More  Junkie Tales  2

by  Jessamy  Toussaint

Dedicated  to  Lynette  and  Jason.  

Introduction  
Rush  -  Chapter  1
Dacca  Daze  -  Chapter  2
Someone  Else’s  Problem  -  Chapter  3
Save  the  Junkie  Fund  -  Chapter  4
Outside  -  Chapter  5
Grey  Day  -  Chapter  6
Creeping  Jesus  -  Chapter  7
I've  Lost  the  Fucking  Gear  -  Chapter  8
That's  incredible  -  Chapter  9
Father's  Day  -  Chapter  10
I  Have  HEP  C  -  Chapter  11
Suicide  is  Painless  -Chapter  12
A  Very  Junkie  Wedding  -  Chapter  13
This  is  a  Song  that  Never  Ends  -  Chapter  14
Karmen  Miranda  -  Chapter  15
Doove  -  Chapter  16
Tie  a  Yellow  Ribbon  -  Chapter  17
Sick-  Chapter  18
Wacky  Backy  -  Chapter  19
Hurt  -  Chapter  20
Ice  -  Chapter  21
Legalise  It-  Chapter  22
Myths  and  Misconceptions  about  NA  -  Chapter  23
Life  After  junk  -  Chapter  24
The  Valley  -  Chapter  25
Eternity  -  Chapter  26
There's  a  Bomb  in  my  Cunt  -  Chapter  27
DoCS  -  Chapter  28
Statistics  -  Chapter  29
Fin  -  Chapter  29

Introduction

The  more    stories  I  wrote,  the  more  I    heard,  experienced  or  felt  needed  telling,  so  here's  book  2.    We  can't  give  you  everything,  because  its  different  for  every  single  person,  and  every  story  is  unique.  We  can  only  give  you  a  cross  section  and  maybe    a  few  extremes  to  define    possible  parameters.

One  of  the  things  I  have  found  between  the  first  and  the  second  book  is  that  I  wanted  to  reach  two  groups  of  people.  The  first  is  society  in  general,  for  them  to  acknowledge  this  problem  and  treat  Junkies  with  a  great  deal  more  humanity  than  they  have  previously.  I've  gone  to  the  United  Nations  website  and  found  a  list  of  basic  human  rights,  and  no  where  in  the  document  does  it  say  "except  junkies".  I  want  you  to  look  closely  at  yourself  and    make  sure  that  there  isn’t  a  fear  based  ignorance  and  bigotry  against  junkies.  I  won't  lie  to  you,  yes  they  will  steal,  cheat  and  lie  to  get  what  they  want,  but  it  helps  a  lot  if  you  stop  thinking  of  them  as  those  "filthy  junkies  who  did  it  all  to  themselves"  and  start  seeing  the  underlying  sickness  and  need  that  makes  them  turn  to  junk.

The  second  group  of  people  I've  tried  to  reach  are  the  Junkies  themselves.    What  are  the  repercussions  of  your  using,  who  else  gets  hurt?  The  first  in  the  line  of  fire  are  always  the  wives,  the  husbands,  the  children  or  the  parents.  You  won't  necessarily  enjoy  these  stories  as  much  because  they  make  you  deal  with  the  responsibility  of  using.  They  hold  you  accountable  for  all  your  sins  and  hopefully  don't  hold  back  any  punches.  You  have  to  understand  that  your  choices  hurt  a  lot  of  other  people  and    we  are  not  only  talking  about  financial  losses  but  in  some  cases  they  do  incredible  damage  to  the    souls  of  the  people  you  love  and  who  love  you.  And  to  the  other  mothers,  husbands,  wives.  fathers  and  children,  you  need  to  be  told  this,  because  you  always  feel  so  alone,  your  not  alone.  I  know  what  it's  like  and  I  share  your  pain.

The  third  thing  I  wanted  to  do  was  plunge  you  into  a  kaleidoscope  of  Junkie  Tales  to  give  you  as  close  a  taste  of  using  and  the  world  of  drugs  without  having  to  put  a  needle  into  your  arm,  to  make  you  realise  this  is  your  story  too.  It  could  be  you.  I  wanted  you  to  feel  the  sadness  and  the  excitement  and  the  bitterness  and  the  tears,  the  ecstasy  and  the  agony  of  what  it  takes  to  be  a  junkie.  Their  lives  are  not  measured  in  chronological  order  but  in  brief  moments,  flashes  of  brilliant  color  and  depths  of  despair.

I  neither  condone  it  or  condemn  it,  I  just  know  it's  not  over  still.  That  even  in  recovery  it  takes  a  huge  force  of  will  to  not  use  today.  That  regardless  of  a  war  on  drugs  or  harm  reduction,  it  hasn't  gone  away.  That  we  can  no  longer  ignore  it  and  hope  it  will  go  away.  I  don't  have  all  the  answers,  I  still  don't  even  know  the  right  questions.  But  I  can  acknowledge  it,  for  all  the    hurt  and  the  pain  and  the  loss,  I  know  it's  real,  because  it  touched  me.

So  turn  the  lights  down  low  and  slip  into  the  dark  murky  underworld  while  I  spin  you  a  thousand  Junkie  Tales.

Rush

Unless  you  have  used  it  is  impossible  to  explain  why.  There  is  no  reason  on  earth  that  anyone  in  their  right  mind  wants  to  become  a  drug  addict.  The  whole  idea  of  sticking  needles  in  your  arm  is  so  foreign  to  most  of  us,  that  it  is  beyond  the  understanding  of  a  non  user.  We  can  empathies,  sympathise  even  think  we  know,  but  it's  not  the  same  as  the  rush.  Explaining  colour  to  a  blind  man  would  be  far  easier.

Believe  it  or  not  the  whole  process  is  rather  complex  and  takes  a  considerable  amount  of  time,  money  and  an  enormous  amount  of  effort.  Sometimes  I  think  the  ritual  itself  is  more  important  than  the  drug.  The  excitement  of  knowing  there  will  be  relief  and  that  you  will  be  well  is  in  itself  a  rush.  The  physical  act  of    getting  together  the  money  and  going  to  score  is  in  it's  own  right  addictive.

Most  books  don't  talk  about  the  drugs  themselves  other  than  as  a  medical  blow  by  blow,  but  they  leave  out  the  thrill.  The  people  you  know,  the  friendships  and  associations,  the  sheer  exhilaration  of  using  is  ignored  as  if  its  not  there  at  all.  They  are  so  busy  getting  across  the  message  that  drugs  are  bad  that  they  leave  out  the  why,  why  people  choose  to  be  and  are  actively  drug  addicts.

It’s  the  rush.  You've  obviously  spent  a  day  going  out  and  getting  the  money  together  and  suddenly  your  ten  foot  high,  you  can  get  on.  You  don't  think  about  the  rent  or  whether  you'll  have  to  sleep  rough  tonight,  or    if  you  can  feed  yourself,  there  is  just  this  one  driving  mania,  to  get  high.  Don't  believe  anyone  when  they  tell  you  they  don't  feel  it  anymore,  that  it's  purely  an  addiction  and  that  if  they  could  they  would    choose  something  else.  The  truth  is  you  do  it  because  you  want  to,  because  it  feels  good,  because  of  the  rush.

So  you  sit  in  some  dirty  little  squalid  squat  or  a  boarding  house  with  your  dirty  spoon,  a  container  of  water  and  your  fits  and  sharp  safe.  You  ever  so  carefully  wipe  down  the  spoon  with  your  alcohol  swabs  so  you  don't  spoil  the  high  with  a  dirty.  You  take  out  your  packet  from  whatever  safe  place  you  have  put  it  for  transport  and  carefully  ,  very  carefully  open  the  packet,  so  that  not  a  single  tiny  little  bit  of  this  precious  powder  will  be  spilt.  You  contemplate  it  in  the  spoon    with  a  satisfied  smug  knowledge  that  its  yours,  truly  yours,  this    miraculous  and  precious  gift  of  such  incredible  joy  and  bounty.

You  fill  your  fit  with  water,  the  whole  while  thinking  about  how    good  it  will  be.  You  gently  like  a  lover  put  the  water  into  the  spoon.  Carefully  so  as  to  not  barb  your  fit,  you  take  apart  the  syringe  and  use  the  plunger  to  gently,  ever  so  gently  stir  the  mix,  if  it  is  cloudy  or    not  dissolving  completely  you    very  very  carefully  lift  the  spoon  from  the  table  or  book  or  safe  secure  place  you  have  it  resting  and  hold  it  over  a  flame,  usually  a  common  garden  variety  bic  lighter.

When  its  clear,  you  hastily  put  together  the  fit,  placing  the  plunger  back  into  the  syringe  and  search  wildly  for  a  filter,  your  excitement  getting  to  the  point  of  a  sixteen  year  old  on  his  first  sexual  encounter,  you  can  no  longer  wait.  You  break  off  a  tiny  piece  of  the  filter  and  drop  it  into  the  clear  liquid  and  watch  it  sink  and  fill.  You  get  your  fit  and  thrust  it  into  the  filter,  trying  not  to  barb  the  tip  and    ever  so  delicately  suck  up  every  single  drop  of  the  precious  fluid,  like  a  lover  who  must  have  or  know  every  inch  of  your  body  before  finally  consuming  it  in  a  fit  of  passion.

The  moment,  our  finest  hour.  You  grab  either  a  belt  of  a  tourniquet  or  even  the  strap  from  a  handbag  or  anything  that  will  restrict  the  blood  flowing  through  your  arm  and  you  swab,  like  a  bride  taking  a  shower  on  her  wedding  night.  You  are  pacing  yourself,  you  want  this  moment  to  go  on  forever.  You  lift  the  fit  to  your  arm  and  gently  insert  it  into  a  vein.  At  first  it  is  painful,  but    you  wait  knowing  that  it  wont  matter  in  a  few  minutes,  you  search  until  you  get  it  neatly  and  cleanly  into  your  vein  and  you  gently  push  the  plunger  in............................

Rush,  for  a  moment  you  are  disoriented,  you  draw  back  some  blood  and  plunge  it  back  into  your  vein,  so  as  to  not  leave  behind  even  a  trace  of  the  drug.  if  your  somewhat  of  a  ritualist  you  do  this  several  times,  in  a  complex  pattern  you  have  long  since  developed..........Rush,  your  ears  ring  and  for  a  moment  you  want  to  vomit  and  you  think  this  is  it,  if  I  died  now  I  would  die  happy.  You  feel  so  much,  you  hear    and  you  have  a  wild  and  wonderful  communication  with  the  world  and  for  one  glorious  moment  you  are  God.  There  is  nothing  else,  no  feeling  no  earth,  no  lover  and  no  satisfaction  from  anything  else  you  can  do  in  your  entire  life  that  can  replace  that  moment.  That  one  moment.  No  words,  no  amount  of  description  or  depth  of  feeling  can  possibly  explain  how  you  feel  for  that  one  moment.

Finally  you  remember  to  let  the  tourniquet  loose,  you  feel    your  body  itch  and  such  a  sense  of  wellbeing  that  no  triathlete  has  ever  felt  in  perfect  shape  ready  for  an  Olympic  performance.  You  take  the  fit  out  of  your  arm,  and  like  a  used  condom,  dispose  of  it  in  your  sharps  container.  if  your  lucky  you  spend  the  next  few  hours  in  a  happy  reverie,  dozing  and  just  enjoying  the  sensation  of  being  alive,  truly  alive  and  well.  You  know  it  was  worth  it,  was  worth  everything  and  you  try  not  to  think  about  the  people  you  loved  and  whether  they  still  love  you  as  you  lie  in  the  arms  of  another  lover.

Dacca  Daze

I  didn’t'  actually  think  you  could  get  addicted  to  Pot,  smoked  it  all  my  adult  life  and  just  never  gave  it  much  thought.  Was  simply  what  people  did  .  Everyone  I  knew  smoked  and  I  didn't  think  it  was  a  problem.  My  wife  smokes  as  well.  It  really  was  just  part  of  the  culture.  We're  your  pretty  typical  family,  three  kids,  one  car  and  a  mortgage.  Mr  and  Mrs  Average.  It's  generally  considered  safe,  or  at  least  I  thought  it  was  safe,  safe  as  houses.  

