Hello lovelies.. [final edit]
I am just sorting through my "virtual" shoebox of internet ramblings and poetry.
Amazing what you find and funny too. Have I really been keeping journals and musings for as long as I think ? Wow. God bless the internet !
Feel free to rumage around in the shoebox with me. It is raining outside and I have made you and I a lovely cup of frothy hot choclate.. so get comfy.
Renton finale quote from Trainspotting
RENTON (voice-over): So why did I do it? I could offer you a million answers, all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person, but that's going to change. I'm going to change. This is the last of that sort of thing. I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm going to be just like you. The job, the family, the fucking big television, the washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electrical tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisurewear, luggage, three-piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing the gutters, getting by, looking ahead, to the day you die.
One of my first Heroinegirl emails
My daughter Dana was addicted to heroin by the age of 16. She had gotten into the drug scene when she was 13 by attending the all night Raves in Orlando. Her drug of choice then was XTC and after doing that over 200 times-she got into heroin. She grew to hate the drug that robbed her of all of her dreams. She never got to have the high school graduation she dreamed of and never made it to a prom.
She tried rehabs and counseling, but she told me drugs were the only way of life she knew. All she lived for was heroin. She was able to get into the Orlando methadone clinic when she turned 18 and was on the highest dose until she was arrested for failure to appear in court, and had to withdraw cold turkey in a Brevard County Correctional Center.
She was so glad to finally kick heroin and methadone and when she was released from jail 44 days later, the first thing she wanted to do was to party. She had planned to party for about a week and then try to get her life together. She died 2 weeks later from a mixture of xanax, valium, methadone, and cocaine.
She died homeless and alone.
She had lost all of the friends she once had and had lost her fiancee 6 months before she herself died from an overdose of street methadone.I did not know she had died for seven days until I was informed.
All I have left of my beautiful daughter are her ashes and my love for her-and that will never die. Please add her details to your memoriam lists and if you could please mention this ; I love and miss you Dana.
I pray you finally have the peace you were unable to find in this world.
my boy friend
Thank you so much for sharing your story. I have cried many times reading your posts and I really need to do that sometimes. I'm a girfriend of a heroin addict. He's been addict for about 3yrs. . He stays clean for about 6 months and then relapses all the time. I really scared because this last time he almost died and I'm the one who found him. I love this man a lot and I'm afraid that one day I'll come home and he'll be dead. I dont know what to do. He says this time is diffrent, but I dont know if I should believe him or not. I guess any advice would be good. I would really appreciate it.
Diary Entry dated early last year, before methodone treatment
It's 9.52 pm
Tonight I am resting. I feel a quiet inside me. A forced peace. A new kind of brave. I close my eyes and try to feel for signs. Nothing. I am glad to be moving forward. Yet on the back bead of perspiration, I am sliding back into my past. Sliding so fast.
Then I'm there.
I know this because I know this sadness so very well.
I'm crouched around the spoon full of gear , wax candles melting steadily into bile coloured carpet. Blackened foil, lids and blood. Is it real?
Yes , it so is. This is only a memory. So I tell myself. Yet I see it. Often.
I'm standing above my ghost. From behind her face is hidden although I know straight away this girl is me. Her head is bent in concentration over her arm and she is biting her lip as the blunt syringe bends and quivers as she tries to push through the scar tissue. I search the space surrounding her, in my reflective clarity, looking for the angel that surely must of existed, as I am here to type to you, now. So something saved me. Why was I so alone? Where is the light?
I just don't know. Did I deserve a miracle ? I just don't know.
In the flickering candlelight we all hold hands - my older self, my future self, and the angel all intertwined and heads bowed. We hope so much that this will work, yet we are still stuck in this terrible headspace of doubt and fear. I know at the end of this week, I will release the fear , the worry and the hand and finally step out of that circle of darkness....and move towards the light..
Together my current self and my past self, together we weep. It is coming to a close. This time, it has to work. No more excuses.
