November 8

April 4th 1998: Smack – Kanike

I have done the most terrible thing, probably the most appalling, despicable thing that I ever have or ever will do… at least this week. I spent the entire evening alone with Janice. That, of course is a good thing and usually, even now, I enjoy the time I spend with her. But today there’s a slight hitch, you see for the past few weeks, there hasn’t been a single day where I didn’t score and today, against all odds, have found myself without any gear. So here I am, I can feel slight feelings of withdrawals coming over me and there’s no way I can score because Janice doesn’t know I do smack. To make matters even worse, she stayed out tonight especially for me, even though she’s dead tired. So what am I supposed to do? I said “Fuck it, because I’m with Janice I won’t score and I’ll just handle my dope sickness. Besides they’re not that bad anyway?”

Less than an hour later, after trying to bide the time, make it go by faster, my thoughts evade everything else and focus on one and only one thing. I finally succumb to my cravings for heroin… I MUST SCORE! But I still have a dilemma here, I can’t just ditch Janice and I certainly can’t let her know that I do heroin. So I have only one option left. I casually “persuade” her to try smack. (God, I have no morals) I also tell her “I haven’t done it in ages” and “I just want to try it again, see what it’s like” Bullshit! With a reaction that comes off as both eagerness and reluctance, she agrees. Now, I really don’t want her to do it, cause she’s never tried it before and I don’t want her to like it too much. So we both make an agreement, a damn near blood oath, “We’ll only do it once together, then we won’t ever touch it again” More bullshit!

Scoring, as usual, was easy but having Janice along with me was a real added bonus. Whenever we came across some cops, all I had to do was hold her hand and any tincture of paranoia that I had about disintegrated. Plus, I made her stash the bag in her bra for extra protection. So, hand in hand, we walked out of ‘Tei’, like some sort of cute junkie couple. I only let Janice sniff a very tiny line, and I myself did the same.

Later, I confined myself to my bathroom sanctuary to fix by a means and amount which I found more suitable and acceptable. The amount that I gave her was definitely enough – she was very fucked. Whilst smacked, wearing only shorts and a tiny T-shirt, Janice started to scratch herself all over, focusing a lot on her more, shall we say ‘sexual’ areas such as her breasts, legs and crotch. With her constant rubbing and scratching, I got a hard-on like a metal fucking pole, a rarity these days due to the habit that I’ve accumulated. Later on, Janice started to become sick and extremely fucking moody, telling me to “go away” she was violently sick and yelling at me about every fucking little thing. I didn’t mind though, I understood because of the condition she was in, so I let it slide.

She passed out after about an hour-long toilet-hugging session. I used for the rest of the night and just watched Janice sleep, I was thinking of what kind of dreams she was having, what was her sub-conscious thinking in its heroin-fueled rest? That and I wrestled with the guilt of having made Janice use for my own narcotic need, I was consumed by this guilt but dismissed it, still, as much as I pushed it away, the shame came back. Why did I do it? Was it really because of my ‘hunger’ for dope or was it something more? Could it be this pent up idea that I have in my head? This dream, if you will, that dope will bring us closer together. Dope can be something we can share. Either that or I feel so fucking trapped in this goddamn drug addiction. I feel so alone, so isolated from everything that could possibly make sense that I have to drag someone down with me, someone who I supposedly care about nonetheless, just so I can feel a part of something even if it is only this. But of course, this brings up another question, quite an important one. Do I really care about her? Do I? If I really did care about her, then why in the name of all that is holy and pure, would I even think about making her do heroin? Heroin, this drug, if you can really even call it that, that has made me so full of shame and self-hatred that I cannot even bear to look at myself in the mirror anymore.

I called up Chris and talked to him for the rest of the night about the terrible thing that I had done… despicable!

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November 13

April 20th 1998: And Again, Disgust

The sunlight breaks through tattered curtains, bleeding pristine shafts of light over me. Lying enveloped in the virgin dawn, I realize that at some point in my life I would have been in awe of the sheer beauty and grace of this sight but now I am just annoyed by it. I wish someone would please just turn it off. 

As daylight pesters me I slime out of bed and groan… it’s Monday and damn it I’ve finally got to go back to school. I opt out of the shower, changing clothes routine, I haven’t showered in weeks and if I didn’t know better I’d swear to the Gods that I only owned one pair of pants. Besides a ritual of that magnitude requires an occasion of the utmost significance, I mean its high school; I’m not getting married.

The whole way over to school, the past week slowly came back to me in fragments. Had all this shit happened in only one week? Fighting, stealing, and then the whole Macao incident, that one hit me hardest and I had to fight from feeling queasy over the whole ordeal. Just thinking about it made me physically tired.