But  after  30  years    smoking    dope  I  was  well  and  truly  hooked.  I  had  experimented  in  my  youth  but  pot  was  my  main  staple.  I  have  a  few  problems  which  I  am  working  on  through  GROW.  I  busted  my  back  up  pretty  badly  working  as  a  mechanic  all  those  years.  Had  Scoliosis  and  finally  got  a  spinal  fusion  and  been  on  the  disability  pension  ever  since.  I  guess  I  grew  bored  and  complacent.  I  always  thought  myself  above  addiction,  I  was  way  too  smart  for  that.  But  the  truth  is  I  have  been  an  active  addict  most  of  my  life.

But  dope  became  a  problem  a  long  time  ago.  I  used  to  be  in  denial,  tell  myself  that  it  was  for  the  pain,  and  I  do  get  back pain,  but  I  used  it  as  a  crutch.  The  truth  is  I  would  take  almost  anything,  without  putting  a  needle  in  my  arm.  I  even  got  hooked  on  Zoloft  for  more  years  than  I  can  remember.  I  tried  speed,  and  even  Cocaine.  But  I  was  always  just  a  dabbler  with  anything  else.  My  first  love  was  the  Dakka.    The  mellow  cruisy  stone  was  my  particular  scene.

My  first  smoke  was  in  junior  high school.  We  got  giggly  and  buzzy  and  paranoid  about  the  teachers  springing  us  and  I  just  seemed  to  take  to  it  like  a  duck  to  water.  By  the  end  of  the  Semester  I  was  pulling  bongs  like  a  pro  behind  the  bus  shelter  and  doing  odd jobs  to  raise  the  money.  I've  never  had  to  support  my  habit  by  crime,  I  was  young  and  fit  and  worked  my  guts  out.  With  every  single  paycheck  I  bought  just  a  little  bit  of  Dacca,  and  after  work  we  would  all  mellow  out.

I  joined  the  Army  to  see  the  world,  and  took  my  habit  on  tour.  I  did  my  apprenticeship  as  a  mechanic  and  made  good  money.  Everywhere  we  went  it  was  as  common  as  well  grass,  easily  accessible  and  the  cops  never  gave  us  a  hard  time,  even  the  MP's  were  fairly  lax  about  the  whole  pot  scene.  It  was  just  so  common  no  one  seemed  to  care.  I  know  I  am  but  one  of  millions  of  pot  smokers  in  Australia.  

Even  family  events  were  a  Dacca  filled  haze,  all  my  brother's  smoked  and  we  would  use  any  excuse  to  smoke  it.  A  fishing  trip  was  a  great  opportunity  to  bong  on  with  my  brothers.  And  I  probably  would  be  bonging  on  now  except  my  older  brother  died.  It  affected  me  deeply  as  he'd  been  the  more  mature,  stable  one.  I'd  looked  up  to  him  all  my  life.  How  did  he  die?  Motorbike  accident.  He  was  off  his  tree  and  came  off  his  bike  in  front  of  a  truck.  There  wasn't  much  left  to  scrape  up  of  the  bitumen.

You  don't  think  of  Dacca  as  a  killer,  but  driving  under  the  influence  of  any  drug  is  a  big  deal.  I  should  know,  I've  done  it  millions  of  times.  I've  smoked  pot  all  day  and  driven  up  to  pick  the  kids  up  after  school.  I've  gone  out  off  my  tits  and  driven  at  30  kilometres  an  hour  all  the  way  to  the  Gold  Coast.  I  am  putting  my  hand  up,  I  am  a  fucking  wanker  of  the  first  order.

After  the  first  year  binging  after  my  brother  died,  I  finally  woke  up  to  myself.  My  marriage  had  split  up.  I  was  living  in  a  housing  commission  house,  my  son  was  using  Amphetamines  and  I  was  responsible  for  it  all.  I  had  nothing  to  show  for  all  my  years  of  working.  My  kids  took  drugs  because  that  was  what  they  saw  every  day  of  their  lives.  If  I  didn't  take  control  of  my  own  life  and  lead  by  example,  then  who  the  fuck  was  I  to    smack  my  son  up  the  side  of    the  head  and  tell  him  drugs  are  bad?

I  booked  myself  into  detox  and  rehab.  It  was  a  lot  tougher  than  you  think.  I  was  coming  off  Dacca  which  I  had  used  for  thirty  years,  I  was  coming  of  pills  which  I  was  swallowing  by  the  packet.  I  was  an  addict.  I  started  NA  and  got  my  shit  in  a  pile.  I'm  fifty  years  old  and  I  now  own  a  decent  stereo.  I  attend  NA  and  gain  a  lot  of  strength  from  my  mates.  I  didn't  think    it  applied  to  me,  I  wasn't  an  addict,  I  was  just  a  recreational  Pot  smoker.  Bullshit.  You  can  only  lie  to  yourself  for  so  long,  and  then  you  have  to  take  inventory  and  do  something  about  it.

You  want  my  opinion,  soft  drugs,  hard  drugs,  no  big  difference  except  with  hard  drugs  you  fall  to  earth  much  quicker.  It's  more  expensive  and  you  end  up  doing  stupid  things  to  get  it.  Pot  is  too  easy,  you  can  grow  it  in  amongst  your  tomato  plants,  the  cops  aren't  going  to  hassle  you  as  much  as  they  do  the  hard  drug  boys,  and  even  if  you  do  get  busted  it's  not  a  big  deal  anymore,  a  fine  and  a  good  behaviour  bond.  It's  still  a  drug,  it's  still  addictive  and  it  is  still  illegal.  

Someone  Else's  Problem

I  grew  up  in  a  normal  suburban  home  and  never  knew  you  existed.  I  saw  people  on  the  street  who  were  dirty  and  poor  and  crossed  the  road  so  I  didn’t  have  to  face  them.  I  ignored  the  Winos  and  the  Abos  and  anything  remotely  distasteful  I  grew  up  with  Mum's  home  cooking  and  Dad  being  the  breadwinner,  and  my  world  was  a  perfect  microcosm  straight  out  of  a  Walt  Disney  Film.  I  had  an  expectation  that    good  things  happen  to  good  people  and  that  there  was  truth  love  beauty  and  justice.  I  saw  stories  on  the  news  about  drugs  and  changed  the  channel  because  if  I  ignored  it,  it  would  all  go  away.  It  was  always  someone  else's  problem,  never  mine.

People  who  took  drugs  weren't  real  or  I  downgraded  their  problems  to  those  of  my    own  friends,  who  liked  to  hit  the  piss  on  the  weekends  and  smoked  a  bit  of  pot  now  and  again.  If  I  didn't  have  a  problem,  then  why  can't  everyone  else  be  like  me.  It  just  never  occurred  to  me  that  there  were  real  junkies  not  only  in  my  family,  but  in  my  street,  in  my  suburb  and  in  my  city.  That  it  wasn’t  just  another  story  made  for  television  or  a  problem  in  America,  one  always  thinks  its  not  in  their  home,  not  in  their  town,  not  in  their  city  and  surely  not  in  their  family.

It  just  never  occurred  to  me  that  here  in  my  own  city  there  were  people  who  didn’t  have  somewhere  to  sleep  tonight.  That  there  were  kids  my  age  who  hadn't  eaten  this  week.  That  in  Queensland  people  could  be  cold.  That  they  couldn’t  go  to  school  or  get  the  dole  or  that  society  ignored  their  very  existence.  I  ignored  you  with  ignorance  and  fear.  I  was  scared  that  if  I  touched  you,  I  would  be  somehow  sullied.  I,  like  most  Australians,  didn’t  want  to  know,  because  it  might  be  painful  and  it  might  touch  me  and  I  might  get  dirty.

Every  family  has  its  junkie,  its  skeleton  in  the  family  closet,  even  prime ministers  are  not  exempt.  We  pretend  it  isn't  what  it  is.  My  Aunty  is  an  addict.  Seems  strange  that  I  didn't  recognise  the  oh  so  familiar  pattern  as  a  child.  She  suffers  from  Migraines  and  takes  painkillers.  I  have  no  idea  if  she  injects,  the  family  are  far  too  closed  mouth  about  their  failures  to    even  let  a  whisper  of  the  how  get  through  to  the  children,  but  on  regular  occasions  they  send  her  of  to  detox,  the  very  best  private  facility,  dry  her  out  and  bring  her  home.  I  feel  an  odd  compulsion  to  say  I  understand  your  pain,  I  know  what  your  going  through,  so  she  won't  feel  so  alone.  She  tries  to  commit  suicide  regularly.

My  husband  is  an  addict,  my  parents  carefully  avoid  the  subject,  they  know  but  choose  not  to  get  involved.  They  don't  want  to  let  the  hurt  in  and  to  them  its  so  foreign  and  unfathomable.  It  opened  my  eyes  to  a  whole  new  world  and  that  world  was  shocking.  There  is  no  lower  totem  on  the  totem  pole,  no  group  of  individuals  more  hated,  more  despised,  less  respected  or  understood  than  the  Junkie.  There  is  so  much  fear  based  discrimination  that  Junkies  and  their  families  no  longer  call  the  police  or  an  ambulance  or  see  doctors  or  try  to  get  a  new  house  that  is  decent  and  clean,  they  know    just  how  badly  they  are    going  to  be  treated,  and  no  longer  bother  to  apply.

My  first  taste  of  real  discrimination  was  before  I  met  my  husband,  I  was  very  sick  and  my  liver  was  poisoned  so  much  so  I  had  severe  jaundice.  I  had  been  in  an  out  of  hospital  and  put  on  some  pretty  strong  painkillers,  and  when  I  presented  to  hospital  they  were  so  sure  I  was  using  and  I  just  wanted  to  get  painkillers  to  feed  my  addiction  that  they  left  me  in  agony  for    days, they  sent  me  home.  I  was  tried  and  guilty  before  I  even  walked  in  the  door.    Their  attitude  change  dramatically  when    one  kindly  nurse  saw  just  how  lovely  a  suntan  I  had  and  realised  your  eyes  don't  tan,  even  then  they  thought  I  either  had  AIDS  or  Hep  C.  it  was  only  after  that  they  even  took  me  seriously  and  did  a  few  simple  tests,  what  a  shock  to  find  all  my  bloods  coming  back  clean  for  any  drugs  and  HEP  C  and  Aids,  I  got  the  medical  care  I  needed  and  some  pain  relief.  The  diagnosis  was  severe  Jaundice  caused  by  Gallstones  in  my  Bile  Duct  and  severe  Pancreatitis.  I  could  very  easily  have  died,  as  it  was  I  was  one  very  sick  little  chook  and  had  to  have  surgery.  Imagine  if  I  was  a  junkie  and  presented  with  those  symptoms?  I  would  have  died  and  nobody  would  have  cared.

The  second  is  your  friends,  if  they  know  you  or  your  partner  is  using  they  close  ranks,  they  no  longer  want  to    know  you,  they  no  longer  invite  you  to  their  house  for  coffee,  you  no  longer  exist.  The  rest  of  society  shuns  you  almost  to  the  point  of  causing  breakdowns  in  individuals.  if  you  need  help,  no  one  will  help  you  because  you  brought  it  all  on  yourself.  Your  mother  no  longer  visits  and  while  she  would  normally  give  you  as  much  love  and  support  you  need  if  you  were  on  your  own,  wont  lend  you  twenty  bucks  to  take  the  baby  to  the  doctor  because  you  must  be  spending  it  on  drugs.  She  has  a  disapproving  air  and  occasionally  gives  you  food  parcels  at  Christmas  and  on  holidays.  You  learn  to  lie,  to  hide  that  he  uses,  just  to  fit  in.

Government  departments  victimise  you.  How  many  Junkie's  have  kids  and  how  many  see  their  kids  regularly.  How  many  loose  their  families,  how  many  are  taken  away  and  put  into  foster  care  or  given  to  be  raised  by  grandparents.  If  I  had  a  dollar  for  every time  I  saw  a  junkie  take  a  picture  of  his  kids  down  and  show  me,  I'd  be  fairly  well  off.  How  much  better  would  it  be  if  they  tried  to  help  these  families  stay  together  instead  of  tearing  them  apart.  If  instead  of  adding  to  their  considerable  problems  by  adding  grief  and  loss  over  their  families,  they  created  safe  houses  where  they  could  see  their  kids  regularly  and  even  live  with  them  and  share  the  care  with  a  supervisor.  How  much  better  would  the  kids  be  knowing  their  parents  do  love  them  ,  do  care  and  have  a  problem,  much  like  any  other  real  debilitating  illness.  If  they  had  cancer,  there  would  be  oodles  of  help,  but  because  they  are  Junkies  they  are  treated  like  the  scum  of  the  earth.  

