3/11/2006 11:57:00 PM|W|P|JunkyJane|W|P|I've been offered a blog at junkylife.com, so I will no longer be posting here. It was a great jumping off point, but it makes sense for me to join my fellow addicts. I will continue my story at http://www.junkylife.com/junkyjane, please feel free to stop by. -Jane|W|P|114213986444535649|W|P|Farewell, blogspot!|W|P|3/11/2006 11:57:00 PM|W|P|JunkyJane|W|P|I've been offered a blog at junkylife.com, so I will no longer be posting here. It was a great jumping off point, but it makes sense for me to join my fellow addicts. I will continue my story at http://www.junkylife.com/junkyjane, please feel free to stop by. -Jane|W|P|114213978988005923|W|P|Farewell, blogspot!|W|P|3/04/2006 03:49:00 PM|W|P|JunkyJane|W|P|Lost in a nod, time stretches out to infinity. Upon waking you realize that it has actually slipped by you quickly and quietly while you were too distracted to notice , too comfortable to care. You try to grasp onto one of those fleeting dreams as they dissolve back into reality, but there is nothing tangible to hold. You cannot stay there, you can only visit. And in time, the road becomes longer and more treacherous, and your visits become desperate because they are no longer guaranteed. Lost in reality, you continue to search for that elusive infinity where once upon a time you dreamed forever. Once upon a time two kids were in love and they were living in their first apartment together. It was nothing spectacular, but it was affordable enough that they didn't need roommates and for the first time in their lives they had a whole place to call their own. They had furniture acquired from alleys and they slept on a futon mattress on the floor. They had jobs and friends. They went out or stayed in. They got high sometimes and sometimes they didn't. They had problems and they solved them. They had old friends and they met new ones. They didn't appreciate how simple and perfect their lives were. One of their new friends stopped by one day. He was trying to scrape together some cash. He was always trying to scrape together some cash. You could often find him in his designated spot on High Street panhandling the college kids. Serenades strummed on a beat-up guitar, he persuaded them to hand over mommy and daddy's money to the strange and filthy yet somehow charismatic vagabond. The lovers had met him this way, one day as they walked home from work together. They had done their share of spangeing and playing music for money on the sidewalks of the various cities to which they traveled. They shared with this stranger the immediate kinship unique to street children. They let him into their life as they would a lost kitten. They had a habit of taking in strays, feline and human alike. Hippies and hitch-hikers, rainbow kids and runaways. They always enjoyed the company of the counter-culture, always admired their bravery and envied their freedom. It was a sunny and pleasant summer day, and their friend came by in the early afternoon. It had rained that morning, leaving the grass moist and the air not so thick with humidity. Their street was mostly quiet this time of year. In another couple months it would be full of moving trucks and jocks tossing footballs. Drunken party-goers singing "Livin' on a Prayer" at the top of their lungs at 4:30 in the morning. It can be tiring living in a college town when you don't go to college, especially during football season. They heard the strum of his guitar from the open window of their upstairs apartment. This was how their friend "rang the doorbell" since knocks were rarely heard over the music that was almost always playing. He climbed the stairs to find the lovers sitting together on their shabby couch. He told them he was on a quest. He was always on a quest. He had gathered nearly enough money to get high. The lovers glanced at one another and smiled. They had no plans and no inhibitions. What they did have was five dollars and a curiosity that had been brewing for a long time. Their friend had the connection and the experience. He promised to return with the necessary supplies. The lovers waited as patiently as possible, knowing that soon they would share another new experience together. They never suspected that the thing they were about to do would soon become something they would do thousands upon thousands of times. Something they would soon need to do each day just to feel normal. This thing would become such an integral part of their lives that they would not be able to remember how to live the way they were living on that simple summer afternoon. If they knew all of this they might have made a different choice, but probably not. Their friend returned with a tiny bit of tar wrapped in plastic. They let him be the doctor since he was familiar with the ritual. He sat at the milk crate in the middle of the living room floor which served as their coffee table. They watched him stick the smelly black goo on a spoon from their kitchen drawer. He took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the sink. He drew some water into the fresh syringes and emptied them into the spoon. They listened to the pop of the plunger being pulled from the plastic tube and the squeak of rubber against metal as the tar dissolved and became a golden brown liquid. He asked them for a q-tip from the bathroom. He pulled a bit of cotton off the end and rolled it into a little ball between his fingers. They watched as he dropped the cotton ball into the liquid and filled each rig to line number 20. The shots were ready. The doctor was ready. The lovers were ready. Their friend began his speech, "You cannot get a habit!" he told the lovers emphatically. He told them that they must be extremely careful. They must know that this particular drug can be as deceitful as it is wonderful. It is possible to be a casual heroin user, but it is very easy to fall under it's silent spell. He said all this as he held the boy's arm and looked