To be honest, this whole last week was just too much for me, I mean nothing groundbreaking took place, nothing entirely new, just the same old redundant bullshit but I’m sitting here feeling confused and again, tired. I really don’t know if I can handle this going back to school shit. Granted, it’s only been a week or so since the spring break started but to tell you the truth, I haven’t really been there in what must be months already.  So why the hell am I even going, you ask? I don’t know, I really don’t have the foggiest of notions. Well, maybe it just makes it seem like everything else isn’t so bad if I actually put forth the effort to show up for school. Does that make any sense? I’ll reiterate; if I put forth the effort and look like I’m an upstanding, law-abiding member of society, there’s just a slight, slight chance that I could possibly con myself into believing the same. Better?

I walk into school and the sight of these people all but sickens me to my stomach, with their “look at me, look at me, I’m so cool, look at me! FUCK YOU!

I haven’t faced a day sober in more days than I could possibly count and there is no way in hell that I’m going to start now.  I make a beeline for the nearest bathroom, dodging numerous greetings and salutations. I slam the door louder than I’ve ever slammed a door before, hoping it will give off the ‘Do Not Disturb’ vibe that I hope to achieve. I mix up, it’s seven – thirty in the morning, I can’t think of a better time.

I sit in attendance letting every bit of the heroin absorb itself into my every cell so that I might block this day out of my range of vision. I make my way back down to the bathroom in the few minutes I have before class so that I can have a cigarette. And with that, I am officially and completely balls-to-the-wall, loaded. I look outside again but the people are still there. In desperation I go to my class so that I may spend an hour or so trying to catch a nod or two, its better that looking at these faces any longer.

After nodding at a computer, trying to look productive, I head back down to one of my many sanctuaries (bathrooms). On the way down, I rediscover that just the sight of these people is literally making me queasy, why do they have to sit right outside my bathroom?  I duck inside, making as little eye contact as possible; I slink to the floor and smoke another cigarette.  Some kid comes in and bums a few drags from me before the next class starts, I give it to him just so that I don’t have to talk to him anymore.  Class is starting but I light another cigarette just to avoid having to make conversation with any of these people.

I’m really way too loaded. I’m not going back to class, right now that seems just as daunting a task as facing these people any longer, with both my school-time options cancelled out, I decide to call it a day and leave at eleven.

 

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November 14

April 21st 1998: Coming Clean

I’ve had this feeling lately, like I’m coming to the end of my rope. I mean I’m pretty sure that I can’t take anymore. Anymore of all this, this shit that comes with the life I live. This fucking stereotypical bullshit junkie lifestyle, I feel like I’m living in some fucking bad movie of the week every single day and its weighing heavily on me.

With that, I know now that it is a necessity for me to come off smack. There really is no way around it; I have to get myself straight. There is the problem of kicking, something that I really don’t think I can handle, not now. In the last three years, I’ve kicked numerous times but my mind hasn’t lived outside these fuzzy edges that come with heroin in what must be more than a year straight and it scares me to be any different.

But I know it; I know that I cannot continue living like this any longer. I could feel myself this morning, getting desperate and scared. Scared because I don’t want to continue living my life like this, dependent on a fucking narcotic substance, not being able to function for shit without feeling its caress, to feel trapped in this cycle that never, never ends, helpless… hopeless.

And in my panic, I think of the exquisite pain that comes with withdrawals, the sheer agony. I’m torn, I really can’t decide which of the two is better.

It is with this that I have devised a plan, a half assed one if anything, but a plan nonetheless. At least that’s a start. I going to stay on the smack, that’s a given, but I’m going to put myself on the maintenance program. Doing enough to not get sick, not doing enough to catch a nod, maintenance. I’m not exactly going to be clean, this I understand but I guess it’s sort of a step in the right direction.

I booted a decent shot home early in the morning and that’s it, that’s all the dope I’m going to have until late in the evening or hopefully, and I’m pushing it, tomorrow morning. It’s as simple as that and it’s a whole lot more difficult than that. Cause all I have is will power fueling me and a big bag of dope in my pocket to tide me over, it kind of makes for a tricky situation.

Granted, I haven’t worked out all the logistics of it yet. I don’t know what I am going to do with myself. Today, I was miserable walking around all day, knowing I had dope pumping in my veins yet I couldn’t catch a buzz. I wanted to, believe me, I wanted to. I spent half the day pacing, trying to con myself out of going back into the commode and finishing up the job good and proper. But I didn’t do it, I can’t do it, I know that now, I’ve known it for years. If I don’t come clean now, I fear that I may never be able to do it. And that thought scares me more than anything, carrying out the rest of my existence in a state of perpetual darkness, trapped behind this wall of… I don’t know what this wall is made of, nor do I really give a damn. At this point, I only know that I’m in a state of urgency and I’m trying to give it an honest shot.