Social  security  have  issues  if  you  don’t  have  a  "real"  address.  If  you  don't  have  enough  ID  and  can't  prove  you  legally  exist.  It's  pretty  tough  when  you  have  to  rely  on  police  identification  to  tell  Centrelink  that  you  are  you  and  not  someone  pretending  to  be  you.  It's  hard  to  keep  such  things  together  if  your  always  moving  on,  sleeping  in  squats  or  on  peoples  floors.

I  don't  have  a  junk  problem,  my  husband  does,  he  was  in  HADS  (detox)  when  I  had  our  son  and  came  over  under  supervision  for  the  birth  of  our  son.  In  their  infinite  wisdom  the  doctors  didn't  give  me  any  pain  relief  at  all,  I  don't  know  what  they  expected,  my  husband  to  rip  the  drip  out  of  my  arm  and  shove  it  in  his,  God  only  knows,  but  we  got  to  have  a  very    painful,  very  fast  delivery  without  any  pain  relief  whatsoever.  Oh  yes  I  was  allowed  a  little  gas,  and  despite  telling  them  it  makes  me  vomit  and  spending  the  entire  night    awake  throwing  my  guts  up  after  the  birth,  it  was  the  only  thing  offered  to  me.  It  wasn't  because  pain  relief  wasn't  requested,  my  doctor  even    wrote  ahead  to  ask  for  an  immediate  epidural  on  arrival,  knowing  all  the  facts  and  the  inherent  problems  we've  encountered  in  the  past.  It  didn't  work  but  thanks  for  trying  Karen.

Your  doctor  no  longer  believes  you  when  you  have  a  migraine.  Heaven  help  you  if  you  have  a  real  medical  condition,  every  possible  thing  you  may  have  wrong  with  you  is  simply  written  of  as  drug  addiction  related  problems.  How  many  Bipolars  and  Schizophrenics  are  actually  self  medicating  and  undiagnosed  in  the  drug  scene.  Even  their  deaths  are  written  of  as  one  more  casualty  of  drugs  and  in  truth  it  is  often  one  more  casualty  that  no  one  cared  enough  about  to  investigate  further.

Even  the  drug    professionals,  the  detoxes,  the  counsellors  and  the  needle  exchanges  are  full  of  burned  out  and  over  taxed  people  who  are    numb,  who  have  seen  and  heard  everything,  and  after  a  while  they  quit  or  become  immune  to  the  pain  and  the  suffering  they  see  everyday.  Their  valiant  efforts  to  gain  funding  and  educate  people  about  safe  drug  practices,  harm  reduction  and  safe  sex  are  rebuffed  again  and  again.  Funding    gets  cut,  the  staff  have    breakdowns  and  burnouts  and  some days  it  seems  like  nobody  cares  or  even  knows  and  acknowledges  that  junkies  exist  and  it's  all  been  for  nothing.  The  healthcare  workers,  those  dedicated  to  the  medicated,  never  get  the  thanks  they  deserve.  No  one  else  will  ever  bother,  but  a  big  thanks  from  me  and  mine.

I'm  not  asking  you  to  support  their  drug  use  or  their  choices,  far  from  it.  Is  it  too  much  to    acknowledge  Junkies  as  fellow  human  beings,  with  inalienable  rights.  I've  read  the  United  Nations  Bill  of  Human  Rights  and  I  didn't  see  on  the  bottom  of  the  document  a  clause  saying  "except  Junkies".  I  want  society  to  take  that  unwritten  clause  and  ignorance  and  bigotry  out  and  accept  ALL  human  beings  as  equals  despite  their  problems.  We  have  no  problem  understanding  that  it's  uncool  to  be  bigoted  towards  someone  because  of  their  weight,  yet  in  reality  they  are  eating  themselves  to  death  and  creating  their  own  health    problems  (  heart  disease,  diabetes),  yet  we  think  it's  ok  to  discriminate  against  Junkies.  it's  time  we  had  a  real  rethink  about  discrimination  in  our  society,  in  our  homes  and  in  our  hearts.

When    I  look  back  I  am  as  guilty  as  anyone  of    discriminating  against  junkies.  My  apologies  for  my  ignorance.  My  hopes  are  that  in  some  small  way  this  book  will  help  other  people  open  their  eyes  and  stop  living  in  Disneyland.  It's  not    someone  else's  problem.  It  doesn’t  just  happen  in  someone  else's  family,  its  in  your  family  and  mine,    in  all  countries  and  cultures,  in  every  society  and  it's  time  we  dealt  with  it  instead  of  closing  our  eyes,  ignoring  it  and  hoping  it  will  go  away.  I'm  going  to  say  this  one  last  time,  for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  hearing  my  own  voice,  this  is  not  someone  else's  problem.

Save  the  Junkie  Fund.

Meet  Lenny,  Lenny  is  a  street  kid  and  a  Junkie  living  in  suburban  Brisbane.  Lenny  doesn’t  get  to  use  drugs  every  day  because  he  doesn't  have  enough  money.  Lenny  lives  in  a    filthy  squat  with  no  running  water  and  no  sewerage.  For  most  of  Lenny's  life  he  has  been  beaten  up  and  abused.  He  has  been  anally  raped  and  has  to  fight  every  day  for  his  survival  .He  often  goes  to  bed  sick  and  hungry  and  suffers  from  malnutrition.  Lenny  is  only  14  years  old.

You  can  help  Lenny  and  all  the    hundreds  of  Lenny's  out  there  for  just  fifty  dollars  a  day.  For  fifty  dollars  a  day,  Lenny  can  be  well  and  not    put  his  life  on  the  line  and  risk  catching  Aids.  For  fifty  dollars  a  day  He  can  start  to  spend  his  dole  on  food  and  accommodation  with  running  water  and  clothes  instead  of  shopping  at  the  blue  bin.  For  just  fifty  dollars  a  day  you  can  give  Lenny  what  he  craves  and  a  real  sense  of    fulfillment.

Donations  can  be  made  to  C.A.S.H  (Caring  And  Saving  Him  -  Fund)    to  any  street kid  or  Junkie  in  the  Valley.  

Or  for  just  fifty  dollars,  you  can  fuck  him.

Outside

When  I  first  got  out  of  jail,  I  swore  I  was  never  going  back  again.  Between  the  fucking  screws  and  being  locked  down  it  was  a  nightmare,  so  the  only  way  to  stay  out  was  to  keep  clean.  After  three  weeks  I  had    found  a  job  in  construction  with  the  help  of  some  of  my  mates  from  boob  and  moved  out  of  Pindarri  and  got  a  little  place  in  New  Farm.  Nothing  flash  just  a  little  one  bedroom  shared  bathroom  boarding  house  deal.

After  work  we  went  to  the  pub  and  had  a  few  beers  and  I  started  thinking  about  my  missus  and  my  kids.  She'd  dumped  me  when  I  went  away  this  last  time,  said  it  was  all  too  much  and  this  time  she  wasn't  waiting,  but  I  know  she  still  loves  me  and  I  thought  maybe  it  was  time  I  rang  her  and  told  her  I  was  out,  was  clean  and  I  was  working.  Maybe,  just  maybe  she'd  give  it  another  go.

I  pick  up  the  phone  and  dial.  It's  a  bit  like  living  in  two  worlds,  when  your  away  it's  a  whole  other  universe.  You  count  on  your  mates  in  boob,  and  you  back  them  up  no  matter  what.  Last  time  I  got  out,  I  helped  a  mate  out  with  a  few  burgs  and  got  busted  and  she  said  that's  it,  that  was  the  last  time  and  she  didn’t  answer  my  letters.  I  got  nine  months  or  rather  I  served  nine,  got  a  few  months  of  for  good  behaviour.  This  was  the  first  time  she  hadn't  come  to  get  me  with  the  kids.  

I'm  nervous  and  a  little  bit  shaky,  suddenly  I'm  not  so  sure  she  does  love  me  anymore.  I  am  a  real  staunch  man,  and  this  tiny  little  woman  can  bring  me  to  my  knees  with  a  look.  You  know  the  look.  Your  hands  go  clammy  and  you  know  she's  going  to  just  quietly  tell  you  exactly  what  she  really  thinks.  She  is  incredibly  beautiful  when  she's  mad  at  you,  her  eyes  are  deep  and  fiery  like  opals  and  they  can  look  right  through  you,  like  you  were  a  window  pane.  She's  been  my  only  lover  ever  since  the  mad  old  days  when  we  were  seventeen.  What  a  crazy  out    of  control  couple  we  were  then.  It's  been  eighteen  years.

There's  an  answer  on  the  phone  and  I'm  sweating,  "Hello?"  I  say,  "Hi,  it's  me,  before  you  hang  up  on  me  I'm  out  and  I've  got  a  job  and  I'm  not  using."  Silence.  I'm  not  sure  if  that's  a  good  thing  or  a  bad  thing.  I  timidly  offer  "I  love  you  sweetie,  and  I  miss  you".  My  dickhead  mates  are  making  faces  from  the  bar  where  they  are  finishing  off  their  beer  before  going  home.  I    am  far  too  involved  in  my  own  problems  to  worry  about  their  nonsense.  This  is  probably  the  most  important  moment  of  my  life,  I  am  hanging  just  to  hear  those  words...  and  she  says  them  too  "I  love  you  too,  but"

BUT,  my  world  plunges  into  the  abyss,  there's  a  but,  she's  not  finished  yet,  but  suddenly  I  feel  like  the  bottom  has  fallen  out  of  my  world.  "But  what  sweetie"?  I  ask.  There's  a  tear  in  my  eye,  everything  that  has  ever  mattered,  my  whole  world  is  in  the  balance  and  my  heart  is  scattered  around  me  in  shards  but  I  hang  on  to  her  words  "But  I  don't  think  it's  a  good  idea  for  us  to  see  each  other  again".  "Can  I  talk  to  the  kids?"....  ice  creeps  into  my  veins,  surely  not  the  kids,  please  let  me  see  my  kids.  "I  think  it's  better  if  they  don't  know  your  out,  they  are  doing  fine,  Ben  has  started  school  and  is  doing  real  well."  "Honey  I'm  not  using  and  I'm  working,  I  can  send  you  some  money  and  please  won't  you  let  me  come  home."  She  says  she's  sorry,  and  hangs  up.

She  used  to  use  too,  back  when  we  were  kids,  but  it  was  never  a  regular  thing  even  back  then.  Looking  back  I  think  it  was  only  because  she  loved  me  and  shared  every  thing  with  me  that  she  even  used.  When  she  found  out  she  was  pregnant,  she  quit  immediately  and  hasn't  picked  up  a  needle  since.  I  admire  her  courage.  I  think  about  all  the  time's  I  promised  her  I  would  quit,  how  many  chances  she  gave  me.  

That  night  I  go  round  and  see  old  mate.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  do  it,  after  all  the  damage  it's  done  to  me,  here  I  am  alone,  with  no  one,  my  parents  no  longer  talk  to  me,  my  beautiful  wife  and  wonderful  kids,  and  I  can't  ever  go  home.  it's  easy  to  slip  back  into  the  old  habits.  For  a  moment  you  forget  how  badly  you  hurt  and  you  can  get  on  with  your  life,  until  tomorrow  morning,  when  you  know  you  need  another.

