I wish I could find a way to describe addiction to normal people so that I never have to hear “oh it’s will power” or “if you couldn’t control it why didn’t you just stop”. Powerlesness is something that only addicts and alcoholics understand. I had no will power. I could not stop. I wanted to stop so many times and it was like the car drove itself to the dope boys. One beer turned into twenty four everytime. I hadn’t planned on blacking out and sleeping with my boyfriends bestfriend but I never failed to do so.
Tags: abuse, alcoholics anonymous, God, Jail, oxy contin
I’m back blogging world. Approximately one year later and nearly one year sober. I had some laughs reading my old crazy posts. I wish I were on here months ago to respond to some comments. I went to a very strict drug treatment after being arrested on Christmas Eve of 2010 for drug abuse instruments found in my vehicle. I put a few xanax up my nose and shot up some dope and woke up three hours later covered in strawberry milkshake with my truck running in a McDonalds parking lot. Not sure what happened inbetween but when I regained conciousness I was in county jail lying on the cell floor and detoxing on Christmas. Cool. I was assured by family and friends (friends? Oh wait, us addicts suddenly realize these don’t actually exist if we are not offering money, drugs, or sex…) that I would not be getting picked up in time for Christmas dinner. I will celebrate a year of sobriety on December 31, 2011…completely clean of alcohol and drugs. God willing, of course.
So I have not written in a few days due to the fact that I have had snot running down my upper lip and felt like someone stuffed my face with packing peanuts. I am quite glad I am not in my active addiction because I have had a cold like this before (once) and I could not inhale things in my nose. It was rough. I had to crush pills and try to shoot them with the straw to the back of my throat to the mucus membranes there (whether this is more effective than swallowing the pills, I don’t know, but it was recommended by Dope Boy, and I will listen to anything Dope Boy tells me while using). It is strange because in the years I was using, I rarely became sick, and now that I am sober, I feel like I am sick every few weeks.
My cravings have gotten a lot better. It may be because I actually have had a life lately. Last night a boy from work asked me to come over and said he would cook for me. I had a sex dream about this guy, and I told him at work, and he was really excited about it and then asked me for my number and has been calling me to hang out. I suppose although I already have two boyfriends, someone to hang out with right around where I live couldn’t be a bad thing? I am a horrible person. I still have an addict mind.
I drank two beers over his house…the first beers/alcohol/anything I have had in weeks. I kept telling him it would take at least 5-7 beers to get me naked. My best friend and I used to have a rating system to rate guys…it was by how many beers we would have had to have consumed before we would sleep with them. The lower the amount of beers, the better, obviously, and there was the “only if I were blacked out drunk” guys and the “not even blacked out drunk, I would claim rape if we slept together” (those were the real nasties).
On to my average day…
I dreamt last night I picked up Dope Boy to get high and he was out of dope so we went back to his house and I was swimming in a pool (with hot pink water) with him and his girlfriend. The trazadone dreams. WEIRD.
Dope Boy is a little wigger fuck. His body is not bad, and he has a nice big cock but his face is covered in acne and scars and craters. It was something my fiending ass could look past though, as I would mess around with him sexually and kiss him and sleep in bed with him in return (it was not verbally agreed upon, but assumed) with free/discounted Oxy lines. It was a swell deal for a few weeks, until both of our selfish addict selves took a hold and he required more money, while I required more dope.
I enjoyed taking rides to Cleveland in his Stratus and listening to the same shitty rap CD on repeat. I believe he used me as his pseudo girlfriend for a bit because I was more normal than his real girlfriend and more likeable to the general public. He would take me places, like to court and the police station, to make himself look like less of an asshole because I was typical suburban white girl looking.
Uh oh, my stomach just started gurgling and I might be about to shit my pants. I have a new roomate and she made bacon and eggs, and whatever doesn’t back me up makes me tear up the toilet.
I promise I’ll double flush.
While I was in rehab in July, I was supposed to write a ‘goodbye’ to my drug. I was angry with heroin and opiates, I was in withdrawal, and I hated them. I began a goodbye, but never really finished it, but I’ll share what I wrote:
You seduced me with your light brown skin and musty smell. Your sour taste tingled on the tip of my tounge and left my throat raw and mouth salivating. You made my skin warm, burning and orgasmic.
But eventually, when you weren’t enough, when my initial lust for you wore off, and using you felt like a chore, exhausting me and making me physically ill. When my insides first fluttered for you they now gurgle for you. My body ached for you, my muscles convulsing and twitching, and my bones…I want to beat them with a fucking hammer. I am 95 years old. Fuck you, Doped Girl. Fuck you, Heroin. How could you do this to me? How could you lead me on like this and leave me sick and disgusting, unwanted, unloveable. My father told me when he sees my boyfriend he wants to tell him to run, like I am a fucking monster. I thought I was pretty, I thought I was normal. Now when I look in the mirror I see a bloody, grey, scabby shell that does not deserve to be happy. You have drown my once bright blue eyes and you force them to roll back in my skull, once with pleasure but now with pity for myself. I am pale now, like you Heroin. Does this make you happy?
