why i started doing drugs in the first place. life is a trainwreck. it always will be, drugs just kill the pain while we all die slowly….real slowly.

jese sits on the bed, i lay in my pj’s, tears rolling down my face. the sun is not even up yet. i love starting the day this way “so what you’re saying is  you wont get back on the clinic?” he asks, for the millionth time. “no, i don’t want to. i don’t want to get up at 545 and catch a bus in the middle of winter to go see my  dealer, the Commonwealth.” i snap. “so what, are you just gonna go on another run when you get your own money???”  (whatever happened to all that “our money” bullshit you pull when i hand over all my cash?)  “i dont wanna get strung out again, but yeah, i’d like to get high every once in a while.” i pull the covers up, its fuckin freezin in this hellhouse. “kaia, you know that you WILL get strung out again with that attitude.” he says, playing with his knife. i know he’s right, but: A. i won’t tell him that and B. i really don’t give a fuck. “so what do you want, jesse? you wanna get clean? how you gonna kick the benzo habit you got?” “detox.” “yeah fucking right, you don’t wanna stop with the pills. you already got me strung on them again, and there was no problem with that shit, what the fuck is the difference?” there is no goddamn difference. “you took the sixty dollars i made cleaning houses and made me pay you for that script of johnnies, and you doubled the PRICE!!!!” you won’t give me 40 bucks for a bag of coke, not cuz you want me to get clean, you see those dollars as pills in the hand, kid.” “i’m gonna miss the bus for the clinic.” he stands up. “better not miss that one.” i mutter, rolling over to try to go back to sleep. the door closes, and i roll over and grab this god awful machine and start looking for work. ha. that’s funny. i don’t know what jesse is thinking. being on the clinic is the furthest thing from being sober, i see it every day. that’s why i can’t go down there, i see wasted people, i need to be fuct up too. and he’s constantly on the nod cuz of the pills he mixes with it. he falls asleep smoking, eating. we ate so many pills last  night, we fell asleep at the bus station for an hour, missed 2 busses. then once we get on the bus, we fall asleep again, and have to wait at the OTHER end of the line a half hour to get home finally. and he’s clean……are you fucking kidding me? so i say, you can’t have it both ways. you can’t say your clean, and get fuct up. you can’t be fuct up in front of me and not expect me to not want to get high. you can’t push me into something i don’t want, and not expect a fight. there is no easy way out of this one, kids.  but when was this shit ever easy, right?

i put some jail letters up on my “postin up behind the wall” page. there is like 2months more to come, all the dirt’s coming out……

i started this draft in december 2008. i wonder what i was thinking then. i really wish i had written, but i was most likely too spun or whatever. but lets see what i feel about the phrase now.  “meet your maker” like god? like drugs? like yourself? what makes you? it’s funny, because that’s just 2 months before my cousin hung himself. do you think he met his maker? or was it his maker that drove him to that? (poor kid was strung hard, my heart still breaks every time i think of him) i guess if you are a semi-healthy person you would say your maker is your god. the creator of all things, breathing or not. recycling energy and souls like we are just one big endless spiral, spinning out, then spinning back in, meeting the center and starting the spin again. maybe that’s not what normal people think-after all. ha. but it is what i think.

but i also think of drugs as my maker, because since i was very young, they have made every decision for me small or large. “will i go to college?”  “will i go to this party?” “will i hang out with these kids or those ones?” “will i go to work, or school?”  “will i keep this appointment?” “will i go to court?” you see what i mean? even now, i do drugs every day, even if its not stickin myself, which i still do occasionally, so i suppose i’ve met one of my makers, cuz narcotics have made me who i am today. sad statement.

i like to think i’m not that bad a person. but i also compare. the people around me are homeless, living in shelters, hookers on the street, disabled people who will never be whole again, drug dealers, and clinic kids. so i’m not so bad. it’s funny, in a really sad way. okay, i’ve got a bed to sleep in, and my rent gets paid, and i’ve got clothes, and make up and jewelry (all stolen) and i have all my limbs. i’m not jumpin in and out of cars with the taste of a lubricated condom in my mouth. those are all good things. but i’m still a liar and a manipulator. i’m still selfish (what about me?????) i’m still self-serving, i’m still a little bit of a backstabber, still a thief, and still a full blooded junky, alcoholic mess that does and says completely inappropriate things at the wrong times. this is me. yes, i have met my maker.

