Tag Archives: cocaine

The Hidden Strength and Resilience of Addicts

I have read that there is not a person walking this Earth stronger than a recovering addict. To say that I agree whole-heartedly is an understatement. I would actually even go one step further, and speak to the strength of most addicts.
The strength and will power that it takes to get off of drugs, especially ones that are both mentally and physically addictive, is a intense, brutally painful journey that most people will never fully appreciate. To be a heroin/opioid/methamphetamine addict is to live a life where ever day is an immense struggle. You wake up sick. Puking, diarrhea, running nose, back and leg spasms, hot and cold sweats, restlessly twitching, spitting flem non-stop, etc. You have to come up with the money to fuel your daily habit (which in my case was about a grand a day for myself and my hubby). Then when you obtain your funds, you have to cop, and this can be a job in and of itself. Obviously it is illegal to buy heroin. If the dope that you get is from a shop set up on a corner (which is how a lot of the best shit is) you have to get out of your car and run up into a hot ass alley wait in a line, get hit, hope that they have as many as you want by the time you get to the hitter, and run back to your car hoping and praying that a cop doesn’t drive by and see you (this risk is doubled if you are white and “don’t belong in the area”). Even if you have a dealer that you meet, you still have to watch out for cops. If you don’t have something to get (your dealer is on hold, what your were getting fell off, whatever) then you have the added struggle of trying to figure out what to buy.
It seems so simple to say, “If you have to go through all of this bullshit everyday, why do it.” The first, easiest, and simplest answer is that you are sick as fuck without it. Then people ask, “Well, don’t you only stay sick for three days? That’s not too bad.” Yes and no. The main, initial period of hellish withdrawls only lasts between three and four days. Of course, you have to keep in mind that you cannot sleep during these three days, so it is a LONG 72-96 hours. What people don’t realize that after the initial detox period, there is like another month or so of not being able to sleep, of your back aching. The cravings never fully go away.
It is so much easier to get high. The strength involved with an addict waking up everyday and not on,y deciding not to use, but to actually follow through with that decision is nothing short of a small miracle.
The stigma that society throws on us, the “Once an addict always an addict” mentality, would make a weak person snap and go back to using. I actually do agree that an addict is always an addict, it is actually proven that our brains never go back to the way it was before addiction took ahold of it. That’s not what I mean, however. I’m referring to the way my aunt clutches her purse to her side with a death grip at my grandmother’s funeral years after I last used. I’m talking about how my husband’s family automatically assumes that any sickness that either of us get is definitely withdrawls. You know because former addicts never get the stomach flu. The strength that it takes to quietly defend your character on a daily basis is monumentus.
Active users are much stronger than people give them credit for as well. Drugs can drastically change who you are. If you are able to maintain both a heroin/meth/coke/pill addiction and your morals, no one can ever doubt your inner strength. It is so easy to sell your soul to the devil, sell your body for far too little, and fuck over everyone who cares about you. To not take the easiest way out (whatever that may be at that time) is to take on and win against Satan himself.
My point is this, if you are a recovering addict, don’t ever let anyone take that from you. You have accomplished a feat of inner strength that could rival Hercules. If you are an addict who is still in active addiction, you have it in you. You are stronger than you probably even realize. Look how much you go through on a daily basis, and you are still here. Don’t ever let anyone take that from you.


Imagining My Life Without Having Ever Used Drugs

Often, namely when I am in a state or regret, I sit and wonder where my life would be had I never tried heroin, or cocaine (which I used prior to heroin, and lead me to heroin). It is very easy to think about where my life was before I was addicted to heroin and cocaine. Your brain naturally wants to assume that sans the drugs your life would have gone down the absolute best paths possible.

I was a student at the University of Maryland majoring in Elementary Education, with a focus on English. I was going to UMCP as an honor student on an almost full college. In fact, I was able to buy a brand new Honda Civic with all the money that my mother had saved for me for college which I no longer needed. I like to get down on myself imagining that had I never become an addict, I would be an elementary school teacher right now, with a nice house, white picket fence, a decent car and 2.5 kids. Of course, I could not go back to school to get a degree in education now even if I wanted to. For one, if you have any sort of drug convictions, you are no longer eligible for any federal scholarship money.  (Don’t get me started on all that is wrong with this policy- society wants drug addicts to get clean and turn their lives around, but you going to refuse to offer them ANY sort of financial assistance. WTF). Secondly, and most importantly, even if I went back to school on my own dime and got the degree that I was originally going for, it would be pointless. With my one drug conviction (I have a second drug arrest for which I was found not guilty) and my multiple thefts, and assault I, by law, would not ever find a job.

Thing is, I had already left UMCP before I started getting high. I was driving home constantly to see my boyfriend at the time. I started having a viscous bought with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I stopped going to most of my classes during my spring semester. My shrink had a meeting with me and the dean of the school and I was able to have my classes that I failed excused and taken off of my record.

Originally, my dream was to go to NYU and major in music business. I stayed behind to be with the boyfriend (BIG mistake). After I broke up with him and left UMCP, I was teaching pre-school full time and taking classes towards that music business degree at the local community college.

This is when I started getting high with the boyfriend I was seeing at the time. It started with us getting coke (a drug that I had done a few times before). Eventually we were buying dope to come down. Soon we were buying more dope then coke or only dope.

That boyfriend went to jail on three violation of probation warrants, one of which was a no bail. My husband called me wanting me and my boyfriend (his brother in law) to pick him up to take him in town. Obviously he was unaware that my boyfriend (we’ll call him Joe) was locked up. I picked him up alone.

Soon I was picking him up every day. We had a plutonic relationship for a long, long time. Eventually after a night of drunk sex, we realized that we were meant to be together. He made me happier than I had ever felt. He made me feel beautiful, truly beautiful. He treated me like a princess. We got in legal trouble together, and often got out of it due to both of our unwillingness to snitch on one another.

Within just over two years, we were married and had a beautiful daughter. We went through periods of him being in jail, or me being in jail, or both of us being in jail. We were clean for a few years, we were addicts for a few years before and after our sober period. We are clean together now. We also have a son together now as well.

See, as easy as it is for me to dwell on what could have been had I never stuck a needle in my arm, I cannot overlook everything that I gained through addiction. I am married to my best friend. I have two wonderful, beautiful kids (one turns 9 next week, and the other turns 6 in December). Most importantly, I like the person that addiction made me. Maybe I do not particularly like the person that I become while in active addiction, but I am a lot stronger than I ever knew. I have unlimited compassion for others. I know what it is like to be at the bottom of the totem pole.