for a vein. The boy gripped his left arm with his right hand, just above the elbow. Their friend the doctor had no trouble finding a vein and the boy felt no pain as the needle slipped under his skin. He watched as their friend pulled back on the plunger, as his blood, dark red, dropped in and mingled with the golden brown fluid. The doctor gently pushed on the plunger and the fluid entered his bloodstream. The boy leaned back and closed his eyes. The girl sat watching her love as he felt the effect of his first heroin rush. She was eager for her turn so she could join him in this bliss. She listened impatiently to the same speech. Be careful, only use occasionally, don't get a habit. She nodded in agreement. She sat up and held out her right arm, gripping it firmly above the elbow. Her veins were not as prominent as the boy's had been, but they were there, faintly blue and pulsing. The doctor found one without too much trouble. She held her breath as the needle pierced her skin. The blood that was pulled into the syringe was brighter red than the boy's had been. Again, their friend the doctor pushed in on the plunger and gently removed the needle. The girl wiped away the tiny spot of blood that appeared and smiled softly as she began to feel effects of the drug. His job done, their friend left the lovers to enjoy their first nod. They laid together on the couch, one on each end, legs intertwined. Rays of warm golden yellow shined in stripes through the blinds. With their eyes closed the sunlight was a pale shade of red. Their breath was slow and measured. A slight breeze would drift now and then through the open window, cooling their skin and carrying the singing of birds perched on wires and branches of nearby trees. They heard the distant city songs of buses rumbling by, the honking of a horns, the echoing shriek of a car alarm. They listened to the sounds of the street below, of passing cars and snippets of cell-phone laughter, a bottle breaking in the dumpster. They heard the rhythmic shuffling footsteps of joggers on the sidewalk. Somewhere a radio played an indefinable melody. These things sounded familiar and far away. Comforting, but of no real consequence. The world continued to exist, and they existed within it, but it didn't seem so impressive or important. Everything was calm and easy. For hours they remained in the same reclined positions, comfortable and content with each moment as it arrived and passed and a new moment became now. Thoughts and images came and went, flowing as easily and naturally as water rushing downstream. The lovers spoke very little to one another during this time because it was not necessary to do so. They were afloat within their own bodies and minds, but they remained ever conscious of the love that existed within them and between them. They were two kids in love. It was a beautiful day.|W|P|114150694716328582|W|P|A Short Fairy Tale with No Ending|W|P|3/01/2006 03:28:00 PM|W|P|JunkyJane|W|P|So Star was gone again. He moved in with this chick who promptly got evicted and then they both left town with hopes of moving west again. By now we were using daily, making it a pain in the ass to ensure that we got ahold of someone to score for us. Enter Rick. Rick was the junky poster-boy. His veins were so fucked that sometimes it would take hours of him digging in his legs to find a spot to hit. I'd have my bag open, shot fixed, hit my vein, rinse my rig, and get all my shit put away and he'd still be digging. Sometimes I'd do the whole damn process over again and he'd still be digging and bleeding and swearing. Rick looked like a junky...skinny and pale except for the bruises and tracks everywhere. He walked like a junky...unsteady and hunched over with his head down and his greasy stringy hair in his face. He smelled like a junky, like dope-sweat and dirty clothes. He had that shaky junky voice which only seemed to be able to mumble things that were negative and cynical. He was the only heroin addict I ever met that was completely content with his lifestyle. All the rest of us would at least talk about wanting to quit, even if we never did anything about it. I don't mean for this description to be cruel, because he is really not a bad guy. He's just another fuck-up like the rest of us. He's quite intelligent, and he can actually be pretty cool sometimes. I think the big difference was that he had no desire to change. Shortly after Star left Rick was jobless and homeless. It worked out because we needed a reliable way to get our fix each day and he needed somewhere to crash each night. He wasn't exactly an ideal roomate, but we needed him as much as he needed us. It actually wasn't too bad having him around. Every few days I think he'd realize that we were getting sick of him and he would go somewhere else to let us have our privacy. I think he may have been a little frightened of Jesse, so we were pretty confident that he wouldn't rip us off. Considering his personal hygene, he was actually pretty good about cleaning up after himself. Occasionally Rick would come into some money (usually from his dad, who was either hopelessly naive or drowning in denial)and get some dope of his own. Whenever he had a good amount he would do shot after shot until he was slumped over drooling into his lap and nodding out in mid-sentence. When this happened it was mildly annoying, but it was usually no big deal, except for one night. Jesse was at work and Rick and I were at home getting high. He was ridiculously stoned already, nodding out in the middle of fixing a shot. I told him I thought he was high enough and I didn't want to deal with him OD'd in my dining room. He didn't listen. He dumped his spoon full of dope all over his lap and barely noticed. I told him to stop trying and just go lay down. I think through his haze he could tell I was getting pissed and he kept apologizing. I went upstairs so I wouldn't have to watch anymore. I called Jesse at work to