Drug Effects: What’s up with those people standing hunched …

  • 4: 00 am – I haven’t slept in 8 days, so my morning has no clear beginning. However, this is when my boyfriend wakes up and turns on all the lights in the apartment, so it’s when my day really gets going. I mix a shot up for him while he gets dressed and brushes his teeth, then hand it over to him as I tie off and hit myself with my own. I stumble back to the living room with my arm held above my head, clumsily ripping the belt off my bicep before collapsing back onto my blanket on the floor. I put on my “rush playlist” of all my favorite music and try to take deep breaths. My boyfriend is leaving for work. He yells, “Have a good day, I love you!” from the doorway. I’m too high to respond beyond mumbling for him to lock the door.

    6: 00 am – The sun is starting to come up. I sit on the stoop outside our apartment building smoking a cigarette. The first weak rays of morning light feel uncomfortably bright to my dilated eyes. I feel like a vampire. I’m just glad there are no people around. I hate people. I know what they must think of me.

    9: 00 am – I’m bored, so I decide to clean out the bedroom closet. Something shiny in the carpet catches my eye. When was the last time I smoked in here? Not too long ago, surely. That could be meth. It’s probably meth. I’m on my hands and knees with my face 2 inches from the floor, using my phone flashlight to find anything that glints. Okay, Sienna, don’t go crazy with the carpet surfing this time. I’ll allow myself…..eh, one hour. That’s not too bad, right? I won’t get stuck longer than that.

    2: 00 pm – Shit. I got stuck.

    2: 10 pm – I’m trying to figure out which of my clothes are the least dirty. I need to take a shower. I’m sweaty and I smell like ammonia. I need to do laundry, but the laundromat costs money. I don’t have the money for that. I get up to check the half-open blinds in the bedroom window. There’s a black car in the gas station parking lot next door. Wasn’t that car there earlier? I feel like that car is there every day. I’m getting nervous. I try to shut the blinds without being obvious as I grab the freshest jeans and sweatshirt I can find. I think I’ve only worn these 6 times since the last wash. They don’t fit anymore, but I’m happy because it means I’m losing more weight.

    2: 30 pm – I’m waiting for the shower to warm up a little. There are several used rigs on the vanity. I want to do another shot. I should wait until my boyfriend gets home. I rinse out all of the syringes and dump the water into an orange cap, then scrape the 2 baggies in the sink drawer and put that into the end cap too. I draw it up into the least bent needle and bang it. I don’t get a rush, but at least I don’t get cotton fever either. I think I feel a little less brain-fogged now.

    3: 15 pm – The water has run cold. Oh well; it feels nice on my febrile oily skin. While I’m shampooing, I pull out another handful of hair. I get nervous. It feels like there’s someone in the bathroom with me. I yank the shower curtain back. There’s no one there. I pull the curtain closed again. The uneasy feeling won’t go away. I can see their shadow still, waiting.

    3: 45 pm – I put on my clean(ish) clothes, feeling refreshed. I don’t notice how I’m breaking out all over my face until I’m looking in the mirror combing my hair. God, there are pimples everywhere. It’s like every pore is clogged. I tell myself I’ll just pop the big ones and then leave them alone. Don’t get stuck, Sienna, and don’t go too far.

    5: 00 pm – I got stuck and my face is bleeding everywhere. My boyfriend is going to be so mad when he sees.

    5: 20 pm – Have I had anything to eat or drink all day? I don’t think I’ve eaten in 2 days. I’m not hungry now either. My mouth sure is dry, though. I scrounge up a couple crumpled dollar bills and walk to the gas station next door. There’s a lot of people there. Can they tell I’m high? I’m self conscious of the fact that it’s 85 degrees out and I’m wearing a hoodie, but the track marks are too noticeable to leave my arms uncovered. I spend 15 minutes trying to choose between 5 flavors of iced tea. I’m taking too long and I’m in everyone’s way. I go up to pay and drop everything. As soon as I’ve picked it up I drop it again. My face flushes. I hope it’s not still bleeding. I’ve forgotten how to form a coherent sentence, so when the cashier says, “Thanks, have a nice night,” I’m already walking out the door. I smoke another cigarette and chug half of one of my iced teas on the way back home.

