The Drug Dilemma

I feel it brewing in my bones.  The fluid seems to be draining out of my spinal column and joints.  Getting out of bed was an almighty struggle, only finally managed by the offer of a coffee and a bottle full of water and aspirin.  Once again, I count my lucky stars that my boyfriend is still here despite my depression, drug addiction and thievery.

But I also know that this year is make or break for us.  One failed stint in rehab behind me that did absolutely nothing, except make me race joyfully back out onto the streets with regenerated veins, calling out to be abused again.  One Methadone program that suppressed the effects of heroin but where I learnt I could shoot up crack cocaine.  Abscesses, minor operations to remove all the dead tissue and now a body riddled with bullet hole-like scars.  And all in the last year.  My mind, let alone my body, can’t take this anymore.

Two days ago, sitting in my bathroom after having shot up £200 worth of stone and brown, after spending four hours hunting for veins and covered in blood.  I thought I was going to die.  Not because of the bleeding, not because I had probably caused another fresh batch of abscesses, but because I had wasted so much of the shot that when I finally drew blood into the syringe from deep into my calf and shot up, I felt nothing.  The frustration.  The unsatisfied need.  I know I need to stop.  But I am all out of ideas.