Have I lost a lot do to drugs? Of course I have. Drugs have made me realize that not everything is the end of the world. I try to look at the good side to what I have been through. I truly believe that if you can make it through heroin addiction and come out on the other side with your morals still intact and are able to achieve and maintain sobriety, them there is nothing that you cannot do. There is no one out there stronger than a recovering addict, and I am proud to say that I am in that group.



BCCBIC (Baltimore City Central Booking and Intake Center):Part 2

The officer walks me into an open area. To my right is a window with a CO behind it and a chair in front of it. Imediatley past that is a very small room followed by a row of pay phones. Across from the phones is the nurses center. Then on both sides of the walls are cells marked single cell until you get to the end of the hall. In front of where I am standing is a double doorway that leads to an area similar to the set up that I have just described, only it is about three times as big. It is the men’s side. There is a room connecting the men’s and women’s sides, it is the fingerprinting area.
The cop hands me off to a CO and says, “Watch her. She’s pregnant and ill.” She shakes her head as a sign that she understands and leads me into the room next to the window. There she somewhat strip searches me (although of any jail I have been to, this was the laziest, most half-assed stip search that I have ever been apart of). Next, she leads me back to a bench in front of where I just entered where I sit for about an hour, until I am called to have my fingerprints taken. Now, I go to the window where they do my property intake.mi am given a piece of paper to sign that lists what items they have taken from me, and that I am theoretically going to get back upon my release. There is a time printed on the paper. This time marks when my 24 hours start. This time, six hours AFTER my arrest. I was lucky too. I was able to be walked right into bookings. Often times, weekends, concerts, the Grand Prix, etc. there is a line to even get in the door. I know of many people who waited for anywhere from 2-8 hours to get in the door. Add this to the probably two or three hours they spent at the district police station, and the few hours that it takes once you are inside before your time starts.
Next, I see the nurse. After a 30 second physical. I am allowed to make my call. I call my mother. She isn’t exactly happy, but tells me that she will bail me out if I am not PR’d (released on personal recognizance). A guard yells at me to get off the phone, that my 30 seconds are up, and takes me to a cell. I walk into a cell that is marked that it is for single occupancy. There is probably 20-25 women in there. It is so tight that you literally can not shift positions without making everyone shift.
The next 20 or so hours tick by at a snails pace. Talking to the other women helps pass the time, but I am so sick that it is unbearable. One girl in the sell has ready, but no lighter. A girl in the cell across from ours has a lighter, but nothing to light. The chick with the ready tries to get the inmate who is mopping the floors to get the lighter from her, but he is too scared to do it.
The only other white girl in the cell is a girl about my age (21 at the time). She is in there for prostitution. She said that she is in there almost every week. Usually it is a walk through, meaning that you are arrested for something petty like trespassing or failure to obey police orders and are held for a day and then released without a charge. She was hoping that was what this was, but wasn’t sure as none of us are told our charges until we see the commissioner. She knew that if it was a solicitation charge there would be a bail attached and probably a high one. The city had started a crack down of hookers due to the fact that we had (possibly still have) the highest AIDS rate in the country. The mayor (Martin O’Malley) felt that the hookers were to blame for this. At one point she got into it with another woman because she didn’t want to sit on the floor. “It’s dirty. It’s gross!”, she exclaimed. “How clean theses dicks be that you suck all day?”, the other woman asked. “Well theses dicks get me ready. If this floor goons give me ready, then I ain’t got no problem with it.” You cannot make this shit up people.
At some point in the day, I guess lunch, we are brought food. There are no windows or clocks in booking, and they keep the ultra bright fluorescent lights on 24/7 to throw off any sense of time that you may have. Even if I weren’t puking every 10 minutes, I couldn’t have ate that lunch. Mystery meat all the way. I did drink the juice, so that I didn’t get too dehydrated. I traded my sand which for the apple. I figured that I should try to get something down, if for no other purpose but to throw up something instead of stomach lining.
Eventually, after about 20 hours, my name is called. I am going to the commissioner. So I think. I mean, I am, but first I am taken to another set of holding cells. These are for people about to see one of the commissioners. I think that they had 13 or 15 commissioners on duty at that time. I sit for about an hour and then am lead to a tiny, tiny room. My left wrist is handcuffed to the counter, and the door is locked behind me. The commissioner, a young black guy with long dreads, sits in an office on the other side of bullet proof glass. I can see my booking photo up on the screen (and what a lovely head shot that was too), along with a statement of charges that I have not yet seen. He slides me a copy of my paper work through a slit in the glass. I am being charged with possession of a CDS (not marijuana), which carries up to four years and is a misdemeanor. He reads me what the police said happen, most of which was lies. They said that the witnessed the event which was impossible because they were coming from the Edmonson Village Center, we were in an alley further past where they had stopped us. They hadn’t even gotten to where we copped yet. Also you cannot see into the alley from Edmonson as it is an L shaped alley. Also they said that I handed the dude the money, and that he then handed Aaron the pills. That doesn’t happen. The dealer always gives the drugs to the person who gives them the money. Often there will be four or five people in the car. The person who hands the money,mis probably the person who put up most of the money. You could just be giving. Ride to a stranger to cop, and here the dealer gives this person all your shit. No. If they did that and then the person in your car didn’t want to give you all your shit, you would not want to go back to that dealer. Also, they made no mention of the fact that my husband claimed all responsibility for the drugs. I told the man about these lies. He looked at me and dead panned, “You mean to tell me that the Baltimore City police lied in a charging document?” Ok, good point. He proceeded to ask me a few questions. Had I ever been arrested before? Yes. Did I have any open charges? Yes Was I on probation? Yes. Did I have any convictions? Yes any felonies? No. Any FTAs? No (although I raked up quite a few in the year that followed). How long had I lived at my present address? All of my life. He then told me that he was going to grant me a PR. I was ecstatic to say the least. I asked him if he was going to decide my husband’s fate. He told me that he was. I asked him if he knew what he was going to do, he told me that he didn’t know. I told him that I would greatly appreciate it if he would PR Aaron as well, because I didn’t know this side of town, and my car was impounded. He laughed and said that he would keep it in mind. Just to note, he did PR my husband. He then pushed a button to let a CO know that he was done with me. I am taken back to the cell that I was just in while waiting to have my bail set. After another two hours I, along with anyone else who has been PR’d, am taken to another row of cells on the ground level. This is where you sit for another hour or six while they run your name one last time for warrants and retrieve your property. I have known of a few people who have made it this far, to only then have their warrants discovered. If you were assigned a bail, youa are taken back downstairs to the cells that you were in before they took you to the commissioner cells. Only this time you are on the last cells in the line. Theses are the people waiting to go upstairs to get put with general population while you either wait to be bailed out or sit until trial or your release date.
Anyway, the wait while in the property cells in particularly long and excruciating. You can see the street. You have been told that you are to be release, yet here you stand. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, they call seven women, and one man (Aaron). We are let through a set of double doors after we sign for our property. Aaron and I are both sick as fuck, but happy to see each other. We hug and kiss and hold hands as we walk out the door. The sunlight blinds me, and even though I have only been locked up for about 30 hours total, it feels like it has been a week. We turn on my phone, and call my mom to come get us. I have made through hell and back.