i hope my other maker understands all that at the end of my run. i mean well, it’s just part of the game. i could choose to go through years of therapy and meetings and painful torturous memories and try to change it. but the longer i stick around, the less success i see. so i don’t know. i do my own thing with my god (goddess) and i feel like we are on good terms. i know i’m breaking rule #1 “an it harm none, do what thou wilt” and i’m harming myself. but She knows i’m trying. so i am not afraid to meet my maker at all.

i faced the drugs, and they molded me, now i have to find a way not to get thrown in the kiln. even the bible says we’re just lumps of clay. if we don’t come out right the first time, throw a little water on us and start the hell over. i heard that in a detox. ha.

so meet your maker(s) and see how you feel about it……

i  cant seem to decide if i’m actually physically sick, massively bored and annoyed, or just good old clinically depressed.  when i was in jail the headshrinkers wanted to label me like i drive for nascar….clinical depression-this; bipolar-that; PTSD, etcetera. i thought it was a load of bullshit when i was there, cuz i was on meds for one, and all i had to worry about was jail shit, which isnt real shit anyway…so why stress it.

but now i’m out, he’s on the clinic, and i’m not, i’m chippin, and he’s bitchin, i’m self-medicating with pills and a lil dope here n there. little coke, little meth.  but nothing much makes me feel better. i’ve been takin johnnies (neurontins) like TO HELP, not to fuck me up. i guess sometimes they use em as mood stabilizers, and i guess it helps. it would be better if i knew a good dosage or something.  it’s not like i’m not on the “shrink list” (the wait list for the psychiatrist @ my primary) but i can’t wait that long. so i do what i can. to keep it together.

but lets face it, there’s no putting humpty dumpty together again. I remind myself alot of my mother these days. very eh, very “poor me” very “staying in bed all day eating benzo’s hating life” it’s not a good feeling. i don’t know how she’s done it for so many years….i’m pretty much through with this feeling. i’m doing what i can to keep my spirits up.  i look for work all day long on fuck-all craigslist, i try to improve my typing time on practice websites. i feed my fish on happy aquarium(yes muthufucker, i play happy aquarium on facebook) i’m hardcore.

the truth of the matter is, i stil  use and use to live.  i just fiend more now…it’s not like being dopesick, it’s like a deep, tearing ache in the base of my spine.  it’s always there, although it comes and goes in waves, it is always there. i look forward to my once a month, and a i hustle every “unearned” high i can get, cuz  i’m still a junky. and i’d rather be focused on one problem “what about the next one” than the hundred thousand problems, pains, nightmares and memories that haunt me these days.  i don’t even sleep anymore. just stay up watching zombies cannibalize screaming virgins.

if this is life, maybe i’m missin the point.

i did meth for the first time in 9 years today. it was good. really good. i smoked it, cuz i have never shot it, and i want to be more informed. it’s not a trial and error type thing. we can get now whenever we want, but since i got out of jail, jesse’s been dead set on not going balls out with drugs (for now) so he keeps me in line. i mean, i could just be making excuses, justifying, etc. but it was fun….i don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. when i get the rest of my journals, i’ll put some of my crystal writings on my “back in the day” page. and to think, i almost didn’t go out today. ha

Your hand on his arm
Haystack charm around your neck
Strung out and thin
Calling some friend, trying to cash some check
He’s acting dumb
That’s what you’ve come to expect
Needle in the hay
Needle in the hay
Needle in the hay
Needle in the hay
He’s wearing your clothes
head down to toes, a reaction to you
You say you know what he did
But you idiot kid, you don’t have a clue
Sometimes they just get caught in the eye, you’re pulling him through
Needle in the hay
Needle in the hay
Needle in the hay
Needle in the hay
Now on the bus
Nearly touching this dirty retreat
Falling out 6th and powell, a dead sweat in my teeth
Gonna walk walk walk
Four more blocks, plus the one in my brain
Down downstairs to the man, he’s gonna make it all okay
I can’t beat myself
I can’t beat myself
And I don’t want to talk
I’m taking the cure
So I can be quiet wherever I want
So leave me alone
You ought to be proud that I’m getting good marks
Needle in the hay