After  a  while  it  becomes  more  important  than  anything.  I  lost  my  job  and  was  back  doing  burgs  within  four  months.  We  were  doing  nice  white  collar  stuff,  getting  dressed  nice  and  simply  walking  into  office  buildings  and  picking  up  laptops  and  putting  them  under  our  arms  and  walking  out.  That's  all  it  took.  Incarceration  was  inevitable.  I'm  sitting  in  boob  writing  this,  staring  at  the  brasco  and  think  I  had  it  all,  I  had  everything  and  I  fucked  up.  I  owned  my  own  house,  two  cars,  the  most  incredibly  beautiful  woman  in  the  world  was  mine  and  I  had  fantastic  kids.  I  can't  blame  anyone  else,  it  was  all  my  doing.  I  wonder  how  she's  doing,  how  much  the  kids  have  grown.    I'm  writing  her  a  letter  telling  her  how  I  feel  and  I  wonder  if  she'll  write  back.  I  need  to  tell  her  I  love  her,  and  that  I  am  so  terribly  sorry  for  what  I  have  done  to  her  and  the  kids.  I  hope  one  day  she  can  forgive  me  and  I  can  go  home.

I've  wasted  nearly  half  of  my  adult  life  in  prison,  and  for  what?  Fucking  gear.  If  I  wasn't  using  there's  no  way  I'd  have  ever  gone  to  jail.  Next  time  I'll  do  my  best  to  prove  to  her  that  I  can  do  it,  I  can  stay  straight.  I  understand.  She  just  can't  take  anymore  hurt,  any  more  letdowns.  I  know  she  still  loves  me.  Please  just  give  me  one  more  chance  to  prove  I  love  her  too.

Grey  Day

Went  out  today  to  score,  greys  are  much  easier  to  come  by  than  heroin,  and  the  hammer  now  is  fucking  crap.  Everyone  you  talk  to  says  the  same  thing,  remember  the  good  ole  days  when  you'd  be  off  your  face  all  day  for  twenty  bucks.  I    reason  its  more  like  they  were  younger  and  had  a  tolerance  of  an  gnat  instead  of  the  huge    morph  habit  they  have  now.

Morphine  is  different.  It's  much  more  addictive,  you  need  more  and  more  and  it  lasts  longer  in  your  body.  Still  I  can't  see  any  bloody  difference.  The  morph  people  act  superior,  like  they  are  above  other  Junkies.  Just  because  they  can  get  it  from  a  croaker  (doctor)  and  don’t  have  to  buy  it  (  except  when  they  run  out  of  course).

Greys  are  a  lot  more  social,  you  go  into  peoples  homes  and  meet  them  and  all  shoot  up  together  and  then  you  put  it  away  and  have  coffee  like  civilised  people.  You  talk  about  your  doctors  and  when  your  script  is  due  and  give  pointers  on  how  to  get  your  dose  increased.  You  go  around  and  rather  than  money  changing  hands  you  exchange  favours.  "Can  I  get  one  off  you  today,  and  I'll  give  you  two  on  Friday,  fucking  doctors  away  and  I  can't  get  in  till  then?"  You  exchange  phone  numbers  of  doctors  who  are  authors.  Not  as  many  crims,  and  more  family  types  and  surprisingly  old  people  sell  them  to  supplement  their  pensions.

It's  not  really  that  different,  but  instead  of  being    full  of  dealers  its  more  like  pot,  everyone  grows  a  little  or  everyone  gets  some  from  their  doctor.  It's  a  lot  more  about  who  you  know  and  can  be  quite  lucrative  to  get  into.  Most  people  can  only  afford  to  sell  a  little  on  the  side,  enough  to  buy  cigs  and  maybe  pay  a  bill  that's  outstanding.

Today  we  met  Wayne  at  his  doctors  and  we  went  to  McDonalds  to  shoot  up  (  Wayne  was  vomiting  his  guts  up  and  was  way  to  crook  to  go  far,  took  four  to    hold  him.)  God  he  was  sick.  He  threw  up  all  over  the  disabled  toilets,  pity  the  poor  bastard  who  went  in  there  next.  Pills  are  a  wee  bit  trickier  to  prepare,  first  you  have  to  clean  'em  down  then  crush  them  up,  then  your  supposed  to  wait  for  three  minutes  but  nobody  ever  does,  then    heat  and  shoot  them  up.  Takes  a  fuckload  of  water  and  it  seems  to  take  forever  especially  when  your  waiting  and  sick.  You  go  through  a  lot  of  lighters.  I've  often  giggled  to  myself  as  we  go  into  the    handicapped  toilet,  the  idiots  think  were  gay  and  have  no  fucking  idea  what  were  up  to  in  here.

I  was  waiting  to  use    his  spoon,  should  have  brought  one  from  home,  but  I  forgot,  and  besides  I  have  kids,  I  don’t  carry  drug  paraphenelia  around  with  me  much.  Last  thing  I  want  is    to  get  busted.  The  rush  is  the  same,  except  you  go  bright  red  and  you  get  prickly  itchy  a  lot  more.  It's  not  as  intense,  but  you  don't  need  to  have  another  shot  a  few  hours  later.

I  started  getting  Proladone  from  my  doctor,  six  per  month  for  migraines.  Bum  Nuts  they  are  called  on  the  street  cause  they  are  suppositories.  They  work  well  but  give  you  a  wicked  habit  in  no  time  at  all.  They  are  like  morphine  with  methadone  mixed  together.  Nice  slow  release,  you  know  they  are  working  when  you  start  talking  a  lot  more  and  you  start  to  feel  a  whole  lot  better.

My  missus  gets  Endone,  they  aren’t  really  strong  but  work  fine  when  you  take  a  whole  strip.  I  pinch  them  of  her  all  the  time,  she's  always  hiding  them  from  me.  She's  not  fond  of  them,  she  just  hates  me  using  period,  says  I  am  manic  and  hard  to  deal  with  when  I  am  stoned.  Hates  it  more  when  I'm  on  gear  and  raving  at  her  though.

The  good  thing  is  it's  legal.  I  get  my  script  weekly  and  it  keeps  me  sane.  Stops  me  from  loosing  it,  and  the  doc  gets  the  chemist  to  dole  it    out  in  little  bits  so  I  cant  go  through  it  in  one  big  hit.  It's  kind  of  a  drag  but  saves  me  from  myself.  I  still  like  to  have  one  or  two  days  where  I  get  a  bit  extra  so  I  can  feel  it  and  get  pleasantly  stoned.  But  I  like  not  being  sick  everyday.  I  guess  it's  a  lot  like  methadone  in  that  it  is  legal  but  it  still  makes  you  feel  good,  you  can  shoot  it  up  and  you  don’t  get  that  burning  in  your  stomach.  Not  to  mention  you  don't  get  treated  like  scum  when  you  go  to  the  chemist  like  the  methadonians  do.

There’s  a  few  you  can  get,  greys  (grey  nurses)  are  the  most  common,  but  you  can  get  turtles  (  greens)  or  oranges  pretty  readily.  You  can  buy  kappy's  (  Kapinol)  too  but  they  are  crappy.  You  can  get  even  smaller  doses  too  but  you  can't  shoot  them  up  cause  they  are    full  of  wax.  The  needle  exchange  reasons  that  you  should  use  a  wheel  filter,  but  if  you  don’t  have  the  readies  you  can  use  a  whole  filter  (instead  of  a  part  of  one  like  gear).  For  a  reasonable  way  to  control  your  use  and  not  spend  every  cent  you  have  on  gear,  morph  is  the  way  to  go.

Creeping  Jesus

That's  what  the  local's  call  him,  but  he's  quite  a  nice  fellow.  A  bible  thumper  who  believes  in  Jesus  and  isn't  afraid  to  share.  He  was  in  jail,  after  getting  busted  for  a  banky  I  think  (not  sure)  and  was  using  of  course.  He  was  hanging  out  and  saw  the  light  and  stopped  hanging  immediately  and  hasn't  gone  back.  His  own  personal  miracle  from  God.  He  doesn’t  wear  shoes  and  only  wears  white.  A  case  of  a  real  hard  man  who  became  a  Soldier  for  the  Lord  and  Lay  Minister  and  one  of  the  best  family  men  around.  Cured  of  his  addiction  instantly  and  never  had  a  problem  since.  Occasionally  you  hear  about  stories  like  his,  but  it's  very  uncommon.

He  does  a  lot  of  outreach  work  in  prisons  and  helps  a  whole  lot  of  people  in  his  community  with  his  own  money  I  might  add.  He  runs  a  halfway  house  and  a  driver  reviver  centre.  Most  of  the  locals  think  he  a  loon  and  make  fun  of  him  and  his  beliefs  but  he  does  have  the  courage  of  his  convictions.  He  helps  the  homeless  the  most  and  is  always  ready  to  set  an  extra  place  at  the  table  for    some  homeless  old  drifter.

I  came  across  him  when  I  was  hitchhiking  through,  and  was  hanging  out.  He  was  very  kind  and  gave  me  a  bed  to  sleep  in  and  hot  meals.  When  it  got  too  much  he  helped  me  to  get  to  the  bathroom  and  cleaned  up  after  me.  There's  not  a  lot  of  people  who  will  help  a  junkie  down  on  his  luck.  Not    that  he  would  allow  even  the  whiff  of  gear  in  his  place,  he'd  knock  you  down  if  you  abused  his  home,  but  he  knows  that  it's  tough  and  how  to  help  you  get  through  it.

He  prays  a  lot,  probably  drives  a  lot  of    people  nuts  but  he  is  trying  to  do  the  right  thing  and  he  really  does  help  you  out  if  he  can.  So  if  your  travelling  down  south  and  your  down  on  your  luck  and  need    a  caring  brother  to  help  you  through  detoxing,  ask  for  Creeping  Jesus.  I  don't  mind  God  bothers  if  they  are  Christlike,  what  bothers  me  are  the  ones  driving  a  new  BMW  who  cross  the  road  to  avoid  you  in  case  poverty  was  somehow  contagious  or  you  were  going  to    rip  them  off.  I  hate  the  hypocrisy  of  them  discriminating  against  people  like  me  and  then  saying  they  are  good  Christians.  That’s  just  bullshit.

I  can  put  up  with  the  praying  before  meals  and  I  can  put  up  with  bible  studies.  I  can  handle  helping  out  round  the  place  once  I  got  back  on  my  feet  (I  was  pretty  crook  that  first  week).  What  I  am  not  good  at  is  making  coffee,  for  some  reason  my  coffee  making  skills  are  so  bad  that  I  can  make  it  taste  like  poison.  I  made  Creeping  Jesus  a  cup  of  coffee  and  he  said  to  me  "Brother,  I  don't  think    making  coffee  is  your  ministry,  God  must  have  other  plans  for  you".  If  I  ever  get  a  few  dollars  I'd  like  to  send  it  down  to  him,  it's  rare  you  find  someone  who  helps  out  an  old  junkie  down  on  his  luck.  Charity  begins  at  home.

I've  lost  the  fucking  gear

Every  one  has  a  story  of  woe,  when  they  have  inadvertently  lost  the  gear.  It's  that  moment  where  the  bottom  falls  out  of  your  world  and  you  feel  like  your  going  to  be  sick.  My  flatmate  and  I  had  an  arrangement  where  we  took  turns  getting  the  gear  and  getting  on  and  it  was  my  turn  this  particular  day.  I  went  out  in  the  car,  got  on  and  of  course  went  immediately  to  a  nice  quiet  street  and  had  mine.  I  was  having  words  with  my  girlfriend,  she  was  cranky  about  us  wasting  money  on  drugs  and  had  things  on  that  day  to  do,  and  was  crabbing  me  out.

So  while  she's  at  full  whinge  she  tells  me  to  clean  up  my  mess,  so  I  put  the  fit  in  the  sharps  safe  and  threw  away  all  the  crap  out  the  window  including  what  I  thought  was  my  empty  packet.  I  didn't  give  a  second  thought  about  it  all  and  we  went  home,  to  my  waiting  flatmate.  So  naturally  I  pulled  out  what  I  thought  was  his  gear  and  pulled  out  the  empty  baggie.......  Well,  wasn’t  I  popular.  At  one  point  I  thought  he  was  going  to  put  me  through  the  fucking  wall,  irate  wasn't  the  right  word.

Now  not  only  is  my  girlfriend  upset  but  my  mate  is  livid  and  we  all  pour  back  into  the  car.  I  was  secretly  astonished  at  his  command  of  swear  words,  he  was  a  master.  I  figure  we  must  have  tossed  it  out  on  the  road  when  I  threw  out  the  rubbish  but  it's  a  wet,  cold  and  very  windy  day  and  the  chances  of  finding  it  were  beyond  slim.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  he  was  quite  capable  of  killing  me.  I  mean  it's  just  not  believable,  he  just  assumed  I  was  being  a  greedy  cunt  and  making  the  world's  most  feeble  excuse  not  to  cough  up  and  give  him  his  share.  it's  probably  worse  because  it  was  fucking  awesome  gear  and  I  was  off  my  tits.