I'm angry and I'm tired of all this consequence. It is now I realise I must leave this room of sordid past and pain, and begin my own journey of acceptance.
I dont say goodbye, Im too angry now. Maybe one day, I will understand it all. But not now.
A very young HG on a forum that is long gone..
I love falling asleep when all you can hear is the radio, quietly playing into the night . The peace is around you and the quiet is all of you . Yet the soft mumur of the song doesnt invade your thoughts , rather take you deeper into peace. You feel him breathing beside you and both of you lose space and time...and it just doesn't matter at all , at that moment in song as you slide into slumberland.
I love when I'm out on the dancefloor and I hear my favorite song begin to play. All the colourful lights beckon me to dance. I am twirling in the reverred melody and for a moment , I'm the star - yet I don't really care who is watching me. The atmosphere glitters with smiles and bass flows through the room. I feel every word and beat, as goosebumps tingle over me and my body spins ever so lightly..
I love those late night moments when I'm on the internet and I'm as giddy as chips. It's awfully late yet I'm laughing , I'm tired but I'm interested . We both should go to bed and we say this to each other, several times. But I am so excited to make this connection. Whether I'm crying with laughter or helping someones tears of anger or passionately debating my point of view. Friends from all corners of the world. How beautiful you are. You don't know how much you mean.
For people share with me themselves in a way that is truly unique. As the music pours through my headphones , my fingers tap away into the night. As my fingers spell my feelings - great golden bridges of understanding reach out to those I wish to share my story with. You and I are more than cables and keyboards. Take me to places I never imagined, to people I never knew existed. It is a special place, sweet internet.
My first journal entry as a clean and living survivor
I’m having a bit of trouble sleeping.
I explain it to the shrink that it is like a stream of data is constantly going through my mind. Reams and reams of snapshots of people, places and pain. People I feel I have known, yet there faces are blacked out by a mixture of shame or pure lack of information. Huge expanses of blackness lurk in the patchwork of my mind. In the pit of these dark holes, lies the foreboding. What exactly did I do? Surely I didn't. Too many people express the inability to recall, in all detail the particulars of a traumatic period, can be quite distressing. If we can’t recall and live through the pain we floated through when we were on drugs - How can we ever advance? Have we stained the future with caution?
My memories are so real and vivid like sharp glass, enticing me to look closer, but dare not touch it. The feelings catch in my throat and I cannot swallow. I am afraid to write about my memories. Maybe I should just move on. But I want to help others. I think I have a gift. Hmm. I don't know about that for sure though.
I sat on my bed the other day, naked and dazed from the hot shower. Showers used to be, to stop the sweat. To stop the smell. Now, I cleanse my face and pamper myself. It feels so good I might explode.
My skin is soft and supple. My eyes shine bright. I cry less. I smile more. My skin tingles as the terry toweling clings to my steamy embrace. In the steady stream of the shower I peak out into the glorious day in front me. Sunbeams peeling in through wisps of steam. The heady scent of fresh air blowing gently on my face. I hear a lawnmower and I smell coffee. Yet, I am not afraid. I am well.
I look in the mirror and can’t believe the girl is alive to stare back at me. I remember smoothing moisturizer all over my body. I applied a generous amount of a rich body butter to lather my hands then followed them over my blister scarred feet, I worked them up my legs, strong and healthy, further over my now healthy tummy. A gentle swell there from a healthy breakfast. No sharp bones or bumps. Just sweeping curve and satin skin. My. I was proud. I keep looking for signs of my turbulence past. Perhaps skull and crossbones should be tattooed onto our foreheads, I don’t know.
I smooth more cream down my arms, strong arms with a noticeable definition and a healthy glowing tan. I smooth the coconut cream all over my forearms in long, luxurious strokes, the cream pools inside a scar on my inner elbow. That’s all I have left. Amazing. After the huge task of survival, my only mark is two small craters. I move my finger back and forth over my scar and remember the importance of this sacred ground. It’s all that is left. A private reminder. Yet I look at my soft clean body in the mirror and it seems like a gift all over again. I smile. My body is then complete.