I really suck at not doing heroin.
I suck so much that I need to take a drug that
renders me physically immune to opiates. I’ve been on Suboxone for a month now.
The first week was wonderful. As that first strip dissolved in my mouth the monkey
on my back slowly retracted its claws from deep within my shoulder blades. For
the first time in over a year my thoughts weren’t dominated by heroin. It felt
like I could breathe for the first time in ages, like I finally had my life
back.
Now I’m not so sure I want it back.
That’s just like me, isn’t it? I never know what the
fuck I want. I’m always caught up in how things used to be, watching movies of
the past while the present slips by behind my back. Suboxone is not like other
opiates. Initially it offered a slight high, but that quickly faded. It offers
the same irritability, excessive sweating, pinned pupils, and low sex drive as
other opiates, without any of that pesky euphoria or contentment. I’m stuck in
drug purgatory, a grey world between sobriety and withdrawal where I’m just
sort of… Ok.
“We’ve got a bit of a problem here, Harry…” Dr. Matthews
says as he opens up a manila folder. My heartrate jumps but slows back down as
I notice he already has my next script written out on his pad. “Your urine
tested clean, so I know you haven’t been using…” He continues as he thumbs through
page after page. These cocksuckers run a tight ship. I’m tested weekly for any
and all drugs, including alcohol. Can you believe that shit? I certainly can’t.
But like any good junky, I came prepared for this kind of fuckery. My tests are
every Friday. Alcohol is out of my system within three days. Alcohol is far
from my weapon of choice in the fight against my head, but it’ll do.
“The problem… Hiccup!
Ugh, excuse me…” Dr. Matthews grunts. Dr. Matthews is an obese middle aged man
that stinks of cigarettes. The whole concept of fat doctors is one I’ve always
found funny. The jokes really do write themselves, don’t they? But hey, I’m a
junky, I get it. He’s got a double chin, I’ve got track marks. Neither of us
want to be here right now. I wonder what poor choices led him to his side of
the desk. Dr. Matthews circles two numbers on a sheet and slides the folder
towards me. “See this? That’s your urinalysis. Every week we send your urine over
to a lab, and they tell us exactly
how much Suboxone is in your system each week. I’m not gonna bore you with the
details, but your numbers are very low. You’re only getting about 40% of your
medication at the rate you’re going, which means one of two things… There’s a
problem with ingestion, or… You’ve been selling your medicine.”
I haven’t been selling my subs, though the thought
has certainly crossed my mind. Once I saw how hard these guys go, though, I
decided against it. I got bitched out by Dr. Matthews last week for having low
numbers, and knew I’d hear the same shit this week. My subs come in an orange
film, not unlike the Listerine strips that dissolve in your mouth. I have to
take these god damn things sublingually, by letting the strip dissolve in my
mouth over thirty minutes. Thirty god damn minutes. Why they can’t just give me
a fucking pill is beyond me…
I sigh and look at the floor. I’ve rehearsed this in
my head all week. “I figured this would come up. The reason my numbers are low
this week, is because, well… I uh… I’ve been experiencing some… Embarrassing
side effects.” I begin. Dr. Matthews furrows his brow and nods for me to
continue. I pull a pill bottle out of my pocket with two unused Suboxone strips
inside. “I skipped my dose on Saturday. I was really, really, constipated. It
had been over a week since I, uh… Had a bowel movement. Obviously having been
addicted to heroin in the past this wasn’t anything I hadn’t dealt with before,
y’know? And what I used to do is just wait ‘till withdrawal set in and it’d
usually, y’know… Come out.” I sell my story well. Dr. Matthews opens up the
bottle, checks the contents, and nods. “Well, that’d certainly explain it. But
you really shouldn’t be skipping your doses, Harry. That withdrawal sets in and
the cravings will come right back, tenfold. You have to be vigilant. Don’t let
this happen again, alright? Take a stool softener or a laxative next time. Here’s
your script.” “Thanks Dr. Matthews, my numbers will be higher next week, I
promise.”
The same pharmacist that once sold me my syringes
now fills my Suboxone script. I must admit, being a legal drug addict is pretty
cool. I can go right into the pharmacy and get my goods instead of waiting
around for hours for a phone call that might never come. I sigh as I put a strip
in my mouth and the tongue-numbing chemical citrus taste burns my taste buds. I
extensively researched any and all methods of abusing these damn things to no
avail. I did try shooting them a few times, but it did little more than harden
my veins.
I don’t know what I expected to get from this shit.