So  we  arrive  back  to  the  street  I  had  used  to  shoot  up  in,  its  about  5.30-ish  in  the  afternoon,  cold,  wet  and  raining  and  we  could  hardly  see.  There  was  no  fucking  chance  and  I  wasn't  optimistic.  My  mate  and  I  walked  up  and  down  and  up  and  down  and  just  as  we  were  about  to  give  up............he  spots  it    just  as  it  was  about  to  drift  down  the  storm  water  drain.  If  you  don't  use  you  wouldn't  know,  but    were  talking  about  something  the  size  of  maybe  one  eighth  of  a  marble  and  light  loose  powder  wrapped  in  a    cut  off  clear  plastic  freezer  bag  corner  and  tied  up  in  a  small  knot.  Think    a  quarter  of  the  size  of  your  little  fingernail.  The  knot  was  bigger  than  the  gear.  Finding  it  was  somewhat  of  a  miracle.

Well,  I  was  forgiven.  My  mate  said  how  sorry  he  was  for  doubting  me  and  had  that  gear  put  away  before  you  could  say  avagoodweekend.  He  was  so  relieved  I  think  he  would  have  kissed  me  if  I  came  closer.  He  was  pretty  crook  when  this  happened  and    wouldn't  have  got  paid  till  the  following  Monday  so  his  gratitude  was    overwhelming  to  say  the  least.  

That's  Incredible

My  mate's  an  amputee  and  only  has  one  arm,  so  shoots  up  in  that  arm,  and  its  just  amazing  watching  him  shoot  up.  Think  about  it  how  do  you  put  on  a  tourniquet  with  one  arm?  How  do  you  feel  for  a  vein?    How  do  you  get  the  needle  in  and  then  push  in  the  plunger?  Most  people  would  just  not  be  able  to  do  that,  it's  tough  enough  with  only  two.  Sometimes  I  think  you'd  have  to  be  Shiva  to    get  it  all  happening.  Occasionally  he  uses  his  legs  but  not  all  the  time.

He  tends  to  have  trouble  with  three  ml's  as  they  are  a  little  hard  to    do  because  of  their  size  (  has  to  fit  in  his  mouth),  but    he  is  incredible  to  watch  with  a  one  ml.  He  wraps  the  tourniquet  already  looped  and  holds  it  with  his  hand  on  his  good  arm  and  puts  it  in  his  mouth  and  reefs  it  back  then  clamps  it  with  his  chin  to  his  shoulder.  He  then  using  his  mouth  puts  the  fit  in  his  arm,  sucks  the  plunger  out  a  wee  bit  then  gently  pushes  it  in  with  his  tongue.  its  amazing  what  you  can  do  when  you  want  to,  and  I  find  it  fascinating  to  watch  him  fix  himself  up.

I  know  a  girl  who  shoots  up  in  her  tits,  which  I  found    horrible.  Something  about  sticking  a  needle  into  such  a  delicate  part  of  your  body  just  gives  me  the  willies,  besides  what  veins  are  there?  And  I've  heard  about    someone  shooting  up  in  his  penis,  (urban  legend  maybe),  but  the  thought  just  makes  me  wince.  Besides  what  if  something  goes  wrong  and    you  get  an  abscess?  Do  they  amputate  your  penis?  No  fucking  way  mate,  just  way  too  fucking  scary.

A  couple  of  other  people  I  know  shoot  up  in  their  necks,  they  use  a  mirror  to  see  what  they  are  doing.  I  always  joke  and  ask  them  what  they  do  for    a  tourniquet  if  they  can't  get  a  vein,  do  they  use  a  handy  noose?  It's  kinda    ugly    to  watch  and    usually  a  bloody  mess.  They  look  like  they  have  had  very  sloppy  vampires  maul  them  on  a  regular  basis.

Not  to  mention  the  people  who  shoot  up  in  arteries,  the  blood  spurts  out  everywhere.  A  really  bad  idea,  and  your  just  as  likely  to  do  yourself  a  really  nasty  damage  and  possibly  loose  an  arm.  Awful  to  watch  and  always  looks  like  a  massacre.  The  arm  swells  up  immediately  and  you  have  to  be  hospitalised  or  your  quite  likely  to  die  or  at  best  loose  your  arm.  You  need  to  pack  it  with  ice  immediately  to  stop  as  much  of  the  swelling  as  possible  and  keep  it  raised  till  you  get  to  hospital.  You  actually  need  to  get  there  as  soon  as  possible,  even  though  you  in  your  infinite  wisdom  want  another  shot  first  because  of  the  pain.  The  same  with  groins,  your  just  as  likely  to  hit  an  artery  there  as  a  vein  and  loose  a  leg  or  worse.  I'm  kinda  attached  to  my  wedding  tackle  and  that's  one  thing  I'm  not  in  a  hurry  to  sacrifice  to  junk.  There's  a  lot  of  wisdom  in  not  using  anything  below  your  waist  to  shoot  up  in.

I've  had  abscesses  before,  can  even  remember  going  into  HADS  (detox)  and  them  scaring  the  fuckery  out  of  me  and  saying  if  they  don’t  heal  in  a  few  days,  we'll  have  to  get  a  surgeon  down  and  might  have  to  amputate  your  arm.  I  was  so  glad  that  it  responded  to  antibiotics,  what  a  relief.  Though  bummed  at  having  a  drip  in  my  arm  and  no  pain relief.  I  might  like  putting  needles  in  my  own  arm  but  I  hate  it  when  it's  for  medical  reasons  and  there's  no  joy  in  it  for  me.

I've  seen  and  done  most  things,  but  found  the  variety  in  users  and  their    practices  fascinating.  I've  even  heard  of  people  who  shove  their  dope  up  their  arse  in  a  cigarette  or  rice  paper  to  dissolve  and  be  absorbed  by  the  delicate  membranes  in  your  arse.  What's  the  bizarre  thing  about  it  is  they  utilise  a  cool mint  to  keep  it  firmly  up  there  but  it  has  a  tingling  feeling  as  it  to  dissolves  (so  they  tell  me)  and  is  absorbed  by  the  mucus  membranes  of  your  anus. Maybe  I'll  give  that  one  a  miss,  I'm  no  arse  bandit.  I'll  usually  try  almost  anything  once.  I  guess  that  you  can  also  put  it  under  your  tongue  like  you  do  subutex  and  have  it  absorb  into  your  blood  stream  that  way,  or  you  can  smoke  it,  called  chasing  the  dragon.  Seems  to  me  that  you'd  loose  a  fair  portion  of  it,  but  I  have  heard    it's  got  one  hell  of  a  kick  when  inhaled.    A  good  tip  if  your  having  trouble  with  your  veins  is  to  ask  for  alternate  methods  from  your  local  users  group  or  needle  exchange.  Give  the  arm  a  rest  and  don't  go  wildly  looking  at  your  other  veins  and  treating  yourself  like  a  pincushion.  Get  yourself  on  antibiotics  if  there's  an  abscess  and  if  you  cant  see  your  own  doctor,  go  to  an  addict  friendly  doctor  they  recommend  at  the  needle  exchange,  who  will  respect  your  confidentiality  and  wont  treat  you  like  a  thing  just  because  you  use.

Fathers  Day

I  read  a  story  in  users  news  about  how  NA  people  have  to  go  around  apologising  to  the  people  they  have  wronged,  great  story  called  the  arsehole  factor  and  it  made  me  sit  back  and  think  of  my  own  beloved  arsehole.  We're  not  together,  and  probably  wont  be  again  because  kids  and  drugs  don’t  mix  okay.  I  love  him  sincerely  but  its  hard  to  recount  all  the  fucked  up  things  he's  done  to  me  and  probably  to  hundreds  of  other  people.  

I  am  not  wanting  to  elicit  sympathy  but  to  help  you  get  a  grip  on  what  you  might  be  doing  to  the  people  you  love  and    emotionally  wont  be  held  accountable  for  because  your  a  junkie.  Part  of    respect  is  accountability,  so  for  anyone  to  get  respect  they  have  to  earn  it.  if  your  not  getting  respect  perhaps  its  because  of  what  your  doing  and  how  you  treat  the  people  around  you.

The  worst  thing  he's  ever  done,  is  told  me  he  loved  me,  because  he  didn’t  love  me  enough  to  stop.  The  best  thing  he's  ever  done  was  give    me  our  son.    What  can  you  imagine  would  be  the  worst  thing  an  arsehole  junkie  could  do  to  his  missus?    You  got  it,    hold  the  kid  for    ransom  and  literally  hold  a  siege  in  public  no  less    with  hundreds  of  witness's  for  junk.  Screaming  like  a  banshee  "GIVE  IT  TO  ME"  like  a  demented  loon  and  raging  way  out  of  control,  all  the  while  holding  your  precious    lil'  baby  with  one    hand  in  a  vice  like  grip  leaving  bruises  down  his  back.  Your  handbag  tipped  out  on  the  street  while  he  goes  through  it  for  money  or  drugs  or  both  or  anything.

Of  course  in  his  infantile  mind  I  am  the  bad  guy,  go  figure.  I  not  only  called  the  jacks  (  police)  I  tried  to  get  him  committed.  Because  there’s  is  no  way  my    beloved  arsehole  would  ever  hurt  our  baby  if  he  was  in  his  right  mind.  You  can  lead  a  Junkie  to  freedom  but  he  wont  take  away  the  bars.  He  only  sees  the  need  and  the  person  stopping  him  from  getting  junk  and  you  become  the  enemy.  if  I  have  money  he  wants  it  and  it's  no  good  until  it's  all  gone.

In  his  time  he's  really  hurt  me,  broken  my  ribs,  broken  my  nose,  had  me  on  the  floor  and  kicked  the  fuckery  out  of  me  with  his  boots  on.  That’s  why  him    grabbing  our  baby  as  a  hostage  for  junk  means  no  more.  Because  I  am  the  one  who  stands  between  him  and  it.  I  am  the  one  who  says  no.  I  am  the  one  who  says  enough.  And  unfortunately  I  am  the  one  who  wears  the  rage  and  the  anger  and  the  abuse.  I  cant  choose  to  have  our  baby  stand  with  me.

So  when  you're  about  to  loose  it,  remember  that  the  person  your  most  likely  to  loose  it  with  is  the  person  who  loves  you  the  most,  the  one  who  wants  more  for  you  than  for  you  than  you  can  imagine,  the  one  who  puts  their  life  on  the  line  to  save  your  arse  from  pain  and  hurt  and  humiliation  and    jail  and  maybe  even  death.  Your    likely  to    hurt  me  and    a  hundred  like me out  there  who  know  exactly  what  it  takes  to  say  no,    to  say  fair's  fair,  enough's  enough.

We  don't  turn  off  the  love,  that  never  goes  away,  we  just  have  to  do  what  you  would  do  if  you  were  in  your  right  mind.  I  know  my  beloved  arsehole  loves  our  baby  with  all  his  heart,  even  if  we  are  fighting,  I  take  on  the  responsibility  of  keeping  our  son  safe  from  him  for  his  own  sake,  because  he's  not  strong  enough  to  do  it  himself.  I'm  the  horrible  missus  who  wont  let  the  person  I  love  most  see  his  baby.

Believe  me,  whatever  it  cost  you,  it  cost  me  more.  Next  time  you  are  about  to  loose  it  think  of  me,  I'm  your  wife  or  your  mother  or    your  sister  or  your  brother  and  my  blood  bleeds  as  red  as  yours  does  and  my  pain  is  as  deep.  If  you  think  you  feel  bad  because  your  shitting  your  pants  and  puking,  just  remember  me  rocking  our  baby    through  the  night  and  going  to  bed  alone  to  cry  myself  to  sleep  once  more.  Happy  Fathers  Day  Arsehole.  I  do  love  you  more  than  you  will  ever  know.

I  have  Hep  C

I  have  Hep  C!  It’s  a  bit  of  a  shock.  We're  all  going  to  die  someday  and  I  was  so  sure  this  sort  of  thing  couldn't  happen  to  me....................                              