BCCBIC (Baltimore City Central Booking and Intake Center): Part One

I have been through Baltimore City’s Central Booking twice, both for the same charge. The only way I can describe this place is hell on Earth. Literally. I honestly believe that hell must be more pleasant than BCCBIC. I have been through quite a few central bookings, and I have seen quite a few of them on various reality shows about jails. None of them even come close to be comparable to the atrocious conditions that exist in Baltimore.
Back in July of 2005, my husband and I were in town copping. I was pregnant and on the wait list for CAP (Center for Addiction and Pregnancy). I was told in no uncertain terms to not try to quite using heroin cold turkey. As bad as my habit was, there was a very real possibility that the withdraws could easily kill my daughter. (I did, however, quite using coke and crack the moment that I found out that I was pregnant). Anyway, we had copped from our usual spot, and the normal amount that we would buy as a gate shot, but the shit was just off that day. It was abundantly clear that this dope was not going to hold us long enough to go out boosting. We had $25 left, and needed gas. We knew of a spot off of Loudon Ave. that had sixes. We figured that we would get three of these, and still have $7 left for gas.
We pulled on to the street and found the dude with the shit and told him that we wanted three. He instructed us to pull into the alley. This alley is a L shaped alley, meaning that no one driving down Edmonson Avenue (which is a main road of sorts) cannot see down it. He came up to our car hit us, then hit the guy behind us. We pulled out of the other side of the alley onto the one-way portion of Wildwood Parkway (for theses of you who frequently read my blog, this was the same on-way section of Wildwood that we were attempting to give Gotti a ride to when we were pulled over and he left his loaded gun in my car). We pulled out and we forced to sit at a red light before we could turn on to Edmonson Avenue.
Before we had a chance to put the pills up, before we had a chance to blink really, there was a car blocking us in, and four Knockers at the car. The were ridding down Edmonson with their doors open, and saw two white people on wildwood and jumped out on us. “Why don’t you make it easy and just give it to us,” the one said. Considering that A) they were just in my husband’s hand and B) a lot of times when they talk to you like this, if you just give it up without a fight, they will let you go, my husband gave it to them, laughing with disbelief at the situation. “I like this dude,” the cop noted.
Instantly they pulled us both out of the car and cuffed us with zip ties. “You all just saved the white boy behind you,” they smirked at us, “we just saw him swallow his shit.” Fucking fantastic. “Those pills were just for me,” my husband pleaded with them. “Please don’t arrest my wife. She’s pregnant. I stopped without telling her. They aren’t her’s.” “You’re pregnant?”, one of them asked me. I stated that indeed I was. “Oh well, they should have you out in no time.”
They put us into the car with two of them, while the other two officers followed us in my car to the Southwestern District police station. As we drove by Loudon, we saw two more cops messing with the guy who served us and another dude. At first they put me into this weird ass bull pen, and then they moved me to a private cell in the back of the police station. It was really, really dark back there. I wasn’t there long before they yanked me out and took me outside and put me into one side of a divided paddy wagon. My husband was on the other side with the men. “Whoa, whoa!”, a cop started screaming, running out of the station. “She’s pregnant! You can’t take her in the wagon.” There are no dealt belts in the wagon, and they notoriously drive very erratically with the intent to throw the inmates all over the place. They pulled me out of the wagon, and put me in a cop car. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”, the officer driving the car implored. “Umm, does that mean that I don’t have to go to bookings? Or that that time counts as part of my 24 hours?”, I asked. “No,” he told me, “your 24 hours starts when we do your property intake, which wouldn’t happen until you get to bookings. After you leave the hospital.” “Oh hell no!”, I stated, “let’s go then.” (For those of you confused, very shortly prior to my arrest Baltimore City got into a lot of trouble with the FBI due to the conditions in BCCBIC. One of the biggest issues was hat people would sit for days before they were ever taken to see a commissioner. This meant days before they were told what they were charged with, and what their bail would be. By law, you have to be taken to see the commissioner within 24 hours, or they have to release you.)
So here I was, approximately 3-4 hours after my arrest, and I was just now headed to Bookings. It took us about 15 minutes to get to Eager Street. The cops pulled up and walked me in. Now, mind you that this was far from my first arrest. I looked around as I walked in, and all I could think was, “This is gonna suck. Be time.”