 

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November 18

April 23rd 1998: Absolute Failure

The initial results from my attempt to get clean are not good, no, not good at all. Well, all right, it actually isn’t going that bad, but it’s not as successful as I had initially predicted. I’m only supposed to be having one hit today, instead in decreasing the number of hits I have each day each day by one. This method will work, but it will just take a bit longer than I had anticipated. I don’t mind though, as long as I can eventually come clean…

Over there on the other page is the start of something,  a poem?  some sort of incessant rambling  of a fool? I don’t know,  I want to finish it but I can’t now, my head is way too clear. Yesterday my brain was a total blur; I could feel it, the fuzzy edges around my brain when I wrote that thing at the height of my hit.  When I get back to that mind numbing state, maybe then  I will continue to write.

Having only allowed myself  to fix twice today, they had to be timed out in Swiss precision as to get the maximum high gravity each. It’s 1045 now, I have 30 min. till I can have my first hit.

I’m writing this on the train from Yau Ma Tei  station, I had just been to  score.   My hit of the day was unsuccessful to say the least. I ended up finishing off all of the dope  just to catch a buzz.

I don’t really care for talking about this right now, in fact, I’m going to stop discussing this whole situation with smack.  From here on out  there will be no more talk of scoring, fixing or anything else remotely associated with heroin. I reckon it just makes me sound pretentious. Mark my words,  “no more talk of smack!”  At least not for a few days.

 

 

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November 21

April 26th 1998: Hate

This is it… I’m trapped, the spiral of self–loathing. In short, I hate myself, well at least I think that’s the problem, just pure and simple hatred. I hate myself, and to make matters worse, I hate myself for hating myself. I’m different now, everything is different now, I look at myself and I get scared. Scared because that’s not me, No not really, just shell, a shell of a person who once resembled me.

I know, I know I said that I wouldn’t talk about the smack anymore but here, I really need to. My addiction to heroin is what has distorted me into this thing,  this vague husk of a person that I used to be, and I hate what I’m becoming.

What started out as some fun on a Saturday night, has grown into this full-blown addiction that has taken on a life of its own, almost independent from my own. And I hate myself for letting it go so far.   It was Avin, young, tiny, innocent Avin who was the one who made me realize what was happening to me. Little Avin, he was the one that told me, told me that I’m changing, he asked me “why can’t you just be Pat?” I hate myself for the fact that this little kid was the one who was the first to notice.

I know that my recent, constant disagreements with almost every living person in my vicinity have all stemmed from this constant attitude of indifference that seeps out of my heroin-addled brain. This is what I hate, heroin the way it’s changing me is constantly putting my friendships,  with Janice, with my family, with my crew, the most important people in my life, in jeopardy.

Because of all this, I need to change, and I only know one way to do so is to quit. The only problem is, will I be able to? Is my hunger for dope, so full-blown that there’s no turning back? I will now, I honestly don’t know but I guess is as good as yours and here’s only one way to find out. But I don’t know if I want to find out.

 

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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.

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November 30

May 5th 1998: Weakness

What is wrong with me? No, seriously what is wrong with me? I spent the whole of last week signing up at the methadone clinic, I showed up everyday at 6pm sharp and guzzled down my repulsive green punch with a smile. Now look at me, I’m back to shooting dope, I haven’t been to the clinic in well over a week and in that time I’ve copped a habit that is larger than I think I can handle. I mean, shit, I just scored last night and here I am today already hankering for another bag.
As I sit here on this train heading out to pick up, I wonder “am I so weak?” is it me that doesn’t have the will or is it this drug? This vile, sickening, beautiful drug, which I so disgustingly adore.
I want to believe, I want to believe so badly that its not me, it’s this drug that has made me like this, that has turned me into this person that I cannot even stand to look at in the mirror anymore. At the end of the day I know it’s me, my own little petty fears and weakness that keep bringing me back to smack.
At first it was the high. I remember that first time I took a hit up at Silvercord Park, a bunch of my friends were doing line of it and I looked upon them with disgust. And then this kid Adam, he picked on me every single day at school, he turned to me and asked, “you want some?” even though I was staunchly against it, I immediately let out a “yes.” That first euphoric rush and I knew right then and there that this was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. None of it mattered, none of the pain and suffering, none of the petty high school bullshit and social awkwardness, none of it mattered anymore. Before I knew it I was trapped, having to score every day to battle back the sickness.
My mind has been in this state of apathy for years now, not more than a day or two has my mind touched upon sobriety. And it’s all because of that state, that state of numbness to the world that comes with doing heroin every day. I don’t dare stop because I don’t know how I could possibly face the day with the clear head that comes with being clean.
Stopping is the easy part, I’ve got methadone and I can dodge the sickness of withdrawal. The only thing standing in my way is me. I have to want it, I know that, there are no illusions; I have to want to face the world with a clear head.
But do I want to? Do I want to have to face every single day of my life with a mind that is not numb and my sense not dulled? Do I want to handle the events of day-to-day life without any form of escape? Can I handle it?
Honestly and truly,

I don’t know… I just don’t know.

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