I  have  to  ring  Lee  but  can't  find  his  number.  I  just  found  out  I  have  Hep  C  even  though  I  don't  use,  and  have  never  used.  The  only  way  I  could  have  contracted  it  is  through  my  husband.  Lee's  missus  got  a  needle  stick  from  my  hubby's  fit  a  few  weeks  back,  and  rang  us  jumping  up  and  down.  She's  breastfeeding  so  very  worried  about  it  all.  I  being  the  me  said  "it's  ok,  he  doesn’t  have  anything".  Famous  last  words.

It  was  an  accident  but  one  that  could  have  been  prevented.  Bill  was  off  his  tree,  trying  to  sneak  in  an  extra  shot  behind  my  back,  as  he  does,  and  I  went  looking  for  him  because  he  was  taking  so  long  and  it  was  a  bit  suspicious,  it  was  hot  and  our  little  fellow  was  sweating.  I've  told  him  hundreds  of  times  not  to  park  us  on  street  corners,  but  they  never  listen.  Anyway,  he  didn’t  put  his  fit  away,  he  leapt  up  and  was  gone.  The  needle  was  unsheathed  and    fell  off  the  bed  and  onto  the  floor  and  she  apparently  stepped  on  it.  Sheer  stupidity  to  not  put  the  damned  thing  in  the  sharps  safe  right  besides  it.  Bill  you're  a  wanker!

I  know  there's  no  certainty  she  even  got  infected,  and  a    IV  injecting  drug  users  they  could  easily  have  become  infected  somewhere  else  or  by  sharing  needles.  Hep  C  is  a  bitch,  not  because  its  hard  to  manage  but  for  us  women  who  have  little  babies  and  periods  we  have  to  be  so  very  careful  to  keep  our  hands  clean  so  as  to  not  inadvertently  transfer  blood  to  little  gums  when  they  are  teething  or  as  breastfeeding  mum's  that  we  don’t  get  bitten  by  sharp  new  little  teeth.  But  I  do  feel  bad  about  saying  "it's  ok  mate  he's  not  got  anything".  The  baby  now  has  to  be  tested.  It's  a  nightmare  really  and  made  me  re-examine  whether  I  should  be  in  this  relationship  at  all,  not  that  we're  getting  on.

To  Lee  and  his  missus,  I  am  sorry    but  I  would  strongly  recommend  you  get  tested  for  Hep  C.  I  can  only  say  thank  fuck  I  don't  have  aids.  I  haven't  spoken  to  himself,  we're  not  exactly  on  speaking  terms  after  he  schitzed  out  on  me  this  week.  I  rang  his  doctor  and  said  has  he  been  tested,  and  he  said  "yes  he's  known  for  years"  and  I  was  so  angry  and  asked  him  "Didn't  you  think  I  had  a  right  to  know,  I  am  his  wife?"

It's  a  little  frightening  to  find  you  have  a  disease  that  won't  ever  go  away.  How  will  this  affect  me?  How  does  it  affect  my  baby?  Can  he  get  it  through  breast  milk?  I'm  still  a  little  numb.  Will  I  live  long  enough  to  raise  my  son?  Am  I  going  to  die?  Could  my  baby  be  sick  too?  I  don't  know  what  to  expect  and  it's  all  rather  frightening.  I  don't  know  who  to  ask  for  help  or  what  the  latest  treatment  is.  I  had  a  friend  die  of  Hep  C,  he  was  gay  and  died  before  he  was  thirty.

Just  when  you  think  your  life  is  under  control,  you  get  chaos. The  world  seems  like  a  big  scary  place  all  of  a  sudden. I  could  deal  with  me  getting  sick,  serves  me  right  for  marrying  him,  but  I  couldn't  handle  anything  happening  to  our  son.  That's  not  even  worth  contemplating.  Anything  but  that.  He  told  me  he'd  been  tested  and  didn't  have  anything  and  I  believed  him.

Words  of  advice,  don’t  ever  take  anyone’s  word  that  they  don't  have  "anything'  because  sometimes  people  lie,  even  people  you  love.  Don't  share  anything  until  your  sure  they  have  been  tested,  not  your  bed,  not  your  needles  and  in  my  case  not  your  life.  Hell  even  if  I  divorce  the  bastard  (  which  is  definitely  on  the  cards)  I  can't  knowingly  give  this  to  someone  else.

It's  all  too  hard,  I  can't  think  about  this  right  now,  I'll  think  about  it  tomorrow.....

Suicide  is  Painless

We've  all  done  it  before,  been  in  a  relationship  that  just  didn’t  work  anymore,  that  couldn't  work.  Even  if  you  love  each  other,  there's  just  no  way  you  can  keep  going,  putting  the  same  level  of  effort  and  commitment  into  making  it  work,  when  it's  apparent  that  your  the  only  one  who's  trying.  Still  it's  hard  to  let  go.  He  was  a  user  and  I  wasn't,  the  bottom  line  is  that    no  matter  how  much  you  want  it  to  work,  you  can't  make  it  work  if  he  doesn’t  want  it  as  bad  as  you  do.  When  given  the  choice  of  you  or  the  junk  and  he  chooses  junk.

The  letting  go  is  hard,  you  spend  what  little  energy  you  have  left  fighting  with  him,  apportioning  blame  and  trying    valiantly  to  cut  of  the  dead  arm  that  is  killing  you  slowly  but  surely.  The  poison  is  eating  you  alive,  until  you  don’t  recognise  yourself  in  the  mirror  anymore,  your  eyes    look  haunted.  In  the  past  month  I  have  slept  maybe  five  nights  and  those  were  exhaustion  rather  than  a  relief.  I  can't  bear  to  pack  up  his  things  yet,  funny,  but  it  feels  like    it  would  be  defiling  the  memory  of  what  we  had.  I  still  need  the  illusion  that  he's  still  there.  I  hold  his  pillow  close  to  me  and  breathe  in  his  scent.

It  would  be  easier  if  you  didn’t  care.  If  there  was  a  switch  that  you  could  turn  off,  that  you  could  set  a  definitive  moment  and  say  it  ended  there.  But  it  always  ends  with  two  people  who  loved  each  other  once  tearing  each  other  apart.  In  some  ways  it  would  be  easier  if  there  was  another  woman.  You  could  blame  it  on  her,  instead  of    accepting  he  no  longer  loved  you  enough  to  even  try.

But  Junk  is  a  harsh  and  cruel  mistress,  every  time  he’s  sad,  he  reaches  for  her.  If  he's  in  trouble  with  the  law  he  reaches  for  her.  Eventually  he  didn't  need  an  excuse  anymore  and  he  didn't  need  me.  It  owns  his  soul  and  there's  nothing  left  for  you.  I  feel  like  I've  done  everything,  like  I'm  Methuselah  and  I've  seen  and  done  everything.  I  have  given  him  all  of  me  and  I  didn't  leave  anything  for  myself.  

I  don't  know  what  I'm  grieving  for  more,  him  or  for  me.  A  part  of  me  died  with  him,  the  part  that  was  capable  of  living  and  loving  and  going  on.  The  part  that  sees  great  beauty  in  a  raindrop  or  the  laugh  of    a  small  child  and  wakes  up  and  knows  that  there  is  truth.  love  and  beauty  and  the  universe  is  as  it  should  be.  I  guess  that’s  the  problem,  he  was  my  universe.

What's  the  point  of  telling  someone  you  love  that  you  do  love  them  if  it  doesn’t  matter  to  them  anymore.  When  their  dreams  are  about  their  next  shot  and  not  about  you.  When  you  are  no  longer  their    universe.  There's  not  even  a  point  in  leaving  a  note  saying  you  cared  too  much  and  you  hurt  too  much.  Is  it  because  I  was  replaced  by  a  powder  that  has  such  a  great  hold  on  him  and  I  can  no  longer  touch  him,  if  I  talk  to  him,  he  can  no  longer  hear  me,  he  can  only  hear  her  singing  through  his  veins.  And  when  she's  not  there  he  screams  for  her.  I  feel  so  powerless  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  have  no  control  over  anything,  even  myself.  All  that'  s  left  is  this  great  big  hurt  and  betrayal.

In  that  one  moment  you  know  that  you  cant  keep  going,  that    this  sort  of  pain  is  beyond  anybody’s  tolerance,  and  you  finish  the  last  of  the    pills  and  hope  it  all  ends  soon.  That  there  is  somewhere  a  peace  for  you,  a  cessation  of  pain,  because  there's  nothing  left  for  you  here.  Your  so  tired  and  it  seems  like  your  body  weighs  a  ton,  you  can't  keep  your  eyes  open,  it's  too  much  effort,  but  even  with  your  eyes  closed  all  you  can  see  is  his  face  and  you  wish  he'd  reach  over  and  stroke  your  hair  and  say  I  love  you  just  one  more  time,  the  ache  is  so  deep  and  the  longing  so  overwhelming,  then  slowly,  ever  so  slowly,  he  fades  away  and  there’s  a  light  and  there's  no  more  weight  and  there's  no  more  hurt  and  there's  no  more  you.....

A  Very  Junkie  Wedding

We  got  married  a  while  ago  now,  but  I  still  look  back  fondly  at  this  day  of  all  days  as  probably  the  best  day  of  my  life.  The  bride  wore  black  and  the  groom  wore  a  quiff,  hey  we're  not  traditionalists,  and  there  was  no  church,  there  was  a  registry  office.  But  all  official  and  ridgy  didge.  We're  conventional  conventionalists.  The  missus  looked  stunning,  she  was  wearing  a    dress  we  bought  from  Hona  Lulu  in  the  Valley.  When  she  tried  it  on  the    shop  assistant  said  "God  you've  got  a  hot  arse"  then  looked  at  me  and  said"  whoops,  did  I  say  that  out  loud".  It  cost  me  three  hundred    bucks  but  it  was  worth  it.  I  felt  like  one  of  those  cartoon  characters,  the  wolves,  where  your  tongue  rolls  out  of  your  head,  your  eyes  bulge  and  your  heart  beats  out  of  your  chest.  I  mean  she  looked  awesome.  I  didn't  score  for  three  days  to  get  that  fucking  dress.

I  was  a  wee  bit  of  a  mess,  had  a  few  hits  for  breakfast  to  bolster  my  confidence  and  I  was  sweating  like  a  pig.  We  walked  into  the  registry  office  hand  in  hand,  going  into  the  marriage  as  we  intended  going  into  life  from  that  day  forward,  together.    It  was  quiet,  her  parents  came  and  my  Aunty  and  Uncle.  Most  of  my  family  don't  talk  to  me  anymore.  Even  my  brother  didn't  believe  we  were  getting  married,  he  thought  it  was  a  ruse  to  get  money  out  of  him  for  Junk.

It  wasn’t  a  big  deal,  just  a  quiet  affirmation  that  we    wanted  to  be  together  and  loved  each  other  before  these  people  who've  stood  by  us  all  these  years.  There  was  no  great  moment  just  herself    confidently  looking  at  me  and  I  knew  it  was  all  worthwhile.  That  she  loved  me  and  had  respect  for  me  and  wanted  to  share  her  life  with  me  was  pretty  awesome  without  adding  anything  or  embellishing  it  with  meaningless  words.

We  took  photos  in  front  of  someone  else’s  house,  ours  was  a    bit  unsavory  looking  from  the  outside.  There  was  no  real  reception,  her  mother  ordered  pizza  and  we  got  a  few  drinks.  Christian  was  being  a  bastard  and  wouldn’t  believe  that  we  had  gotten  married  so  I  drove  round  with  Uncle  and  showed  him  the  wedding  certificate,  he  was  blown  away  and  came  over  to  drink  a  few  toasts  to  the  bride.

Her  parents  left  and  gave  us  a  huge  amount  of  money  as  a  wedding  present.  As  soon  as  they  left  I  went  out  and  scored,  upsetting  my  beautiful  bride  no  end.  I  was  in  love  and  I  was  happy  and  my  plan  was  to  have  just  a  little  bit  more  and    have  sex  all  night.  Yeee  fucking  Haw.  Unfortunately    I  left  my  teetotalling  wife  with  my  alcoholic  brother  who  had  her  drinking  tequila  shots,  and  she'd  drunk  the  whole  bottle,  and  by  the  time  we  got  back  they  were  half  way  through  a  bottle  of  Brandy.  She  was  well  and  truly  on  her  way.  I've  never  seen  her  drunk  before  or  since.

