“Well, what’s your problem, we’re fucking aren’t we?” God, how romantic. This was how my boyfriend tried to convince me that it was okay to share a fit with him. And it was true. We were screwing each other without condoms, and god, I was pretty sure I loved him.
Or at least I was sure that we were something closer than most of my other boyfriends. I felt connected to him somehow. He filled the lonely, desperate, abandoned part of me. He accepted the crazy, weirdo girl that none of my other boyfriends seemed to understand. It was like all of the parts of me that my family made me feel bad about were suddenly okay. That maybe I was lovable, or at least that’s what I believed at the time. And it was a desperate situation.
A mate had just arrived from Melbourne with a stash of speed. Of course it would’ve been more than enough for the three of us if this mate wasn’t such a pig (but then again, we would have been the same in that situation – boring long bus ride with an onboard toilet). And when the fever hits, there’s no stopping. It’s the mad rush for spoons, fits, and water. And by this stage (when we realise that there are only two fits) safety runs a very poor second to the tiny white crystals.
Shoot that poison arrow through my heart
Where the fuck does sanity go in those moments? It’s as if you’d move heaven and earth to stick a needle in your arm, and get the rush and exhilarating euphoria of a good whack. Fuck knows what our friend’s been up to in Melbourne, I mean the guy hasn’t brushed his teeth in about ten years. And he’s never been too particular about who (or what) he sleeps with.
And in those moments I don’t seem to care that my boyfriend and I have to share a fit. In all my romantic innocence, I feel the same that I did when I was seven when my best friend and I punctured our thumbs and pressed them together in a solemn vow to remain soul sisters forever. Forever is something that I’ve always truly desired. The idea that someone would love me no matter where I was, or what I did. And across all time there was someone who cared about me, deeply.
So I believed (in those split seconds) that sharing with my bloke was okay. It didn’t occur to me at the time that I should’ve had my shot first. I knew I’d been clean and hadn’t been using for very long. What I didn’t know at the time was that my boyfriend had been using for ten years, and started in the era when hep C didn’t have a name, and HIV was around but no one really knew what it was. He knew what he’d done in the past (sharing with his buddies), and he knew that what he’d done had put him in a high risk category.
In retrospect I should’ve taken responsibility for my own body, and never taken such a huge risk – trusting his honesty when he said he didn’t have any diseases. But you can’t argue with a man with a fit in his hand, and in those days I was just happy enough to know I was getting a share. Before we got together, I’d always used clean gear, and never would’ve taken that shot if it meant I’d have to share. But he made me feel like this was forever — we were something special — and I wanted that more than life itself.
Enter the virus
The years passed and we found out about the hep C virus. I was so angry and upset, and I wanted to blame my bloke, but I knew that I only had myself to blame. That whole romantic idealism — the intimacy of shooting up together — gets way out of hand when you find yourself at the mercy of your partner, and reliant on them for a shot. When it comes down to it, it is just another power trip (whether you want it that way or not). I was completely dependent on him to put that needle in my arm every time. That made me feel more helpless, unable to function without him.
We became lazy, and because we knew that we both had hep C it didn’t seem to matter that we shared. As the drugs took over our lives, our relationship fell apart piece by piece. But my fear that no one else would ever love me (because of hep C) cemented me to him. We endured torture upon torture together, and I tried so many times to leave. But that blood tie kept me there, growing weaker by the day, and doing stuff that before drugs I would never have done in a million years.
Respecting my body
This year I feel like I’ve been given a reward for my hard work in giving up the needle. I went for my regular blood tests and was told that the hep C virus was no longer active in my body. I wanted to shout it to the world, and especially to my ex, and all of the people that made me feel like a dirty junky scumbag (you can all go and get fucked). I have nothing to be ashamed of, with or without the virus. I feel like this is a second chance for me now I’m no longer using. This whole experience has been a major learning curve. I’d like to think that I’ve grown enough to respect my body and my health, and will never risk it for any man again.
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