    6: 30 pm – I’m watching Bojack Horseman on Netflix, anxiously waiting for my boyfriend to get home so I can do another shot. I promised I’d wait. He didn’t say anything about smoking, though. The bowl from last time is still loaded. I refill the butane torch and take several big hits in quick succession until my heart’s racing and my head tingles. I find a couple Vicodin in a pill bottle in the closet and snort them. I hope my boyfriend was able to get more heroin after work today. I split the last bit with him this morning and I’m starting to feel sick. We have at least a gram of crystal left though. That should last a little while…right? It will. We’ll ration it.

    7: 30 pm – Finally! My boyfriend is home! Before he even takes his shoes off I’m crushing up meth to scoop into a syringe. “Have you been picking?” he asks abruptly, raising an eyebrow. “Uh….no. Did you get any H?” I ask nervously. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a baggie of fine white powder. I jump up and hug him. This is the best night ever! There’s a smile on my face while I wave a lighter quickly back and forth under the spoon, then suck the solution up through a cigarette filter into my already backloaded rig. I dance happily and impatiently around the kitchen while I shake the syringe around to dissolve the meth. I can’t wait.

    8: 00 pm – My boyfriend is sitting on the toilet trying to hit; I’m on the barstool we keep in the bathroom for this particular occasion doing the same thing. I get a register and inhale sharply in anticipation. The last quarter of the shot starts to burn and makes a bubble under my skin. It takes me probably 30 seconds to re-register and finish, but it’s too late — I’ve already ruined it. I feel like crying. I got a rush, but it was nowhere near the one I was looking for. I’m so mad. I immediately start to prep another shot, but my boyfriend stops me and tells me it’s not safe and I have to wait. I can’t see through the tears. Life is so unfair.

    11: 00 pm – My boyfriend falls asleep on the living room floor with South Park blaring in the background. Lucky bastard has ADHD; he sleeps every night. That and the fact that he takes enough Klonopin to tranquilize a horse. I don’t like benzos; they mute that exhilirating spun feeling. I like being wired. It makes me feel alive.

    1: 00 am – I decide to go for a walk. I hate the dark because I see shadow people hiding everywhere and every car or person that passes makes my chest tighten, but I like the feeling of anonymity and quiet as well as the beauty of the neon and streetlights all running together in my somewhat blurred vision. I feel a pang of sadness as I wonder what it would be like to be a normal person who feels real emotions and isn’t a tweaker and can go outside during the day to do normal-person things.

    2: 30 am – I get back to the dark apartment and turn off the TV since it’s just playing infomercials. I listen to my boyfriend’s rhythmic breathing as I flip between Pinterest, Facebook, and Reddit disinterestedly. I finish off the bowl from earlier out of boredom. I’m sweaty, so I blast the A/C.

    3: 30 am – I wake my boyfriend up in a panic to tell him there are police pounding on the door. He rubs his eyes and snaps, “You’re hearing things again. I promise there’s nothing there. You need to sleep today. God, how long has it been — over a week?” I blink at him. “I don’t want to sleep. One more shot.”

    4: 00 am – I am only allowed to put heroin in my shot this morning. After I’m done, my boyfriend hands me a Klonopin and a beer. “Sleep well, I love you,” he says in exasperation before kissing my forehead. I’m asleep before I even hear the door close. The crash is dark, dreamless, and fitful. The withdrawals will wake me by the time my boyfriend gets home, if not sooner, and then it will start again.

    (I’m 57 days clean as of this writing, and words cannot express how grateful to have escaped that monotonous torture I am, having just relived a typical day in detail. There but for the grace of God go I.)

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