Continued in BCCBIC Part Two



It was a bitter cold January morning in Sandtown that day. Aaron and I were crouched down in my Chevy Cavalier, with the engine off so that the car would not emit smoke out of the muffler. We were just two of the hundred or so waiting for Flatline to start hitting.
Flatline was a white fentanyl-based dope. It was good, really, really good. It was great because it took Aaron and mine’s thousand dollar a day habit and cut in a third. The problem was that no other dope got you high. If Flatline was on hold to long, or if the police came and locked up everyone on the block for the day, twice as much of another dope would just barely get you well.
Most people waiting for them to yell, “Flatline in the hole”, would hang out in the little corner stores or liquor stores, or abandoned row houses. Being as though we were lacking in skin pigmentation we waited in the car. You had to be fast when they started hitting, as they would sell out in like five to ten minutes flat, never hitting more than half of the line. Then they went on hold for another hour or two.
Being white added additional risks. Anyone who gets caught walking out of a hole (or an abandoned alley) is fucked. If you are black though, once you get out of the alley on to the street, you are basically fine. Those of us that are fairer, are a walking target all the way to the car. Even then,you are not really safe. If a cop sees you white ass driving around in Sandtown, you are getting pulled. They will figure out a reason for why they pulled you over later. Total racial profiling. Maybe this is why I am so sensitive and disgusted by racial profiling, I have had it happen to me. At least though I am the race that is the majority in most parts of this country and only would face it in Baltimore. I don’t face it every time I go to the airport or am in an upper or middle class neighborhood.
Aaron and I had our little routine. Flatline was the only dope that we could not only get well, but get HIGH off of just one pill. Every morning we would ball in town, cop two, get well and then go out boosting to get money for drugs for the rest of the day.
After we would cop everyday, we would go to the same BP and pull up to the same pump, pump one. Aaron would start cooking up the dope while I went to pay for gas. It was always the same dude working. He would always have my Tropicana peach papaya juice ready for me, and new what pump we were using. I would start to pump the gas, and leave the pump in the car as we got on.
It worked, but we had no tint, and sometimes it would take us an awfully long time to find a vein. One time we had a really close call. Since we didn’t want to sit at the pump any longer than we had to, Aaron would pull off as soon as we were done and I would clean the tools (needles) as we were driving. One day after we got on, we were waiting to turn on to Franklin Road, when a cop car drove by. It had a white female and a black male, and they practically broke their necks looking at us as they drove by. Sure enough they got right behind us. I had no time to put the tools or cooker away, and I couldn’t throw them out the window, so I dropped them under the seat. Within 15 seconds, the lights and sirens went on. They said that they pulled us over because Aaron didn’t have his seat belt on the entire time, but that was bullshit. Aaron was buckling it while we were still at the gas station, as they drove by. They pulled us because we were white. After she looked at our IDs, which stated that we were from Howard County all of 20 minutes away, the first thing the lady asked us was, “What are you doing here?” I thought this was America not Iraq, but we were white in an area that wasn’t. “We were just getting gas and going back home”, we told her. She instantly pulled us out of the car. “Are their any drugs in the car? Is there anything that can cut me, poke me, scratch me?”, she asked. “No drugs,” I responded, “but there are two needles under the passengers seat with no caps on them, so be careful.” By now the backup arrived. “Be careful!” She exclaimed to the other officers, “There’s needles everywhere and none of them have caps on!” This was of course a gross exaggeration. There was not needles everywhere without caps. There were two needles without caps, the others had caps on and were inside of the pink sarin Chanel bag that I kept the cooker, needles, ties, alcohol wipes, water, etc. in. Most people are probably wondering why I so easily told the officer that there was needles in the car, and where they were. The answer is that in Baltimore the don’t lock people up for needles (crack pipes are a different story). The jails are far too overcrowded as it is to lock up people for a crime that only carriers at the max a $500 fine. Now, if the cop had pricked herself with one of those needles, we would have been arrested for sure. We would have been charged with assault on an officer at the minimum, and I have known people who have been charged with attempted murder for similar situations. The AIDS rate in Baltimore is so high, that they fear being poked with a dirty needle more than most things. After we were both thoroughly searched, we sat on the curb and watched the three of them tear my car apart, getting angrier by the second that they could not find any drugs. “There has to be drugs in here. They have the cooker, the tools out,” she said. “Unless they just did them,” the black officer told her. “Just tell us where they are,” she pleaded with me. “I told you, there are no drugs. We just shoot up at the gas station.” Finally after about 45 minutes, she have up. “Get the fuck out of here. If I catch you all around here again, I’ll lock you up on some petty ass paraphernalia bullshit.”
The point of this anecdote is to illustrate that it was always a little risky getting high at the gas station. We faced the car away from the road, but still, had those cops drove by three minutes earlier, we may have been fucked.
So on that particular January day, Aaron came back to the car with this short, balding white dude in his mid-forties. “This is Stewie. He says he’s got a place on Fulton. If we give him a ride home, we can get on at his place.” “Get in,” I say.
We arrive at his house, a blue four level, beat up row house. “I’m in the basement,” he told us as we went inside. We followed him into the basement into something that I had never seen before, but saw many times afterwards. It looked like a homeless shelter. There was probably six people that lived just in the basement. Beds, cots, and sleeping bags were strewn haphazardly all over the concrete floor. Next to every bed, each person had all of there belongings, which were shockingly few. Each person had a few backpacks and bags. In the far corner, there was a card table and three chairs where two men where playing cards. There was a tv on nearby ( this was in 2004 before you had to have a HD TV, cable, or a converter box to watch television). He lead us to a bed right in the middle of everything, ” “This is me”, he told us. He proceeded to introduce us to everyone in the room, all of who were friendly and polite. After we got on Stewie asked us if we would take us to go buy some ready. “Sure,” I responded, “but is there a bathroom that I can use?” “Third floor. I’ll take you.” We were in the basement, so the third floor was actually four levels up. I was stunned as I made my way through the house. Every bedroom, living room, office was rented out. There were people sleeping, living everywhere except for the bathroom and the kitchen. There was probably 30 people living there. In the master bedroom next to the bathroom sat the lady who owned the house, Mary. Stewie introduced me and told her that I needed to use the bathroom. “Go ahead,” she said.
That house was the first time that I had seen something like that, but I went on to discover how common it was. Someone will get a house or an apartment through Section 8 and pay $50 to $100 a month. They then charge everyone $10 a night to sleep there. It’s not a bad hustle.
After I used the restroom, we loaded up the Cavalier to get the ready. “Where you want to go?” Aaron asked. “Po homes,” was the answer we got. We took him to the Po homes, a large section of projects. We went into a court yard that was essentially an open air drug market. Dudes were yelling the names of their respective dope or coke as we walked by. Since we had never copped there before, we let Stewie take the lead. We got these 20s of ready that were HUGE. We were hooked. We went on to cop there all the time for awhile and showed it to everyone. Funnily enough, everyone that we showed the PO homes to got locked up there, except for us. See since the projects are government property, they can automatically arrest you for trespassing unless you live there. You don’t have to be dirty.
After we were done getting high, and before we left, Stewie asked us if we would pick us up that night and take us out to make money. We responded in the affirmative and we came pack at around midnight. We took him to an upscale neighborhood where he would go in driveways and go into unlocked cars. You would be shocked at not only how many people keep their cars unlocked, but how much they keep in those unlocked cars. Cash, credit cards, electronics, Rolex watches. It was shocking. It was never necessary to brake into anything. Actually, you want to make sure not to break into anything as that is another, much more serious offense. Some people even leave the keys for the car in the ignition. One day after we hadn’t seen Stewie in awhile, we saw him at Flatline in an Acura that he had obtained in such manner. Driving or riding around in stolen vehicles always scared me far too much to ever even get in a car that some one else stole, let alone steal one myself.
We hung out with Stewie everyday for a few weeks. One day we showed up and he wasn’t there. He didn’t have a cell phone and we stopped seeing him, hanging out with him. The last time we saw him was that day at Flatline, where he was in the Acura. Sometime in 2007, the house that he lived in burned down, and I have no idea whatever happened to Stewie, just another name, another face in the story of my life.