so it’s about 4 days after i got out of jail (a tale i’ve still yet to tell) and jesse and i decide i can wait no longer to get high. so we cop from our usual guy. but it’s been so long, i miss both coke shots and loose my fuckin mind. (if you read this at all you know i’m a speed freak by nature. so i’m rubbing the numb spot on my arm where all the good cocaine is hiding, hating myself, actual tears coming to my eyes. jesse hands me a shot of dope. “you might as well do the whole half gram, cuz i felt nothing ( the fact that he’s on 110 ‘done a day and i’m eating benzo’s for the first time in two months must’ve slipped his geeked out mind) cuz of course, he didn’t miss.

so i don’t think anything of it. do we ever, really? but for some strange reason i still can’t explain, i went into the “shooting up backpack” with all our needles, cookers, biohazzard cases and shit, and took out the narcan. “what did you have to go and do that for, it’s fuct up” jesse said. “like setting yourself up.” he was frowning. “hope for the best, expect the worst” i smiled. “learned that one in jail.” and with that  i stuck the shit in my arm, thinking i’m gonna miss half this too, and have to wait that fucking extra five minutes to feel good.

not so much.

i did the shot…took the needle out of my arm…..blood started to stream down…but i didn’t seem to notice.  i put my hands on the floor, as the world around me started to fade out, blacker and blacker. very dizzy, kaia, very fucking dizzy was all i could think.

next thing i know i hear jesse’s voice as if it were far down a hallway.
“kaia, wake the fuck up!!!!! wake the fuck up. the kid had that narcan inhaler so deep in my nose i could feel it in my brain. (now remind you this is like the sixth time i’ve od’d and it’s been  jesse’s sole responsiblity to bring me back. he was scared and pissed and relieved all at once. i just felt groggy, still a little high, and like it was no big deal. after so many you expect em, i guess.

now i know what you’re thinking, another dumb junky thinking she can shoot a half gram fresh off the block and live to see another day…i guess there’s no getting around it. it was shitty dope before i went in, i was missin shots like a drunk archer and i thought nothing of it, and almost died. so kiddies, take it slow. learn from me, even if i can’t learn from myself……ha.

At the center of the world
there’s a statue of a girl.
She is standing near a well
with a bucket bare and dry.

I went and looked her in the eyes
and she turned me into sand.
This clumsy form that I despise
it scattered easy in her hand.

And came to rest upon a beach,
with a million others there.
We sat and waited for the sea
to stretch out so that we could disappear

into the endlessness of blue,
into the horror of the truth.
You see, we are far less than we knew.
Yeah, we are far less than we knew

but we knew what we could taste.
Girls found honey to drench our hands.
Men cut marble to mark our graves.
Said we’ll need something to remind us of
all the sweetness that has passed through us
(fresh sangria and lemon tea).
The priests dressed children for a choir
(white-robed small voices praise Him)
but found no joy in what was sung.
The funeral had begun

in the middle of the day
when you drive home to your place
from that job that makes you sleep
back to the thoughts that keep you awake

long after night has come to claim
any light that still remains
in the corner of the frame
that you put around her face.

Two pills just weren’t enough.
The alarm clock’s going off
but you’re not waking up.
This isn’t happening, happening, happening,
happening, happening. It is.

so i’ve  been out of jail for all of about 30 seconds, and jesse’s really trying to get me to  become super friendly with our two new roommates, simon and ginger (sounds like a 70’s singer/songwriter couple) ha. so we are hanging out in their room, talking, trying to break the ice (although i’d already heard through the ever-grinding rumor mill at home she thinks i have a shitty “jail mentality” which is bullshit. sure, i was swearing and flying off the handle a little bit,  but it’s not like i smashed her face in for reachin over my plate. are you fucking serious right now? anywho, it seems to be working, and we all seem to be getting along well enough. well enough for simon to start taking steroids and sniffing suboxone and all that jazz. one night a week or so ago me and jesse wanted to go to the jazz festival down on mass ave, but we were  broke. we were just conversating this with ginger in her room, when she offered to let us borrow 20, and let jesse keep 20, cuz the next day was his birthday. (i didn’t come to find out until after the fact that she has a habit of lending out money without simon’s “permission” we’ll call it, and just a week before i got out of jail they had a similar snafu with another of our 40 room mates, davey. the rumor is that davey and simon almost went to blows over 20 bucks that was about 4 days late being paid back….suspect, hmm) so we gladly took it, went down to the jazz festival and had a really good time.

