April 30th 1998: Cutting It Close

So this is day three of my methadone treatment so far it has been moderately successful. I haven’t touched any junk in two days so far and I haven’t had any symptoms of withdrawal. As long as I have had my daily dose of mojo juice I may just be able to keep this up.

Since being in the methadone program I have found that this elixir, created by the Nazis as a cheap morphine substitute at the height of wartime, has left me with a feeling of complete and utter… I don’t know, emptiness? It’s like for the first time in a year I feel almost normal, almost. It’s not the normal that comes with being clean and sober, this is different. It’s different because I know its fake, it feels fake and it’s inexplicable. I feel normal like I’m clean but it just doesn’t feel natural. And it’s this fallacy that has left me empty inside.

This evening when I went to the clinic to get my magic potion I found myself having to dodge dealers left and right. Having been a regular on this scene for the last few years, I was pretty well acquainted with a lot of the guys on the street; most had taken to calling me “white boy” since I was the only non-Chinese guy to cop with such frequency. I must have shaken my head to about eight guys, the head shake being the universal signal of “No, I don’t want drugs, thank you have a nice day.” Though that shake can very easily change to a nod, the universal symbol for “Yes I do want buy your illegal substances.”

By the time I reached the clinic there were about a hundred angry patients all eager to get their serving for the day but the clinic doors were shut. At this point I had already begun to feel the signs of withdrawal creeping up on me, my nose was sniffling my legs were starting to hurt, I was in dire need of my juice.

After thirty minutes or so the gate to the clinic swung open, the hundred people in front of and behind me started shoving their way up the stairs. Once some order was gained I realized I would be there for well over an hour before I got my hit of refreshment. This was going to pose a problem; I was now past the point of eager as my withdrawal grew into a full-blown hunger.

My mother had already been paging me for well over an hour and I had to get home, I don’t think I could have pulled staying for another hour, what was I to do? “FUCK IT!” I was desperate, I did the only thing I could think to do, I walked down stairs and crossed the street and picked up a bag.

As I sat in the stall of the McDonald’s bathroom preparing my shot all I could think was that I didn’t want to score, this was the last thing I wanted to do. I justified to myself in a multitude of ways, saying I had no other option, I was at the end of my rope, and it’s not my fault.

Now my efforts over the last three days were all in vain, I would have to start this cleaning process all over again, I was cutting it close. I graduate high school in a couple of weeks and if I time this three week detox just right I will be able to be clean once I go on to work, or maybe college, I don’t know. What I do know is if I don’t clean up now before I move on to the next phase of my life, wherever I went, I would die there. Well, at least I’d feel like I was going to die.