Addiction And Intelligence

My last post was written in a fit of rage at four in the morning after someone had so very ignorantly told me that “smart people are not dumb enough to let themselves become addicts”. In my blog post I had said that I didn’t think that the addicted population tended to be any smarter, dumber, moral, or immoral than the rest of the population as a whole. That we were probably representative percentage-wise of the rest of the world.

Later that day, after I posted, as I sat steaming, I got to thinking. See, I had already googled “geniuses who struggled with addiction” and came up with a staggering number of names. Who knew that the father of modern surgery, Dr. William Halsted, was an addict? I started to think about how my brain is going 24/7, how I cannot shut it up, how I overthink everything. When I was on the run with multiple (and by multiple I mean four) warrants how I would wake up stressed, non-stop stressing and agonizing about my warrants and impending doom. Getting high was the only way that I knew how to relax and not over, over-think my problems.

As usual, my mind started to over-think this story, this issue. I was remembering how, when I didn’t have better coping skills that I have since developed, how I routinely used drugs to numb my brain slightly. More importantly, I remember the first time I used heroin, and all drugs really. I worked so hard in school, studied non-stop, I needed a break. You know what they say, “work hard, party hard”. I would do E on the weekends, coke at the parties, weed during the week. It just gave me an escape. My GPA never dropped below 4.6, I got a academic scholarship to a few schools, but went to University of Maryland College Park as an honors student. Drugs were a release, but they never inhibited my life, school work, social relationships, anything. So when heroin was offered to me as a way to come down off of coke, I was initially hesitant, but wanted to try something new. I needed to come down, I had been doing coke for two days and had to come down to do school work. I said “fuck it”. 

I also started to remember that in college, lots of the lab kids, who worked 20 hours straight, used drugs, especially uppers. Combining my drug usage, with what I remembered from the hard working kids in college, and my google search of “geniuses that struggled with addiction”, I decided to google a hunch. I looked up “intelligence and addiction”. What I found, confirmed what I had been thinking all along. I found numerous studies that showed a direct correlation between higher intelligence and drug use. Studies showed that individuals with an IQ above 125, or what is considered very bright, were far more likely to have tried or used drugs than those with an IQ below 85, or what is considered very dull. Actually, the studies showed that the higher the IQ, the more likely the person was to have tried drugs.

Obviously, I felt a personal  sense of triumph and vindication. More than that, I felt a certain amount of vindication for all addicts. The person who made the original rude comment, eventually turned the argument around into, “addicts have no one to blame but themselves”. This is a point irrelevant as to the argument if addicts are stupid or immoral. Of course we only have ourselves to blame. I don’t think any of us has denied where the fault lies with respect to our personal addiction. The thing is that once I presented facts that disproved his logic of “addicts are much dumber than the rest of us” he resorted to what basically amounted to name-calling. Now it was “you only have yourself to blame”. I should note that he did the typical passive aggressive tactics of “addicts are dumb,” “I am not dumb enough to stick a needle in my arm”, etc. You know, making blatant references to me and my husband without saying that he is talking about members of his family.

So yes, it is my own fault that I am addict. It is also my own triumph that I am clean now as well. It is any addicts own actions that have made them that way, as it is any person’s own action that make them the person that they are. I can now, at least, with some amount of authority tell you if you are an addict that lack of intelligence is not to blame for your struggles with addiction.

Secret Addictions

I have made it known, some people tell me far too well known, that I am an addict. A heroin addict at that. Yeah, I cop to that one. I have stated before that giving up coke wasn’t particularly hard for me. By the time I gave it up, it wasn’t all that fun anyway. Actually, the moment of impact was the only enjoyable point. The reverse drinking of that bitter taste. Those few seconds of euphoria was followed by thirty to forty minutes of straight hell. Coke is also easier to quit, at least for me, because it is a mental only addiction. You do not physically withdrawl of of coke. You may crave it, but you are not throwing up layer upon layer of stomach bile, sweating cold sweats, shivering in 100 degree weather as you are with heroin. If there is a monkey on your back with coke, it is a Pygmy marmoset, while heroin is a hundred pound gorilla.

When I got clean for the first time, I painfully discovered that it was not just the heroin that I was addicted to. I discovered all sorts of hidden little addictions, or habits I suppose that I had picked up along the way. Each one of these makes it that much harder to stay clean. It is one thing to crave one thing. Each little additional proclivity just compounds the situation in an exponential form.

One extra little quirk of mine is what they call needle fixation. This happens to be true for many IV drug users. Yes, I am very aware of jus hoe fucking sick and disturbing it is to state that you are addicted to needles, but it is true. This causes me to want to shoot up my methadone. You can do this. I have. Not since I have been on methadone this go round, but long time ago. If my husband and I only had say one bottle to share, we would shoot it to make it go farther, hit harder.

Really, in all honesty, I should hate needles. My veins are shot. It would often take upwards of an hour to two to hit. By the time I found a vein, I had wasted half of the shot, thus not getting much of a rush. There would be a veritable blood bath. We always joke that if you luminal-ed the room of any of us current or former junkies, it would look like there had been a massacre in there. The tools often clog with coagulated blood. You have to apply so many PSIs of pressure to unclog it, that when it finally budged there is blood and dope all over the ceiling. I would have to shoot in my legs, feet, hands, fingers, armpits, breasts, stomach, back, you name it. I did never go in my neck, I was too afraid. I have been clean for years and still, I have awful looking scars on my arms. Infections that bubbled from the inside out pulling and stretching the skin to the max until finally the pressure is to much and it pops, mixtures of blood, dope, and puss oozing out for days or weeks. My legs constantly itch and feel like they are on fire from collapsing veins in my legs. And my hands, they got fucked the worst. I don’t have enough veins left to properly circulate the blood, so I have loss of circulation far too often. My hands “go to sleep” way too easily. One finger that had a particularly nasty abscess that required hospitalization, still has no feeling. I was hospitalized over eight years ago.