Aunty  is  a  six  foot  two  drag  queen,  and  her  and  Uncle  were  sleeping  on  the  fold  out  couch  as  there  was  no  way  anybody  could  drive  them  home.  I  take  my  sweet  bride  into  the  bedroom  and  firmly  shut  the  door.  She  gets  up  and  says  she'll  be  back  in  a  minute  and  goes  to  the  bathroom,  so  I  smoke  a  cigarette  and  I  wait  and  I  wait  and  I  go  looking  for  her  and  find  her...................curled  up  in  bed  with  Aunty,  fast  asleep  at  the  end  of  the  bed.  Uncle  is  still  up  so  we  separate  the  girls  and  once  again  I  carry  my  bride  back  to  bed.

Now  she’s  woken  up  by  all  this  and  isn't  at  all  impressed  that  I'd  left  her  side  on  our  wedding  day  to  go  out  and  score.  She  grabs  our  wedding  certificate  and  goes  to  burn  it  with  her  lighter  but  I  am  able  to  wrestle  it  out  of  her  hands,  and  help  her  get  undressed,  by  this  time  she  getting  boisterous  and  I'm  trying  to  keep  her  a  wee  bit  quiet  so  naturally  she  bounces  up  and  down  on  the  bed  yahooing.

All  of  a    sudden  she  turns  a  nasty  shade  of  green  and  looks  at  me  in  horror  and  says  "I  think  I'm  going  to  be  sick".  I  make  her  sit  on  the  end  of  the  bed  and  race  out  in  a  towel  to  grab  a  bucket  for  my  love.  I  spend  the  rest  of  the  night  stroking  her  face  while  she  vomited,  keeping  her    beautiful  long  blonde  hair  from  getting  dirty  and  quieting  her  tears. I  wash  her  face  gently  and  she  falls  asleep  in  my  arms.  

Love  isn’t  about  how  you  feel,  it's  about  what  you  do  for  someone.  This  is  the  person  I  want  to  make  a  cup  of  tea  for  every  morning,  we  can  wait  till  tomorrow  to  have  our  wedding  night,  though  in  a  lot  of  ways  this  our  time  together    is  more  of  a  wedding  than  the  ceremony  we  had  earlier  in  the  day.  It's  about  trust  and  respect  and  commitment  and  love.  It  was  never  about  sex.

This  is  a  song  that  never  ends

Can  you  remember  that  horrible  show  Lambchop?  Then  you'd  know  the  song:

"This  is  a  song  that  never  ends
it  just  goes  on  and  on  my  friends
somebody  started  singing  it  not  knowing  what  it  was
and  they'll  continue  singing  it  forever  just  because
This  is  a  song  that  never  ends......................."  (repeat  until  insanity  sets  in)

Addiction  is  exactly  like  that  song,  you're  trapped  and  there's  no  way  out.  it  keeps  going  and  there’s  no  end  in  sight.  You  get  well  to  get  sick,  to  make  it  happen  to  get  well  to  be  sick  all  over  again.  The  cycle  is  complete,  no  ties  left  untied.

You  no  longer  know  what  it  is  like  to  be  normal.  Nothing  else  matters  but  the  world  turning  round  and  you  getting  on,  to  be  well,  to  get  sick  ,  make  it  happen  and  be  well  again.  No  other  thoughts  enters  your  head  and  your  heart  has  long  ago  closed  down  due  to  lack  of  interest.

When  your  well,  you  don’t  want  to  think  of  being  sick  again,  and  when  your  sick  all  you  want  is  to  be  well.  You'd  kill  your  mother  just  for  one  last  shot,  just  to  be  well  once,  so  that  the  pain  goes  away.  It  would  be  all  worth  it  if  you  were  well.  It's  all  you  think  about,  when  the    blood  pumps  through  your  veins,  it  seems  meaningless  without  junk.  There  is  no  rationale  left,  just  the  cycle.  Like  time  ticking  along,  everyday  like  the  last.

The  days  turn  into  months  and  the  months  into  years,  and  the  cycle  continues.  All  the  other  things  in  your  life  that  have  happened  no  longer  matter,  they  were  just  incidental  to  the  cycle.  You  wonder  at  how  anyone  else  can  see  or    feel  or  taste  or  know  anything  without  junk.  It’s  become  your  entire  world.  You  can  no  longer  even  comprehend  a  world  without  it.  When  your  sick  you  remember,  but  you  do  your  best  to  forget,  the    people,  the  places  and  the  pain  and  just  concentrate  on  making  it  happen  and  getting  well.

It  no  longer  becomes  a  choice.  It's  like  you  made  one  choice  once  for  shits  and  giggles  and    lost  your  soul  to  the  cycle.  The  abuse  doesn’t  matter,  physical  pain  no  longer  matters,  its  just  you  and  your  drug,  forever  and  always.  Even  if  you  can  bear  to  tear  yourself  away  for  another  lover,  it  haunts  you  and  beacons  you  back.  And  like  all  subconscious  desires  it  never  goes  away  until  you  feed  it  just  a  little  junk.

And  in  that  place  where  you  lost  our  soul,  and  you  lost  your  identity,  and  you  lost  your  home, and  you  lost  your  family,  and  you  lost  your  freedom  and  became  a  slave  to  it,  you  sometimes  late  at  night  cry  alone.

Karmen  Miranda

She  lived  upstairs  from  Bill  and  Ben,  probably  the  oldest  Junkies  in  Brisbane.  Her  boyfriend  was  a  whiz  kid  and  a  real  bastard  of  the  highest    order.  Used  to  deal  from  the  flat  upstairs  and  there  were  always  people  knocking  on  Bill  and  Ben's  door  at  all  hours  of  the  night,  looking  for  the  whiz  kid.  She  wasn't  even  an  Australian  but  an  American  Native  Indian  and  part  Black,  but  her  history  is  largely  unknown.  I  think  her  family  were  wealthy  and  shipped  her  out  to  Australia  to  escape  jail.  They  sent  her  large  sums  of  money  every  week  and  she    spent  it  all  on  Junk  naturally.

She  had  a  myriad  of  health  problems  as  all  older  users  do,  Hep  C,  something  to  do  with  her  heart  and  Diabetes.  Was  quite  bright  warm  and  intelligent  but  had  simply  been  on  the  street  too  long  and  seen  too  much.  Her  relationship  with  Whiz  Kid  didn't  do  much  to  help  her.  He  was  dealing  whiz  and  was  a  one  note  man,  she  on  the  other  hand  would  try  anything  and    put  anything  into  her  veins.  He  was  always  taking  off  and  having  sex  with  some  packet  slut  who  needed  to  get  on,  and  this  didn’t  cause  a  lot  of  joy  in  Karmen's  life.

There  is  loneliness  and  the    brutal  loneliness  of  knowing  that  no  one  really  loves  you,  or  cares  it  was  always  just  the  drugs.  That  he  was  only  using  her  for  her  money  was  no  surprise  to  anyone.  Every  week  they  would  go  and  get  her  money  from  Western  Union  and  have  a  few  good  days  till  it  was  all  gone.  it  was  all  honey  I  love  you  till  the  money  ran  out,  and  the  abuse  would  be  evident  to  anyone  who  walked  by  on  a  summers  evening  when  the  windows  were  open.

She  arrived  at  the  Royal  in  a  Coma,  her  legs  were  an  incredible  mess  and  were  swollen  beyond  all  recognition.  There  were  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  needle  marks  and  puncture  wounds  on  her  legs.  He  wasn't  there  that  day,  or  he  might  have  been  suspected  of  doing  it  to  her  on  purpose.  The  blood  all  over  her  body  was  frightening.  The  doctors  said  they  think  she  was  having  trouble  finding  a  vein  and  had  got  herself  worked  up  into  such  a  state,  that  she  had  hit  an  artery  in  her  groin.  They  were    thinking  of  amputating  but  didn’t  think  she  was  going  to  make  it.

Gangrene  set  in  and  it  wasn't  a  good  scene,  the  legs  came  off  and  she  didn't  stir  from  her  slumbers.  Sometime  her  body  would  be  racked  with  fits  and  she  went  further  and  further  away,  till  there  was  nothing  left  of  her  and  she  was  a  vegetable.  if  she  was  trapped  in  there,  it  was  a  lot  worse  than  any  prison  she  could  have  imagined.

The  doctors  notified  her  parents  eventually  in  America.  The  police  had  to  break  into  her  flat  and  find  their  address.  Whiz  kid  never  bothered  to  go  visit  her  to  see  if  she  was  live  or  dead.  The  doctors  had  already  made  their  minds  up  that  there  was  no  hope,  that  she  was  brain  dead,  but  knew  the  emotional  needs  of  her  parents  to  see  her  one  last  time,  and  to  somehow  hold  and  comfort  her  while  she  slipped  away,  to  tell  her  they  loved  her.

The  parents  had  a  good  long  chat  to  Bill  and  Ben  and  gave  all  her  possessions  to  charities.  They  prevented  Whiz  Kid  from  entering  the  house  and  continue  to  loot  it  and  sell  it  at  the  hock  shop  for  a  quick  fix.  His days  of  using  her  were  over.  The  parents  felt  such  guilt  and  remorse,  they  had  tried  to  help  her,  detoxes  and  rehabs  but  to  no  avail.  Maybe  it  would  have  been  better  if  she  went  to  jail,  maybe  then  she  would  still  be  alive.

The  ventilators  were  switched  off  last  night,  she  breathed  for  a  bit  on  her  own,  then  slowly  sank  into  the  abyss.    It  didn't  take  long  and  her  parents  went  back  to  their  safe  secure  world  and  tried  to  forget  her,  tried  to  forget  the  little  girl  in  pigtails  who  always  wanted  to  go  higher  and  faster  on  the  swings.  Hopefully  the  vision  of  her  death  might  fade  and  they  will  instead  remember  her  at  a  younger  more  innocent  age,  when  she  was  still  their  little  girl  and  they  didn’t  share  her  with  the  brave  lady.

Doove

As  you  drive  up  in  your  line  of  cars  a  wall  of  sound  hits  you  like  walking  into  a  humid  afternoon  after  the  pleasant  cool  of  a  shopping  centre.  if  you  were not  already  wired  by  the  speed,  it  would  all  seem  way  way  too  much.  Mmsk  mmsk  mmsk  the    bass  booms  away  and  you  feel  your  body  resonate  to  the  music.  Your  hearts  pounding  with  the  speed  and  you  hope  you  can  find  someone  dealing  ekkies    later  on.  This  is  the  doove,  the  outdoor  rave  party  and  our  here  to  have  fun.  It's  called  a  doove  because  the  bass  and  the  music  goes  doove  doove  doove.

The  speed  gives  you  energy  and  you're  alive  and  vibrant  and  the  world  is  your  oyster.  The  music  hits  your  senses  like
a  drug,  all  you  want  to  do  is  dance,  and  you  dance  compulsively,  like  the  girl  in  the  red  shoes,  you  have  to  dance.  The  music  is  alive  and  you  are  part  of  it  and  one  with  the  beat.

You  see  a  man  with  a  red  hat  and  you  dance  over  to  him.  He  is  the  ekkie  man,  and  it's  time.  You  put  the  tab  in  your  mouth  and  keep  dancing.  Slowly  a  sense  of  euphoria  creeps  up  on  you  and  you  love  the  world,  you  love  to  dance  and  you  start  touching  the  people  around  you,  you  want  to  know  everyone,  you  want  to  share  your  love  with  them.

One  of  the  girls  you  touch  turns  around  and  snogs  you.  You  hold  her  and  still  dancing  she  slowly  takes  of  her  blouse  and  you  both  dance  over  to  the  edge  of  the  dancers.  There  are  people  all  around  you  having  sex  with  strangers.  You  look  at  your  partner  and  she's  a  petite  blonde  and  obviously  on  ekkies  too.  She  reaches  into  your  pants  and  you  can  feel  your  penis  growing  until  its  ten  times  it  usual  size  and  you  have  to  have  her.