yet, friends, the plot thickens: simon beats ginger when he finds out she has “broken the rules.” i hear due to her own steroid usage she puts up a pretty good fight, yet usually gets her ass handed to her in the end.  so when simon found his wallet 40 bucks short, ginger fabricated this huge story about how jesse went crawling into her room on his hands and knees begging for cheddar, after he texted simon and he said “no”, but she felt too bad for our welfare asses to say no, and broke under duress. the actuality of the whole debacle was jesse asked simon via text to borrow 20 bucks, which simon had done one various occasions up to date. this time we got no response, which we took as him still working, and went to hang out with ginger, where the infamous “shakedown” took place. a lent 20 dollars and a birthday gift from a friend.

so about 24 hours past, and jesse and i were a fair amount of benzo’s in the hole, so we went to bed early. (it didnt’ help that it was his birthday from hell, his mom was a bitch, i was angry all day cuz we couldn’t get high, more like he wouldn’t let me. he’s been on this asinine sobriety kick since i got out of jail. it’s really starting to piss me off. but i digress.

we were benzo-sleepin, all cuddly and shit, trying to end a bad birthday and wait patiently for another, when simon knocked on the door around 8ish. we let him in, no big deal, and he goes off like a molotov cocktail. “what the fuck do you think you are doing asking me for money then going behind my back and asking my girl. you fucking scumbag junkie piece of shit.” he was really in a classic roid rage, knocking shit off our shelves and calling me a cunt. he started pushing jesse, really trying to bring the ruckus, but i started screaming and he backed out of the room. (jesse does happen to outweigh him by like 50 pounds, and he’s at least a foot taller, and this is with the juice.) so i put it to the asshole straight: ” get off jesse’s nuts and go shoot some more ‘roids, you fucking faggot juicehead” his face turned the reddest color of red i’ve ever seen on a human pallet. “oh you just wait,” he smirked “my girl’s been itching for a reason to kick your ass.” and he walked down the stairs and was gone.  we thought nothing more of it. jesse had already given him the 20 bucks back, so some harsh words were shared, it happens in a small house full of drug addicts.

but no, there is yet another chapter to this melodrama that is my truelife.  it just so happens that simon meets ginger at the 99, where davey and another of our room mates craig are already fully in the bag. they sit there for two more hours shit talking us, making up stories, things so ludacris i can’t even begin to put it into words (like saying jesse called davey’s girl a lesbian whore, like actual whore for money, or that i have the bug and don’t tell anyone, hoping to spread it like some passive-aggressive serial killer. ha) that’s just the frosting on the cake, kids, i don’t wanna put any more of it out there, it’s so fuct.

so around 10pm, jesse and i are sound asleep when simon kicks our door down, and he and davey attack jesse where he slept, as ginger goes to work on me while i still have sleepies in my eyes. ha. can you believe the cowardice? two on one dude, and a chick that won’t even let me stand and fight. i chose not to fight back, because A she hit like my fucking mother, with no passion, no pain, and no conviction. kindof pathetic. i am also a pacifist by nature, and by my wiccan religion. i walked out into the hallway and tried to reason with her, but i could see that she was hitting me in hopes of not getting beat herself, much worse, at a later time. then i actually felt bad for her. can you believe that bullshit?

then after it’s all over and we shut the door and are in bed, holding each other, i am nursing a bloody nose, not from a fist, for god’s sake, the pussy bitch slammed a door in my face. classy. anyway, we are trying to wind down from all that jazz so late at night, and we can hear everyone else in the house getting their story straight, in case i try to call them in on assault. (which i wouldn’t do cuz i’m no fucking rat and i can take care of myself)  but as it goes here, we are the target this week, next week it will me the other  couple in the house, then simon n ginger themselves, the week before i came home everyone had shunned davey, now he’s man of the hour. so what can you do. welcome to my house, don’t like the climate, wait a minute.