How it Werx

How it Works

    Blood has dripped on my jeans from poking around in my arm with the needle that started out sharp.  The dope that fills the syringe is close to clotting the rig, and this will send me into a panic. It is becoming harder with each attempt to hit a vein to see if I’m  registering. It’s not that I don’t have any veins, I’ve got fucking pipelines. The problem is that after so much of this self-abuse, at this particular point in my timeline they have scarred and  hardened, subsequently making a clean hit and the ability to tap into the shipping lane that will deliver salvation to my soul difficult at best. With each attempt I take, a little blood enters the rig, clouding and thickening the elixir I purchased with funds that were  so illicitly obtained that, were they to be discovered  would send me to prison.  If it were to be discovered, how I obtained them.  I pray the blood doesn’t clot, it will  because it will render the dope useless,if I can’t inject it. I try an old favorite, that had quit working on me a month ago. Hopefully, that month was long enough for the fucker to heal. Ka-Pow bitches! I am in. I slammed that motherfucker home. Once I’m in the vein, I don’t play around in there pushing the blood back and forth like I’ve seen a bunch of douchebags do during my visits to the finest shooting galleries on both coasts. Why I ask them, and they say that it gets the dope left behind in the needle. These idiots also think a small air bubble in your needle will kill you. They probably think screwing with the broad on top is a solid form of birth control. Knowledge that their father a man of nine children, swears by. The dope kicks in. Doing what is was designed to do. Instant sweet oblivion. My thoughts are always so loud and so constant that stepping away from them is like a refuge from the war in my diseased brain. It Used to be that I could shoot heroin and be in a blissful state where everything was beautiful and peaceful. Outside my slum palace window, sirens and gunshots might blare and rip through the night. In my blissful state none of it mattered. Those days are long gone, however. Where did the heroin go? Did Purdue Pharma lock it all down and horde it all? I don’t know, but I do know, that for years now it has only been fentanyl or fetty, as it’s called by the hip crowd. They mix that lovely fatal substance with Xylazine the cool kids call tranq. Got to love these Millennials for putting the “q” on that. Sometimes it usn’t even fetty, it’s U47700 or another research chemical that mimics the effects of opioids. Our Chinese friends ship these fine chemicals to local drug dealers with an internet connection, who then have their fourteen year old exploited immigrant sex worker mix them in some dank basement. There is a certain thrill that comes with injecting a substance into your blood stream known to have high rates of fatal overdose. You can do a shot out a bag you've been shooting out of all week,that doesn’t even stop you from being dope sick, and die. That is because of “Hot Spots” this occurs from not having been mixed properly and consistently. 

I struggle with the desire to slow down my thoughts and have a ceasefire in the battle of my brain against making my wife happy and the people in my life as well. My wife doesn’t ask much from me. Not using dope is the one thing that she does ask of me. She has witnessed me overdose on several occasions. The incidents were extremely traumatic for her. She is such a kind and loving soul. The thought of hurting her sickens me and, ironically, is a reason I shoot dope. It doesn’t make much sense hearing it said, but makes a world of sense in practice. So many things I wish I could unsee, unknow, unlearn. It has never been easy living in my own skin. My little escape with dope makes it tolerable. I have done all kinds of drugs, but none of them do the job I need them to do, except dope. 

That was my life, I have lived in a state of constant desperation, taking insane risks to be able to feed my habit. I have also lived where I managed to hold things together while using, not hurting or depriving others of what is theirs. However, even with all the growth and knowledge I have obtained, I can not put a stop to inevitable truth, that I will have to put the dope ahead of everything eventually, to use it. It may not happen right away but it there will come a day when I will have to rearrange my life around it. If I go on a trip, I will need to take along enough to see me through it, or procure a source of getting it where I will be. I must maintain a constant source of revenue for it, or suffer the consequences of not having it. Being dope sick is one of the most horrific experiences one can go through physically and mentally. We shouldn't ignore the spiritual aspect. Knowing that all the anguish you are going through can end just by getting high is a torture in itself.

I do not know if I can explain what it is like with mere words, the battle that rages inside of me. Though I can say that I am the man inside the arena and they have unleashed the lions. My only weapons are my wits and my grit. No crowd cheers me on, all bets are on the lions.