November 25

April 28th 1998: The Magic Number

So today is the day. The day where I take the first baby steps towards change. As I mentioned before, numerous times, I am starting to hate the person I am becoming and I need to change. Today I began that process, today I took my first steps towards quitting heroin for good. Today I started methadone.

After school I went over to meet Chris, he said he would come and keep me company over at the clinic. And you know sometimes I forget it but I’ve got some pretty good friends. I mean who wants to spend their evening waiting by the methadone clinic, seriously? Who does that? Oh I also ran into Pash but he was just there to cop.

At 6pm We arrived at the Yau Ma Tei Methadone Clinic and I began the registration process for treatment. It seems ironic to me that the methadone clinic, my main source of dope for the last 2 years is, from now on, going to become my place of recovery.

For the next 45 minutes I went about the procedure for methadone treatment. Signing consent forms, speaking to the social worker and taking the always-fun urine test. After going through my drug history with the social worker I was supposed to go and see the doctor but he wouldn’t be there for another hour so I had to wait.

Sitting on the awkward, splintery wooden benches in the main reception area I ran into Phil Mcghee. Phil was one of those old school junkies (well as old school as you can be at 19) who had been in the methadone program for years now. After catching up with the normal, boring chitchat we decided to split a bag. Since I still had to wait a while for the doctor, we decided to go pick up.

I told Chris he could take off since I was just waiting around anyway and walked downstairs with Phil. The bag was pretty shitty. But then again the neighborhood has been dry for weeks now so what can you expect?

Phil and I copped and walked a couple of blocks down; we squatted down and fixed behind a giant cement column that held up an overpass. I could hear the cars whizzing above, people going places, doing things. Maybe I could be one of those people some day.

I stumbled back to the clinic, taking my time as wandered the streets that I frequented so regularly. I stopped at a guy I knew to buy some bootleg Marlboro Reds that had just come in from the Philippines.

The doctor was in by now and he asked me all the medical questions associated with long term intravenous drug use. Questions about AIDS, hepatitis and any multitude of disease you can get by shooting heroin. It didn’t take as long as it should of, I feel that the doctor was really just half-assing it. He spent the prerequisite amount of time with me and sent me on my way.

That was it. They gave me my card and my first dosage of my “medicine.” I’ve got to say that methadone tastes like absolute shit. But I downed that little 80mg cup like the big boy I was. I walked downstairs and sat on the stoop just waiting for the stuff to kick in. I have to admit I was fixated with my little membership card. It made me feel special, like I was now part of some elite junkie club and this was my all access pass. I fondled the card for some time, the number of it bring up some unexplained emotions in me #49089, the key to success? The magic number? I hope my feeling is right, I hope this is the magic number. My winning numbers that allow me to get clean… I just hope I can quit.

 

 

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November 27

April 29th 1998: Camouflage

Yesterday I received a letter in the mail. I don’t think I can remember the last time I received a personal letter in the mail. It was probably back when I had a crush on this girl who lived in Tokyo, this is pre-internet days so the only correspondence we had was by post. But that’s a story for a different time.

Back to the letter at hand, I first heard about it when my mom paged me saying that there was a letter for me. So, you see, there was quite a bit of build up to seeing this letter, I was honestly excited to read this thing. As I got home from the methadone clinic, there it was, this bright pink envelope adorned with an image of hello kitty and little red hearts around it. I could immediately tell this letter was from Janice, I was there with her when she shop lifted this sickeningly cute stationary from a stall over on Canton Road.

With Hello Kitty and her bright red stars and the overall innocence of the adorable stationary staring at me, I was expecting something positive from this letter, maybe an apology or something that along those lines, I mean it’s a fair assessment, no?

Little did I know that the innocence and sweet, loving nature of Hello Kitty was only camouflage for a letter that would, again, bring me so much pain.  The letter conveyed how she was sorry about the fight the other night but that she was firm in her resolution that we needed to take a ‘BIG BREAK.’ I know that we both agreed to take a break but it wasn’t until I read this letter that it actually clicked.