I thought it would finally free me of the heroin cravings that haunted me
whether awake or asleep, and it does. I’m numb, but not the numb I’d like to
be. Without the euphoria to supplement the numbness, I’m just sort of… here. Not
happy or sad. I’m used to either being in a state of chemically-induced bliss
or crippling, suicidal depression. I’m not used to being… normal.
I miss boners. Masturbation has gone from one of my
favorite pastimes to a chore. When I do decide to go clean out the gutters
downstairs, it’s nearly impossible to finish, and if I do, the payoff is
minimal. In my previous attempts at getting clean, the real world would rush
back at me at full volume and ultra-high resolution. My emotions would come
back too. Music would give me goosebumps, sad commercials would make me cry. It
didn’t always feel good, but I felt alive. I guess that’s what life is for most
people.
And now I’m here again. Why am I still surprised? I can
go ahead and add Suboxone to the long list of drugs that can’t fix me. It may
keep me off heroin, but I have to get off them eventually, and when I do… What
then?
The depression is coming back. Ah, who am I kidding?
That bastard never left. He leaves little clues around my head to let me know
he’s still there. I spent all of Sunday in bed, rising only to piss, take another
Sub, some Benadryl, and some whiskey, which when taken together, induces a deep
slumber. While I’m no longer technically a heroin
addict, I still do heroin addict shit.
I sit on the toilet, but nothing comes out. I sit at
the computer, but nothing comes out. E-mails pile up, but I’m too anxious to
check them. It’s been so long since I’ve written anything, and when I do write,
its shit. Fuck. I thought this would make things different, but it’s more of
the same.
Unable to take more of the same, I call one of my
few remaining links to the craziness: Middle Man Mike. He doesn’t answer. Stan
just got out of jail. It figures that I’ve gotten out just as he’s gotten back
in. He asked me to help him out, but I decline. Juanita is on vacation, back
home in the Dominican Republic, not that she’d ever meet up with a stranger
anyway. The tables have turned while he was away, and I could become his middle
man. But it’s hot out there, and I’m fine inside.
I text Middle Man Mike looking for blow. Maybe coke
will help me get this fucking book done. In the meantime I head over to the
liquor store. A group of kids wait nervously outside the door, just out of view
from the owner. I smile as I get out of my car, walking slowly past them before
one finally gathers the balls to ask me…
“Hey, mister?!”
The other kids burst into poorly-controlled
laughter. “Yeah?” I reply. “C-could you, um… Get us something? Please?” I take
a peek into the store. The owner’s busy. These kids can’t be older than 14,
should I really do this? Then again, 14 year olds can’t drive…
“Alright, alright, what do you guys want? Quick, I
don’t the guy in there to see us…” I say to the group. Each kid fishes around
in their pockets hurriedly and hands me a few crumpled dollar bills. “We want a
handle of Rubinoff, and two packs of Marlboros.” One says. “Grape rubinoff!” Adds
one of the others. “Ruby, huh? Alright guys, tell you what, wait around the
other side of the store. I’ll be right out, ok?” I tell them. I grab their
Rubinoff and a fifth of Jameson for myself. I thought I smelled weed while I
was out there, so I decide to spoil them. “Yeah, can I also get a pack of Game
cigarillos, too? Thanks brotha.”
“Thanks man!” One of the kids says when I return.
They look at the plastic jug of vodka like it’s Crown Royal. “No problem guys.
No driving, alright!?” “Aww man he got us blunt wraps!” I hear one of them say
as I walk back to my car.
I check my phone as I set down my bag and crack the
bottle of Jameson. No messages. “Fucking Mike…” I mumble to myself. I
aggressively pour a stiff glass of Jameson, admitting defeat to my coke
cravings. I pick a random episode of The
Wire and get my buzz on. Suboxone makes drinking less pleasurable too. The
drunk feels almost dirty, more sedating, and I fight a losing battle against
sleep by chugging Monster energy drinks. I’m really starting to hate this shit…
I wake up to a news feed full of RIP’s and old
pictures. A former classmate of mine passed away, apparently of an overdose.
That’s the second one this year. This fentanyl shit is out of control. Rest in
Peace, Alex. Another one gone too soon…
“You heard about Alex, right?” Jack asks me over the
phone.
“Yeah, I heard. Fucked up, right?”
“Yeah, I didn’t even know he fucked with that shit.
Guess there’s been a hot batch going around or something. Must make you happy
to be off that shit, huh?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah, man. Absolutely. Glad to be
done with that bullshit….”
Though I’m no longer a heroin addict, I still lie like one.