So, yeah this is all from IV drug use. Why do I desire the needle and the spoon? Who knows. I quests I am a sick fucked up person. When I decided that I wanted to stay clean, for real, I took all of my needles, cookers, ties, all of it and put it my truck. I drove down to the gas station and threw that shit away. Having needled in the house is a trigger. Get that shit the fuck away from me.

I miss the city of Baltimore. The ghetto ass parts that I have no good reason to go to anymore. I miss the community. I miss how friendly everyone always was. I especially miss Baltimore in the summer. I miss the house on Ashburton Street, behind the Westside Shopping Center where we hung out/lived. It was so great in the summer. It was a shit hole, but I would walk from there through the shopping center, talking to everyone as I walked. Stopping in the Shoe City to check out/cop the latest kicks. Buying little trinkets for the kids at the Dollar Store. Getting a Buford from Checkers. There really is no where like Baltimore in the summer. Most people have no ac, so everyone is outside on their porch in the hot months. I miss it. I can’t go though. I have no reason. I fear myself far too much, I never lived there sober. I was there to buy drugs, to get high, to hustle off shit. So I stay away. I just have my memories.

A couple of months ago, I spoke of the dangers of boredom. For me at least, that was a huge trigger. I am much better now. I am a lot more comfortable in my skin. I can be content at the house with my husband and kids and dogs. (Actually, the dogs have been a bit of a life saver.) Boredom was the reason that relapsed after like five days the first time that I tried to get clean. I was used to ripping and running all day long. I couldn’t just sit at home. This was multiplied by the fact that being out all day was how we made our money. We needed money. Yeah, I was looking for work, but even in the best of situations that will take a couple of days. I needed money faster than that. I was driving back and forth to my outpatient rehab, twenty minutes each way for one. Who was going to pay for the gas? Plus I needed money for shit to do, like the movies, shopping, going out to dinner, whatever. I needed something to do to get my mind off of wanting to get high. What is the saying idle hands are the devils playthings, or something like that. The ironic circle-fuck was that to go out to get our minds off of drugs, we had to go out hustling, cashing in right near our copping spots. Of course since we were down there… And round and round we go.

NA tells you to “change your people, places, and things”. You loose a lot of your friends,or associates at the very least. This can be lonely, alienating, depressing. You are dealing with a lot of shit, and you are doing it alone. A lot of addicts get somewhat addicted to the “party” atmosphere. You go from being around people, getting high, boosting, copping, living in groups. I lived in hotels for months. Technically, it was just three of us living there, but there was usually any where from two to six extra people sleeping there. On chairs, on the floor, wherever they could fit. To go from that to alone with your thoughts, your urges for the very thing that was killing you, can be a shock to the senses to say the least.

See this is the dirty little secret that no one wants to talk about. Getting clean only is the tip of the iceberg. Obviously, you know that it is not going to be easy to stay clean, but what it is almost impossible to prepare for is how many things you get addicted to. It is a life style. This is why people relapse on methadone or suboxone, because by cutting out the drugs you cut out all kinds of shit that you never even knew that you liked.

Soundtrack To My Life

I am a music junkie. Music, that was my first love. My first addiction. My original life plan was to go to New York University to study music business and become a music exec. I applied, and was accepted to NYU. I opted to go to the University of Maryland instead to stay near my high school sweetheart. We broke up after my freshman year of college. Soon after, I got into heroin and cocaine hard core. My life became drugs, and stealing for the better part of my twenties.

But the love for music has never left me. When I hear certain songs, they cut through me like a knife. They epitomize and vocalize emotions that I often don’t even know that I feel until I hear them in a song. One such song is, “My Mind’s Playing Tricks On Me”, the classic Ghetto Boys song. In Scarfaces’ verse he speaks of a tenacious, all consuming paranoia. “At night I can’t sleep, I toss and turn/…Four walls closin in, gettin bigger/I’m paranoid, sleepin’ with my finger on the trigger.” He goes on to describe the man who is after him, “When I’m awake I hear a call burn in’ rubber/ He owns a black hat like I own/ Ablack suit and a cane like I own.” The man IS Scarface. He is sabatoging himself. “It’s messed up/ When your mind is play in’ tricks on you.” Church, Face, church.

This verse, hell the whole fucking song describes me. My mind is constantly playing tricks on me. When I first got clean in December of 2006, I quit heroin and cocaine. At the time, I was living in hotels with my husband and a close friend.mi had four – yeah, you read that right, four- arrest warrants. So obviously A certain amount of paranoia would be natural for anyone in said predicament. Shooting massive speedballs all day, didn’t help. See, my favorite part of shooting up cocaine was the taste of it. When you shoot a drug you taste it as sort of reverse drinking it. Instead of starting at your mouth and going down, it starts at your heart and goes up to your mouth last. Not always, but most of the time, my husband would shoot up first, and then hit me. Every time I would tell him, “Don’t give me any coke. I am going to ask you for some, but don’t give it to me.” As soon as he would hit himself and taste the coke, he would like his lips. That would kick in the extreme desire for the same taste, so I would ask for the coke. And he would give it to me. As soon as it hit, I would regret that I didn’t just shoot dope until the coke wore off. I would sit and just stare under the door where the light came in. Looking to see if I saw feet. “Just because you’re paranoid/ Doesn’t mean they’re not after you.” – Nirvana, “Territorial Pissings”.  They were after me. Four warrants in three different jurisdictions, and I was going out break the law every day.

I knew people to do really crazy, insane things while on coke. We used to get high at this couple’s house. Well, it was not so much of a house. There was a row house that was three floors with an apartment on each level. They took over the basement, the area meant to be storage for the residence of the people who rented out the apartments. We usually hung out in the basement, but we were friends with everyone in the house. The house was hot as a firecracker too. The basement was the couple who let people come over to get high as long as they hit off the house. The first floor was basically a whore house. The second floor was similar to the basement, where you could pay the dude either ten dollars or a dime of dope or coke and get high there. And the third floor? A major crack dealer and his wife lived there. We stopped going there when a coke dealer we had that would come to the basement apartment and sell to us refused to come over because he kept hearing that house being talked about on the police scanner. So anyway, the wife would get really, really crazy after she did coke. Actually her name was Ceil. She told us that there was three personalities, Cecile, Ceil, and Ci-Ci, and you did not want Ci-Ci. One day, we pulled up to their place and Ci-Ci was standing put there, sweeping the sidewalk. She said that she wanted to watch for the people out to get her and didn’t want to look odd by just standing on the sidewalk. Yeah, cause sweeping the sidewalk with bug eyes looks totally normal. Another day, she pulled me aside and told me she figured out where the “people” came from. She showed me an air conditioning vent. You know a normal heating and AC vent, 7.5″ by 11.5″.