There it was, official, it was set in stone, there’s no taking it back now. It really upset me but honestly what do you expect? Almost everything in my life is upsetting these days. Especially in my state of pseudo-euphoria brought on by the methadone so I lay on my bed and half slept, half fell into the bed just thinking, could I really handle this break? Could I handle all of it? This big break, kicking dope, methadone, fucking high school, could I handle it?  It was all a big question mark at this point.

Honestly, I couldn’t stand to think about it for much longer, if this was how it was going to be than what else could I do about it, right? I knew I could cope but I still had a glimmer of hope. It’s weird, probably the only reason I still have feelings for her is because I no matter what happens, even through all the bullshit, I still imagine we will end up together. I know at this point I am probably dreaming but everyone needs hope, right?

I woke up from my artificial narco-state to the phone ringing at 11:30pm; it was Janice calling me from the payphone at the 7-11. She went down to call me, apparently her phone is still disconnected, because she didn’t want to take a break like she had said earlier. She was sitting at home and found that she really wanted to talk to me and yes, she missed me too.

It was the best talk we had had in a really long time though I found myself getting pissed off that the phone kept cutting out every five minutes because she was running out of change. But it was nice, it was really nice and even with the phone cutting out we were able to talk for a good hour or so.

Now, I ‘m glad everything is starting to get back to normal with us, still that letter really fucking pissed me off even though she did apologize for writing and but its just really confusing all her back peddling and not being able to make up her mind. Whatever, for right now I’m happy, that will have to be enough. A few days ago I felt like my life was in total ruin, I was strung out worse than I had ever been before and Janice and me were not talking anymore. Now I’m on methadone, I haven’t done any smack all day, Janice and I are better than ever. It seems like the pieces of my life are beginning to fall back into place. I just hope I can keep it up ‘cause I don’t know if I can live through all that again.

 

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November 28

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.

Category: clean, methadone, smack, story, withdrawals | LEAVE A COMMENT
November 29

May 3rd 1998: Composition

It’s getting hard these days, the writing. I’ve found recently that I am unable to find the motivation for it. It seems that I have lost my ability for it. Last night I sat down at my desk for nearly an hour trying to put pen to paper but all that came out was incoherent babbling.

I just sat at first, whatever it was I was jotting down could hardly be considered language and after that hour all I had was basically a blank page. I guess what it is they say about me in school is true I am the great procrastinator.

Also I think this methadone is affecting my brain. I mentioned before how phony sobriety has left me empty. But more so than that I find that I just don’t care. I don’t care to write how I used to and even when I try all that comes out is drivel that clearly shows this cavernous void in the pit of my stomach.

It’s either that I don’t care or maybe it is as I had once feared and my consumption of drugs over these years has begun to rot my brain. I remember when I was 15 I was able to spurt out flowing prose as if at will. Now I feel like I couldn’t put together a coherent sentence to save my life.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just too self conscious, I never just write, I always try to make it funny, witty or have some grand scheme about life conveyed through my words. Maybe that’s just it then, my brain is fine I just need to work on my conscience.

 

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December 5

May 11th 1998: The Second Attempt

When I tried to get clean the last time it was, to say the least, a miserable and utter failure. Today I am going to give it a second shot. I realize now that the reason I failed the last time is because I was quitting for a whole bunch of reasons other than to actually want to be clean. I was quitting because I knew it was the right thing to do, or for people like James and Chris who kept pressuring me about it every day but it was never because I wanted to quit.

Well times have changed, now I think I genuinely want to quit. And not for anyone else or because I society tells me it’s the right thing to do but for me. I don’t want to live my entire life dependent on some chemical, not being able to any normal, inane daily activity without it. No, I don’t want to live my life like that, not anymore, having to do heroin just so I can sleep at night and wake up in the morning… no.

Also, am I so weak? Am I so weak that I can’t stop taking this fucking drug no matter how much I want to stop? I think I’m stronger than that, I should be able to take control of my life, not hand it over to some fine white powder. It has to stop. I have to be able to live some semblance of and to take part in its routine activities without this drug.

So today I am heading back to the methadone clinic for my dose of sticky green punch and I am going to keep going every single until I’m off this shit forever.

But first I need just one more hit. `

 

 

Category: clean, maintenence, methadone, story, weakness | LEAVE A COMMENT