This is after being horribly depressed over another relapse after Brianna had passed, when I had talked to the owner of Spirit Ranch, which is the last rehab I attend.
I dump the pile of warm clothes I can barely hold with my skinny, heroin chic arms onto the bed in the guest room of my mom’s apartment. After I talked to Victor on the phone where he asked me to be apart of the Spirit Ranch program he runs up in Washington, I gathered all of my dirty clothes together. I ended up throwing every piece of clothing I own in the washer and followed it with a toasty spin cycle in the dryer.
I grab one of my black band t-shirts and press it against the side of my face. The heat against my cheek is soothing until that side becomes used to it. I then switch to the other cheek. One thing that doesn’t fade away is the fresh smell of clean laundry which I had forgotten about.
As I take a deep inhale of it as if it produced a euphoric high, I’m overwhelmed with a nostalgic feeling of being home and being loved. The feel is better than many highs I’ve experienced.
I begin to think of the numerous different highs from each drug and which ones I preferred over others—heroin over everything, except meth, which it’s on par with—and which ones were best when mixed together—heroin and cocaine; Xanax with crack, then heroin. I never had a chance to shoot ecstasy. I’m sure that is one hell of a rush.
After not even a minute thinking about it, the inevitable craving sneaks up and begins prodding me with an imaginary fire poker. I don’t know why but every time I imagine what the craving looks like, I always see the same thing. In one of the rehab centers I stayed in, we were asked to draw what our craving looked like to us. While others had drawn syringes, white lines, yellow rocks, or a big mass of blackness, I drew what I see every time: the little furry monster from the old Honeycomb cereal commercials. He has his catchphrase, “Me want Honeycomb!”
I picture him running around causing trouble with his evil red, sometimes black eyes. Everyone had laughed at it and the counselor thought I wasn’t taking the activity or my recovery seriously. I wasn’t playing at all though. That little critter is the one and only thing that pops into my head when I hear the word “craving.”
It sounds funny, but after imagining him millions of times with that awful need accompanying it, I want to punch the person who had created that character in the face.
The racing thoughts of using start to gather momentum in my head, making me have to sit down. I know I’m done with heroin. I don’t ever want to see or smell that shit ever again. A blast of crack sounds good though.
Do I even want to be sober?
Yes, I have to, for Brianna and Flash.
But I still would like to at least have a few drinks every now and then.
That’s when I remember there are three or four bars in the giant, outdoor shopping center right next to the apartment. I reach for my back pocket and feel my wallet is there. My mom has been in her room for a while. I think she’s taking a nap, but to be sure, I quietly open the door and close it behind me. Mexican margaritas, here I come!