I have become lonely, stoned. I am used to feeling nothing, nothing feels natural. I suppose this is why you have suggested death to me so many times, my dear lover Heroin. Death feels like nothing. I am nodding in and out of this real land, back into our love story again, where we make romance in gas station bathrooms and on top of pervy magazines. Please make me feel good again, like you used to.
I hung out with Steubenville guy from the men’s 3/4 house again today. I am trying to figure out whether or not he has a crush on me, and I am leaning towards yes. This boy is absolutely inappropriate and I f*cking love it.
I was cashing my check at WalMart and he was standing next to me and says, “I really gotta take a shit”. The lady at the counter goes, “Um, thank you for sharing”, and he continues a conversation about the bathroom and where he likes to poop in WalMart being completely serious. She tells him that there are toilet seat covers and he tells her he doesn’t like using those because they get stuck to him. Oh god I am cracking up typing this.
We trudged on together to the mall; we were sober and feeling fabulous. I was ripping through the discounted jeans rack at Express and he decided to go up to the women working there and ask if they had seen a ‘big nigger lady lately because she is our ride home’ (not true at all?). He called her Aunt Jemima and told the broad at the counter he was mad at her because she laid her head on the arm rest in his car and got it all greasy. Hahahahaha.
Steubenville asked me if women imagined what guys D’s looked like.
I have found it is impossible to guess a man’s cock size by his outward appearance. I do, however, imagine what it would be like being railed by certain guys. Take, for example, Steubenville’s ex 3/4 house roommate, Mike. Mike has big, beautiful white teeth that consume his darling early thirties chubby cheeks and double chin. In aftercare (outpatient group therapy) last night I was picturing Mike and his massive chompers in between my thighs, nibbling on my vagina lips. I then made a mental list of who I would fuck, in order, of the men in my aftercare group.
I have been obsessing over men more than usual lately, and it worries me. I suppose it may be better than dope, but it does nothing for my diminished self-worth.
Speaking of men, a beautiful 21 year old Lebanese boy moved into the guys house a week ago. I talked to him tonight. I feel like I am 15 again, but I am loving it. I don’t want to depend on men for my confidence, and I notice when I am comfortable in a place and feel like the most attractive girl I feel high about myself but as soon as someone comes along and wrecks it for me I am back to bashing myself in the mirror, picking at every pore on my face and stuffing my face with Reese’s cups (oh wait, I do that anyways).
I wanted to thank Anna Grace for complimenting my blog. Anna is a fellow drug addict that has a wonderful blog that I can relate to, and her words on her post meant so much to me. 🙂
I wanted to post something on here I commented back to a woman who commented on one of my posts…She talked about addiction being hard to understand being a non-addict…This way part of my response:
People think addicts are awful because we chose the drug over our loved ones-our kids, our husbands and wives, our parents, our siblings, our friends…but they don’t realize WE DON’T HAVE A CHOICE. I watched a documentary talking about how the brain chemistry changes to where getting the next hit is actually (in the addicts brain) more necessary than anything else. It is a matter of survival to the addict brain.
…not being a dirty, drunken, skanky, whore. Seriously.
Women complain about not attracting men. Is it really that f*cking hard? I have heard women, and have also, whined and bitched, about men just wanting hot size zero blondes. Well listen here, bitches, I was a size zero blonde, perfect, hot as could be, and COULD NOT ATTRACT MEN. Why? Because I was a dirty, drunken, skanky, whore. Oh, and when I wasn’t that anymore, I was high and miserable all the time and never showered. And probably smelled like vomit.
Now that I am sober, not sleeping (or attempting to sleep) with everything that points in my direction, a lil’ chunky, and a brunnete, I can’t get men to go away. I pretend I am hot, therefore I am hot.
I went to an AA meeting, and this girl I met out here was sitting by me and she was high as hell. So during about 20 minutes of this poor woman’s awful lead all I could think about was getting high…
…And the routine…oh the routine. Us dopers have our using routines. Mine was go to work (I served at a Ruby Tuesday), text dope boy and let him know when I would be off. I’d run around like a mad woman trying anyway I could to make extra cash because I was sick as f*ck. Being sick at work was like…fabulous torture. I knew I would get relief at the end. I always had something to look forward too.
When you have the dope in your hand, it’s almost like you have already done some. The aches and the nausea and the shits have subsided. I would hold the dope in my sweaty fingers and look at it every few seconds, to make sure it was still there. Oh green straw. I miss you. I remember when I threw my hose clamp away before I went to detox I gave it a goodbye.
Today my truck got a flat so one of my boyfriends (Fireman) came and gave me his truck until I can get a new tire because of course my spare was the one that got a flat so I had no spare. And I whined about spending $100 on a new tire, but if someone came along with drugs I would take them in a second! Strange, I’ll gladly put $100 up my nose, which will last me 4 hours, but to spend $100 on a tire that will last me a few years? YOU ARE INSANE. WHAT A WASTE OF MONEY. Oh, my addict thinking.
So then we went to an AA meeting, I went back to Fireman’s house and got railed by his humungo D and had a massive wonderful orgasm. And then my sponsors male friend that always is around told me he likes me on Facebook. He is not really my type nor would I consider being attracted to him, but it could be a fun conquest.