Ok, I know that it seems like I just went off on a tangent. My point was that I was not insanely, unjustifiably paranoid. There was people out to get me. I knew that doing coke did not in anyway increase my likelihood to be arrested on the warrants, but a also knew that it would suck major balls to get hemmed up while I was geeking balls.

So I got hemmed up on the warrants about three days before Christmas 2006 for the warrants. I sat for three weeks. One warrant got dropped because I was able to provide hospital papers showing that I was in the hospital on the date that I was supposed to be in court. The judge for my no-bail bench warrant released me on time served during my bail review. Later that night, I was picked up by the final jurisdiction where I had two warrants a bench warrant with a pre-set cash bail, and an arrest warrant in which the bail was to be set by the commissioner. I was picked up from the detention center that I was at on a Friday night to be transferred. I knew that this was my last stop. My mom had mis-read the information on the online case search page. For the arrest warrant it said that bail had not yet been set, she thought that it meant that I had no bail. I figured that on Monday, during the bail review, I could get a bail and bail out. I had just come from another detention center and was mentally prepared to sit for at least the weekend. There was probably nine of us in the cell, a single cell. This included a homeless woman who kept taking off the jumpsuit that she had been given, rocking back and forth, muttering  jibberish, alternating between whispers and screams. It took probably eight hours to see the commissioner. Everyone was bitching about how slow the shit was. “I take none of you all have never been through Central Bookings in Baltimore City, huh?” This was Montgomery County, so these were D.C. girls. “No. Why?”, they asked. I explained to them that it takes 24 to see the commissioner there. After which you go to a holding cell for another hour or two to go either to a property cell, where you sit for two hours where they run your name for warrants and gather together your property, or back downstairs where you sit for up to eight more hours to go upstairs where you can make your phone call to try to get someone to bail your ass out. This was fast as shit. Anyhow, I went to the commissioner thinking that I had a no bail and a $500 cash bail. He informed me about the cash bail (which is exactly what it sounds. Bail must be paid in cash. 100%). Then he told me that he was going to set my other bail at $2,500, 10% acceptable. I wanted to kiss him. I was going home that night!    As the CO came to take me the phone, I saw my name on the board with the word detainer on it. “Amy Albright (it was under my maiden name) Detainer – Baltimore County.” “No,no, no,” I pleaded. “No detainers for Baltimore County. It got quashed like two days ago.” “Not what the computer says.”, she told me. Lovely. When I signed for my bail release, I was prepared to see a couple of Baltimore County sherries waiting for me. I assumed that I was going to have to be transported to BCDC, get fingerprinted, have my name ran, then get released when they discovered that the warrant was no longer an active warrant. I was thrilled to see my mother and daughter, who was a little over a year old. We went to 5 Guys Burgers and Fries for the first real food I had had in weeks. My daughter cried and reached for my mom when I picked her up. Heart officially broken.

She was my motivation to stay clean. Her daddy, my husband was serving a year and a day, so I was all she had. It took her about two days to get re-adjusted to me. Even while totally sober, I would have these weird flashbacks. I would starts sweating, my heart beat would speed up. Paranoia would set in. It was like I had just shot a massive dime of straight coke. But I hadn’t. My mind was playing tricks on me.

After a few years of being clean, I relied on heroin. I never touched coke again. I have been clean off of coke and crack since that fateful December day in 2006.  I am too paranoid as it is, I certainly do not need any help.

I don’t think, like that my phones are tapped or that I am being watched. I do, however, know that when I get pulled over, the cops automatically accuse me of “Riding Dirty” ala Chamillionare.  They don’t look at the fact that my past arrest is from 2006. I am pretty sure that in 2026, pigs will treat me the same way. So yeah, when ai drive, I make everyone wear their seat belts. I am overly cautious. I don’t think that that is being paranoid. I think that it is being smart.

No, my “paranoia” comes more in the form of thinking that everyone is waiting to fuck me over. I constantly an self-sabatoging all of my relationships. I kill off the friendships before I get hurt.  I have been hurt so many fucking times, so badly, by so many people that was close to, that I trusted. I won’t let it happen again.

Like Scarface, the person who is out to get me, who is “trying to kill me”, looks suspiciously, a lot like me. “everybody says chill B/ But I can’t/ There’s somebody tryin’ to kill me.” Exactly. I can’t chill, because I can’t get out of my own head. I can’t stop trying to sabatoge myself.  Somehow, someway I need to stop allowing “My Mind’s Playing Tricks On Me”, to be the story of my life.

The First Time

Just like losing your virginity, every addict remembers the first time they got high. And like sex, most people’s expeiriences tendnto be either really bad or totally orgasmic and wonderful. Either people tell stories of throwing up for hours or speak of an inexplicable bliss that they would go on to chase forever, never to duplicate.

My first time was neither, or rather both. To set the scene, I was 19 and on summer vacation from the University of Maryland College Park where I was an honor student. I had recently broke up with the verbally abusive, alcoholic boyfriend that I had had for the past three years. I was hanging out with a guy who would eventually become my boyfriend for a short time. He was a recovering addict. He had just come home from jail and rehab for theft charges that stemed from his drug habit.

I was hardly a drug virgin. I had smoked copious amounts of weed, popped E pills galore, done Special K and coke. Never heroin, though. I was scared of it. My ex used to do dope occasionally and sometimes would disappear into the ghetto parts of Baltimore for a week or so, worrying me to no end. The guy who I was hanging out with (who we will call J) was recovering from a pretty bad dope habit. I was sort of afraid of heroin.

One day J called me up saying that he had gotten a bunch of cash for his birthday. He asked if Inknew somewhere to get some girl (coke). I said that I did not as my ex usually got any drugs that we did. I never really sought out drugs at that time, I just did what was around. Anyway, J told me that he new a place where we could get it. He would pay if I provided him with a ride. I was game.

