Unless you have used, it is impossible to explain why – there is no reason on earth that anyone in their right mind wants to become a drug addict. The whole idea of sticking needles in your arm is so foreign to most of us, that it is beyond the understanding of a non-user. We can empathise, sympathise, even think we know – but it is not the same as the rush. Explaining colour to a blind man would be far easier...
Believe it or not, the whole process is rather complex, and takes a considerable amount of time, money and an enormous amount of effort. Sometimes I think the ritual itself is more important than the drug. The excitement of knowing there will be relief — and that you will be well — is in itself a rush. The physical act of getting together the money and going to score is addictive in its own right.
Most books don’t talk about the drugs themselves, other than as a medical blow-by-blow, but they leave out the thrill. The people you know, the friendships and associations, the sheer exhilaration of using, is ignored as if it was not there at all. They are so busy getting across the message that drugs are bad that they leave out the why – why people choose to be, and are, actively drug addicts.
It is the RUSH. You have obviously spent a day going out and getting the money together, and suddenly you are ten feet high – you can get on. You don’t think about the rent, or whether you will have to sleep rough tonight, or if you can feed yourself — there is just this one driving mania — to get high. Don’t believe anyone when they tell you they don’t feel it anymore, that it’s purely an addiction and that if they could, they would choose something else. The truth is you do it because you want to, because it feels good – because of the rush.
So you sit in some dirty little squalid squat or a boarding house with your dirty spoon, a container of water and your fits and sharp safe. You ever so carefully wipe down the spoon with your alcohol swabs so you don’t spoil the high with a dirty. You take out your packet from whatever safe place you have put it for transport, and carefully, very carefully open the packet, so that not a single tiny little bit of this precious powder will be spilt. You contemplate it in the spoon with a satisfied smug knowledge that it is yours, truly yours – this miraclous and precious gift of such incredible joy and bounty.
You fill your fit with water, the whole while thinking about how good it will be. You gently, like a lover, put the water into the spoon. Carefully, so as to not barb your fit, you take apart the syringe and use the plunger to gently, ever so gently stir the mix – if it is cloudy or won’t dissolve completely, you carefully lift the spoon from the table or book or safe secure place you have it resting, and hold it over a flame, usually a common garden variety Bic lighter.
When it is clear and cooled, you hastily put together the fit, placing the plunger back into the syringe and search wildly for a filter, your excitement getting to the point of a sixteen-year-old on his first sexual encounter – you can no longer wait. You drop the filter into the clear liquid and watch it sink and fill. You get your fit and thrust it into the filter, trying not to barb the tip, and ever so delicately suck up every single drop of the precious fluid, like a lover who must have or know every inch of your body before finally consuming it in a fit of passion.
The moment – our finest hour. You grab either a belt or a tourniquet, or even the strap from a handbag – anything that will restrict the blood flowing through your arm, and you swab, like a bride taking a shower on her wedding night. You are pacing yourself, you want this moment to go on forever. You lift the fit to your arm and gently insert it into a vein. At first it is painful, but you wait, knowing that it won’t matter in a few minutes, you search until you get it neatly and cleanly into your vein and you gently push the plunger in...
RUSH, for a moment you are disoriented, you draw back some blood and plunge it back into your vein, so as to not leave behind even a trace of the drug. If you are somewhat of a ritualist, you do this several times, in a complex pattern you have long since developed*.... Rush, your ears ring and for a moment you want to vomit and you think this is it, if I died now I would die happy.
You feel so much, you have a wild and wonderful communication with the world and for one glorious moment you are God. There is nothing else, no feeling, no earth, no lover and no satisfaction from anything else you can do in your entire life that can replace that moment. That one moment. No words, no description or depth of feeling can possibly explain how you feel for that one moment.
Finally you remember to let the tourniquet loose, you feel your body itch and such a sense of wellbeing that no triathlete has ever felt, in perfect shape ready for an Olympic performance. You take the fit out of your arm, and like a used condom, dispose of it in your sharps container. If you are lucky, you spend the next few hours in a happy reverie, dozing and just enjoying the sensation of being alive, truly alive and well. You know it was worth it, was worth everything and you try not to think about the people you loved and whether they still love you as you lie in the arms of another lover.
- Jessamy
* The risks of vein damage from this outweigh the tiny amount of mix you may gain - Editor
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