bitch about him when I heard noises downstairs in the kitchen. Fuck, I thought...this should be interesting, or possibly dangerous. Then I heard the crash of broken glass. I ran downstairs. He was in there leaning on the fridge and looking at the shards of glass on the floor. "I'm sorry...I was doing the dishes...I'm sorry" He mumbled. He began to lean down to pick up the glass. "Don't worry about it! You're way too fucked up. I'll clean it up. Just go lay down for god's sake!" He mumbled some more apologies then finally did what I had been asking him to do all night. He stumbled to the couch and passed out. I cleaned up the broken glass and wiped off the counter. By this time I was totally stoned and worn out too, so I went to bed. In the morning I went downstairs to the kitchen for some cereal. I grabbed the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. As I was about to pour it in the bowl I realized that Rick had done the dishes. He didn't wash them though, he just put them away...dirty. |W|P|114124577453387899|W|P|Digging and Dishes|W|P|3/01/2006 02:04:00 AM|W|P|JunkyJane|W|P|Here's a post from Jesse. I believe he originally wrote it in his journal about six months ago, during the time that we had managed to kick dope for a few weeks (the longest we have ever abstained). Greetings from the whirlpool. This very moment, and many moments leading up to it, I've felt more negative than I have in a very long time. It's unquestionably all the drugs I've been hung up on for quite sometime now. I have managed to beat the dope sickness that had consumed me for the better part of last week, but my speed intake has reached dangerously new heights... I've been getting pains in my chest lately. It's nothing ( at least not yet ) that I feel demands immediate medical attention or anything like that. However, I know that I must make some serious changes in my lifestyle if I have any desire to live much longer... And despite the incredible truth(s) regarding my excesses, I have yet to put any of these life altering changes into motion. And contrary to what most people may think, due to my various abuses, I have no desire to kill myself, whether it be quick and deliberate, or a much slower insidious process, result of my tendencies... sure, I kill myself everyday. But that doesn't mean I've lost the will to live. I'd rather look at it as my own personal way of living a perpetual suicide. One that I've become quite good maintaing. Well, perhaps. I know that I am causing my own mental and physical deterioration, but the facts, nor the possibilities seem to have made me re-evaluate my situation...at least not until now. The people I would leave behind should be reason enough to want to put a stop to this crazy fucking train ride and attempt to function in this life without having these corrosive synthetics pumping through my system round-the-clock. Not to mention the many other things that I would never get to finish, start, or even consider attempting. I spend my waking hours, which is most of them, trying to build upon the great masterpeice that I convince myself is the story of my life. I seem pre-determined to go on in a shuttle of sleeplessness until I have completed at least one thing that I can sit back and be content with. Or until I collapse from exhaustion... whichever comes first.... most likely the latter. There's such a countless number of things into which I delve myself that it is a constant struggle to juggle them all. It's down right impossible at times. It's not that i don't enjoy sleep. I enjoy it very much so. It's one of the only things that the political machine hasn't taken away from us, or slapped a big fat price tag on. Furthermore, I know we can't stay awake forever. Though I do like defying the odds. Sleep is crucial to maintaining any sort of long-term stability of any kind. Most people start to go nuts after only a couple days without sleep, resulting in paranoia and/or hallucinations along with drastic changes in mood and demeanor. It is, in my experience, that after a few days most of the affects and symptoms associated with sleep deprivation tend to subside, at least a little bit. It may just be that the body is just becoming accustomed to all the things it is being deprived of, therefore making things appear to be relatively normal, but I can't be certain. Afterall, I'm no medical expert. A doctor in my mind, maybe... but far too high to tell. Then again, this is just my own analysis. I don't mean to imply that everyone will be able handle such foolish routines. In fact, I don't suggest living this way at all. It just so normal for me to exist this way because I'm already a career addict... a fiend craving some presence. Each blast could be the last. At any rate, things usually seem to come and go after the third day or so. Lately, my average week consists of, at most, three days (or nights) of sleep, which is much needed I'll admit. Sleep can also fuck up your whole groove if it's involuntary. One thing that I've learned through trial and error and chronic abuse that most on and off "weekend" users don't ever seem to realize is that it is very important to eat something once in a while when staying up for days at a time. I know it's difficult to eat if your spun out on speed. Sometimes it's just that you forget to eat. I often have to remind myself that it's been days since I last had anything even resembling nutrition. But what it comes down to is, if you stop to refuel you can go the distance, and maybe reach that lucid, almost waking dream state that follows the initial scatter brain loopy phase. It's this lucid state that I am seeking out half the time, and meandering through the other half.
Now, it goes without saying that without certain psycho-motor stimulants this whole excursion is much more tough to accomplish. Healthier, yes. But nowhere near as much fun. until we meet again...and endure." -Jesse
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