What he didn’t tell me was that we were going to be pulling up to a dope strip. He had told me that we were meeting somebody in Baltimore County. Lies. We were going to an area behind the Edmonson Village Center that I would come to know very well in the future. When he told me that we were almost there, I asked if he needed to call the guy and was very confused when he stated that he didn’t. “Umm, how will he know that we were here if we don’t call?”, I inquired. “They just will”, he told me.

We rounded the turn and the road went from row houses to a cul-de-sac with three to four level brick apartment buildings. As soon as we pulled into the parking lot about 15 guys ran to the car, shoving their hands and heads inside either window. “Girl”, “Red tops”, “Boy”, “Yellow tops”, “Nickles”, “What you need?”. I was shocked and a little frightened. I had never seen anything like this before. J pointed to a guy he recognized and asked, “What you give me for $200? I want girl.” At the time these apartments had nickels so the dude gave us 45 red top vials. He went back to my house and snorted coke all night.

This continued for about a few weeks going in town three to four times a week. One time, he got six boys (dope). After we had been doing coke all night, J asked me if I wanted some of the dope. He told me it would help me to come down off of the coke. I was hesitant. I knew that he had just cam home from jail on theft charges that he never would gotten if he didnt need the money for the heroin. I went into my 14 year old sister’s room. She had two of her friends over. “Have you all ever done dope?,” I asked them. “Oh yeah. A bunch of times,” they all answered in unison. “How bad could it be if a bunch of 13 and 14 year olds are doing it?” I thought to myself.

I marched back into my bedroom and told J that I did in fact want some. He broke some out for me. “This ain’t coke, girl. Don’t be doing no big ass coke lines. It will kill your this shit’s a lot stronger. You just take little bumps.” So that is what I did. Little bumps.

I felt drunk. Dizzy. A little sick. I never threw up, but I cam really fucking close. He had to go home, but I was way too fucked up to drive. He drove to his house and I spent the night. My skin felt like it was being attacked by swarms of fire ants. We made a bed on his floor and laid there all night. Watching tv and scratching each others backs. I didn’t sleep at all. I couldn’t. Between the nausea, the feeling like I had been lit on fire, and feeling drunk and dizzy, there was no way that I was going to sleep. I had never felt anything like this. I had energy, but I was relaxed an serene. I was giggly and happy.

This became a new habit, getting dope to come down off of the coke at the end of the night. Soon the pendulum started to shift, however and we started to get more and more dope until the order was mostly dope and just a little coke.

“They used to call us track stars/ Before they even stopped/ We ran to them cars.” – Young Jeezy. This describes to a T what it was like when my silver Cavalier pulled up to the apartments. They had so many dealers back there. So much competition, and they knew that we spent money, thqt we weren’t knockers. They all ran at the car before we had even stopped, twenty sets of arms in the windows shouting for you to but from them.

I was still so very green at that time. I had never been pulled over in the city. I knew nothing about lying police and racial profiling. I had yet to discover that we would be pulled over just because we were white. One night we were coming back from the apartments. It was a Saturday night at about two am. It was me, J and one of our friends in the car. We were coming down the one way street to turn on to Edmonson Avenue to go home. That night however, the police had set up a sobriety check piont. You HAD to go throughout the parking lot of the village center because the road was blocked. J had his left hand filled with vials, and was driving with his right hand. We pulled up to the check point. An officer shined a flashlight into the car and asked J if he had been drinking at all. “No sir,” J said. “Okay,” the officer replied, “Take this pamphlet about drinking and driving.” Since J’s left hand was over flowing with vials he has to awkwardly reach across the steering wheel with his right hand to grab the pamphlet. “Have a nice night and be careful,” the cop told us. “You too,” we replied. As we pulled off, J and our friend were freaking out. “Do you have any idea how fucking close that was?” They asked me. I mean of course I knew that we had drugs and that they were illegal, but I didn’t really grasp what a fucking close call that was. I didn’t think about how lucky we were that he didn’t ask what three white people were doing coming from an all black, notorious drug area at two in the morning.

For the next few months J and I were getting high almost everyday. He also taught me  hustle that I did on and off for years to come. One day it was J’s birthday. While he went out to dinner with his mother, I went out and boosted the items that we sold to the corner store downtown. I picked him up at 8:30 pm. We had to make it to the store in Baltimore before it closed at 9 pm. It was about 25 minutes away. Problem was sometimes the store was known to close early. J drive and was speedimg in order to ensure that we made it. On the school down the street from his house, a cop was shooting radar. As soon as we drive by, the lights switched on. “Shit!” J exclaimed. We were short on time and ahas a back seat full of stolen gods. They took J’s license to run, they walked back to the car and asked him to step out of the vehicle. He had three warrants for his arrest. He had violated his probation. One of the warrants had no bail, so he sat in the Baltimore County Detention Center for about four months.

When he was locked up, I decided to chill with the drugs for a bit. I couldn’t sleep. My back ached. I swore that I needed a new mattress. It wasn’t until I got a REAL, REAL habit that I realized that I was going through a very minor form of withdrawls.

One day J’s brother-in-law called needing a ride in town to cop. J and I had given him a ride a few times before. I explained that J was locked up and was denied bail so it would be impossible for the two of us to give him a ride. “Why don’t you just come get me? My treat.” I hesitated, he had been really cool the times that J and I had given him a ride, but he was hammered the first time that I met him and a total asshole. Eventually, he talked me into picking him up. Over and over again, he would convince me.

One night after we went in town we decided to hang out with some friends and get some vodka. Before I knew it, we were drunk and having sex. We started hanging out everyday, and long story short, we are married to this day with two wonderful children.

Almost every event in my life goes back, one way or another to that first night that I tried dope. A lot of shit that I went through because of heroin was terrible. Jail, arrests, overdoses, sickness, losing more friends and family then I care to remember. But it made me who I am. Aaron and I had met, but as I previously stated, I hated him. We got close because of the drugs. Usually couples that get high together fail, but we are soul mates. I have two beautiful children who would not exist if I were not giving my future husbands rides in town. Most importantly, I am proud of my scars.mi have huge, physical scars on my forearms, and shins from abscesses and infections. They serve as a reminder for all the internal scars that you can not see. I have been to hell and back. I survived and am stronger due to the journey. I am not hear to scare anyone or to say how wonderful you will feel on heroin. Honestly, it feels great, but that feeling wears off. What you are left with is a whole in your soul that you continually fill with a drug that is ripping it open wider and wider every time you use it to fill the whole up. Every addict remembers their first time. I choose to remember mine, but I am sure that play the movie all the way through. I don’t hit pause when it is still fun.