feel the warmth of the wine , bursting on my lips.
I made myself believe right there and then , that there would be opportunity and I knew that although it would have been smart to go with my head and perhaps get a life I had always dreamed about, as long as I was alive I would always live by my heart and that was who I was, and that - could not be bought. So, I waved him goodbye, a lot easier.
To those clients whom, only ever wish to please, whom always follow the rules and always keep their word - it does not go unoticed or unappreciated that you are proper gentleman , just ask any true lady.
And finally , to the man bearing the teddy bear and the giant heart..
I remember you. You won't remember me - but then again..
Just maybe...Just maybe
You might.

Last Edited

5 comments:

The Anti-Puritan said...

I don't mean to deny or trivialize the pain that your heroin addiction has caused you. But I humbly ask you to consider the possibility that much of your pain was a consequence of the prohibition of heroin, which increases the expense, the health risks, and (maybe worst of all) the shame of the habit. This prohibition came from the urge to condemn and control the lives of others. My point is that history may repeat itself with the new batch of lifestyle choices we're all supposed to hate, like tobacco, fast food, and television.

The Anti-Puritan

crassy boy said...

I felt like I was there; sweating and with my heart pumping. ;|

Anonymous said...

I honestly don't know what to say! But you have shared so much that I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for your honesty, bravery and for being you. Your writing is truly brilliant. All the best. X

HeroineGirl said...

Thank you very much sweets !

Good points raised by the Anti-Puritan , that would seem cogent if my father was not an alcoholic, or that many of friends have died from the side effects of years of heroin abuse, and I do not mean incarceration, I mean they have chronic hep - c , they kill themselves from the agony, or basically they are so doped up, they overdose, run out in front of a car - just some instances that I know.
I do see the merit in prohibition.
Although I want to know more of AP side, I like to be informed. Consider this a mere discussion.
I love to debate things, and I don't want to seem all super hoity-toity ( don't worry I am not) I , like you, just want to understand "the real deal".

Laws and prohibition played a minor role in my addiction. Most of the time, your indoors napping as your life slips on by. I could only think that if heroin was legislated, it would mean more napping.
I mean why push yourself, if your stoned?

Although, it made it harder - I needed all the help I could get to quit and to realise consequence. We would all like to be doped up - wouldn't we? WE would all like to be numb sometimes, to the pains of life. Unfortunately, society is constructed in a way that everyone's minds do need to be on the job. We do need to care about each other and the effects our actions have on not only ourselves, but those we love. Heroin is a serotonin substitute, it replaces your ability to smile, to love , to feel. It is a dangerous place to be.

Sadly, the grasp heroin has on your life is all encompassing, I still think we would find people shooting up in public toilets, just more of them, I still think we would find parents injecting thier children with heroin ( as young as six) to get them to go to "sleep". Not all prostitutes use heroin, so I don't see a decline there - maybe only a few other options.

A heroin user only cares about heroin, which in turn makes you extremely self-orientated, profiecent. It would cut down crime. Mind you, I never once stole anything or broke the law ( pertaining to fuffilling a fully fledged habit)
Plus, please keep in mind that I did partake in the methodone program, and that will be covered extensively in further posts as we arrive to it.
I still found people "shooting" it up, trying to sell it for food money, or resigned to be on it for thier whole lifes.

I think that it is hard for me to generalise , cos I do think I am different to the "cliche" junkie that is depicted in movies, I know this reads as ironic as my blog is, surreal at times and also quite the movie plot. But that is my writing prose, that is in part what kept me apart from resigning myself to that fate of being like that forever. If I did not ever dare to dream, if I ever quitened the internal dialouge that the reader does read on these pages, no amount of government support or help, could of helped me.

In the end, it is a battle only against yourself.

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