The  sex  is  mind-blowing,  and  its  more,  you  don’t  just  like  this  person  you  will  love  them  till  the  end  of  time,  they  are  truly  the  one,  even  though  you've  only  just  met.  There's  a  part  of  you  that  knows  that  it's  only  the  drug.  But  you  keep  a  hold  of  that  Euphoria    and  drag  her  up  to  dance  again  as  the  beat  calls  you  back.

It's  amazing,  safe  sex  went  out  the  window,  in  the  moment  where  you  and  her  were  one,  there’s  no  way  you  could  have  reached  into  your  back  pocket  and  reached  for  a  condom,  even  in  this  day  of  Aids  and  Hep  c,  it  never  entered  your  mind  and  beside  you  wanted  to  know  all  of  her.  You  hope  she's  on  the  pill, this  instant  love  will  fade  in  a  few  hours  and    while  you  will  remember  it  you  don't  want  to  deal  with  any  of  the  side  affects.

Slowly  the  girl  and  you  get  separated  by  the  music  and  it  doesn’t  really  matter,  it  was  fun,  you're  still  in  love  with  everything  but  you  look  for  the  ekkie  man  again,  you  want  to  get  higher  and  higher  till  you  reach  heaven.  It’s  wonderful  to  be  alive.  You  see  the  man  and  give  him  the  money  from  the  same  wallet  you  couldn’t  get  a  condom  from  earlier,  ironic  huh?  You  love    life,  and  you  love  the  world  and  you  feel  a  deep  spiritual  connection  to  everyone  and  everything.

This    time  you  go  back  to  the  car,  you  need  some  more  speed,  the  last  thing  you  want  is  to  run  out  of  oomph  tonight.  You  make  it  back  to  the  car  and  your  girlfriend  is  already  waiting.  Hey  baby  how’s  your  night?  You  fix  her  up,  then  fix  yourself.  You  hand  her  an  ekkie  and  holding  her  by  the  hand  you  go  back  to  the  dance  for  a  few  hours.  This  time  you  keep  a  hold  of  her,  she's  had  an  ekkie  and  you  want  to  be  with  your  woman  tonight  and  share  this  great  love  experience  with  her,  not  have  her  share  it  with  a  stranger.

There's  no  alcohol  at  the  doove,  all  the  drinks  are  high  caffeine  drinks  or  Gatorade  type  stuff.  Stuff  to  replace  your  electrolytes.  Alcohol  is  totally  unnecessary  and  interferes  with  the  high.  Makes  you  muddy  and  out  of  control.  A  few  idiots  bring  their  own,  but  they  usually  pass  out  by  11  o'clock  and  it's  long    past  three  am  and  your  still  dancing.

The  euphoria  hits  you  and  you  take  your  girl  back  to  the  car,  in  the  back  seat  you  reach  heaven  and  your  love  is  incredible.  Sex  becomes  like  a  passage  to  heaven,  your  senses  are  so  heightened.  The  only  thing  like  it  you’ve  ever  experienced  is  when  you  tried  hammer  but  you  prefer  the  thrill  of  sharing  it  with  someone  else.  

You  go  back  to  dancing  but  this  time  your  more  mellow,  you've  had  sex  three  times  and  there  is  a  satiation,  your  content  and  you  dance  to  the  beat,  the  crowd  has  thinned  a  little  and  soon  it  will  be  light.  You  have  three  more  ekkies  in  your  pocket  for  when  you  go  home  with  your  girl.  Should  be  a  nice  morning.  You  sit  together  and  watch  the  sun  come  up,  still  warm  with  the  glow  and    you  go  back  home,  black  out  the  windows  and  put  on  some  loud  music  at  six  thirty  in  the  morning  take  the    last  few  ekkies  and    have  sex  till  you  both  pass  out  about  lunchtime.

Tie  a  Yellow  Ribbon

Paul's  mum  died  of  an  overdose.  The  toxology  report  on  the  body  said  she  had  Methadone,  Heroin,  Speed  and  Benzos  in  her  system  amongst  other  things.  She  crashed  the  car  and  was  found  upside  down  in  the  creek.  She  died  before  the  crash.  Thankfully  she  had  left  her  baby  at  her  mothers.  Paul  was  wagging  school  again  and  heard  the  crash.  He  being  a  curious  teenager  went  to  investigate  and  saw  his  dead  mother  in  the  car  hanging  by  her  seat  belt.

Nobody  wanted  Paul,  his  dad    took  him  in,  his  stepfather  an  active  addict  wasn’t  keen  on  the  idea  of  keeping  someone  else's  kid  around,  in  fact  he  even  palmed  his  five  kids  off  on  his  parents,  Fred  (  Paul's  real  dad)  was  a  pretty  cool  guy  but  getting  through  to  Paul  was  always  tough.  He  ended  up  in  a  fist  fight  with  Paul  by  the  time  Paul  was  14,  because  Paul  didn't  know  any  boundaries.  When  Paul  first  came  to  live  with  me,  he  told  me  his  mother  was  a  diabetic.  Paul  didn't  want  to  face  the  truth,  but  deep  down  he  knew,  he'd  known  all  along.  His  mother  was  an  addict.

Paul  sought  active  addiction  in  a  way  that  cats  seek  catnip  or  the  smell  of  rotting  fish.  I'm  not  sure  whether  it  was  to  get  noticed  or  to  somehow  join  his  mother  and  he  was  actively  seeking  death.  He  started  off  with  pot.  I  knew  he  was  into  a  lot  more  when  I  found  black  marks  all  over  the  floor  all  the  time,  like  soot  but  I  still  didn't  twig,  that  and  the  bic  lighters.  All  his  lighters  had  the  safety  broken  off.  I  started  to  find  spoons  missing,  usually  big  spoons.  it  wasn't  until  after  he  left  home  that  I  found  the  needles.

After  a  while  I  knew  he  was  smoking  pot,  and  I  suspected  harder  drugs  but  had  no  idea  about  them  at  all.  All  I  could  see  was  a  kid  with  overly  bright  eyes,  who    had  a  terrible  sleeping  pattern,  would  often  be  up  all  night,  would  vomit  often,  would  go  missing  from  school  regularly  if  he  went  at  all.  I  knew  eventually  he  was  sniffing  as  well,  when  I  caught  him  passed  out  in  the  toilet  with  a  can  of  butane  lighter  fluid  in  his  hand.  He  fell  down  and  hit  his  head  on  the  toilet.  I  never  suspected  hard  drugs,  even  the  soft  ones  were  beyond  frightening  to  deal  with.

I  didn't  know  that  him  not  sleeping,  vomiting,  having  fevers,    his  eyes  being  pinned  (  pupils  small),  the  missing  spoons,  the  charcoal  marks  on  the  carpet  and  the  lighters  etc  were  all  indications  of  hard  drugs.  Missing  money  was  hard  to  pin  down  when  you  have  five  children,  there  are  far  to  many  people  to  accuse  and  I  simply  didn't  see  Paul  as  the  culprit  because  I  let  him  keep  100  dollars  a  fortnight  of  his  cheque  from  Centrelink  for  his  own  use  i.e.  clothing  a  stereo  for  his  bedroom.  I  put  down  him  turning  up  with  things  like  a  walkman  and  such  as  him  purchasing  them  new,  didn't  occur  to  me  he  was  breaking  into  peoples  houses  for  them  or  he  was  helping  himself  to  my  wallet.  I  always  suspected  my  older  girl  as  she  resented  him  getting  so  much  money  while  I  could  only  afford  20  dollars  a  fortnight  for  her.

I  didn't  put  his  mood  swings  and    strange  hidden  behaviour  down  to  much  more  than  a  kid  having  real  problems  with  coping  with  the  death  of  his  parent.  I  knew  he  was  doing  pot,  but  thought  that  was  fairly  harmless  in  my  opinion,  a  child's  experimentation  and  brief  flirtation  and  hopefully  he'd  grow  out  of  it  rapidly.  I  overlooked  it  because  I  hadn't  had  any  real  association  with  drugs,  I  didn’t  know  how  large  an  affect  they  could  have  not  only  on  his    life,  but  on  the  lives  of  everyone  around  him  not  only  that  I  just  didn’t  know  what  I  was  looking  for.

When  his  behaviour  became  more  erratic,  I  ended  up  calling  family  services  as  I  could  no  longer  cope  with  a  six  foot    two  teen  Junkie  and  asked  them  to  take  him  into  their  care  as  his  only  other  option  was  to  become  a  street  kid.  There  were  holes  in  the  walls  and  his  bedroom  was  trashed  completely.  He  left  before  they  came  for  him  and  did  exactly  that,  became  a  street  kid  at  15.  He  lived  in  the  showgrounds  for  a  few  months  with  a  few  other  streeties,  there  were  bathrooms  there  and  they  slept  in  the  surrounding  bushland  in  tents  they  had  stolen.  They  could  walk  into  town  easily  and  were  near  some  pretty  big  and  rich  properties  to  steal  from.

It  became  a  circle  of  him  using  for  about  five  years,  but  he's  clean  now  and  surprisingly  he  did  it  himself.  He  got  a  job  a  few  weeks  ago  and  that's  done  enormous  good  for  his  ego.  He  got  a  new  girlfriend  who  wasn't  using  and  that  helped  him  get  his  head  clear  of  the  junk  and  to  fast  track  away  from  prison  into  a  job.  He'll  be  twenty  in  November  and  for  the  first  time  since  he  was  a  small  child  he  has  got  his  head  together.  I'm  not  saying  he's  cured,  because  there  is  no  instant  cure,  but  he  now  sees  a  new  way  of  living,  a  future  and  hope  from  being  in  a  point  in  his  life  that  he  wanted  to  die  to  be  with  his  mother  and  felt  abandoned,  unloved  and  unlovable.

There  is  a  future  and  there  is  hope  and  there's  one  thing  you  have  to  learn  and  that  is  to  say  no.  To  set  clear  boundaries  on  behaviour  and  stick  to  them,  even  if  it  includes  them  leaving  home.  To  make  it  clear  that  you  love  them  but  won't  tolerate  them  using    under  your  roof  and  all  the  other  hurtful  things  they  do.  To  say  "I  understand  it's  just  the  drugs  talking  but  you  are  still  responsible  for  your  behaviour  and  until  that  behaviour  changes  you  can't  stay  here".  You  can't  choose  for  them,  and  as  a  parent  that  is  probably  the  hardest  thing,  letting  go  and  allowing  them  to  sink  into  the  mire.  Knowing  they  will  be  sick  and  hungry  and  cold  and  hurt  is  a  terrible  thing  to  do  to  your  child,  but  enabling  them  to  continue  using  only  makes  everyone's  life  worse.  If  your  religious  pray  a  lot  that  they  can  get  guidance  and  break  away  from  the  merry  go  round  of  using  and  come  back  home,  but  remember  they  won't  ever  be  the  same.  

Something  inside  has  to  break  before  they  give  up,  they  have  to  hit  rock  bottom  and  not  only  once,  but  as  often  as  it  takes  until  they  reach  out  for  help  and  stop  the  cycle.  It's  very  easy  to  slip  back  into  it,  to  be  seduced  by  the  tantalising  "I  wonder  if  it's  as  good  now  as  it  was  then".  It's  very  easy  to  go  backwards  when  your  life  doesn't  go  as  planned,  you  loose  your  job,  split  with  your  girlfriend  etc.  To  run  into  old  friends  you  were  using  with,  especially  if  they  are  from  a  small  town.  To  walk  through  an  old  haunting  ground  where  they  used.  Drugs  are  everywhere.  Regardless  of  where  you  move  and  who  you  know,  they  are  often  as  close  as  in  your  own  street.  There  is  a  Junkie  in  every  family  somewhere,  even  if  you  don't  know  about  it,  and  you're  not  likely  to  know  unless  it's  you're  immediate  family.

Give  love,  heaps  of  love  and  praise  and  encourage  every  step  into  the  right  direction,  but  don’t  give  them  money,  certainly  if  they  want  to  detox  or  go  into  rehab  pay  for  it,  but  directly    to  the  hospital  never  to  the  child.  Buy  groceries  and  clothes  and  blankets,  things  they  can't  sell  or  hock.  You're  going  to  have  to  be  a  lot  harder,  no    expensive  electrical  gadgets  for  xmas  or  birthdays.  And  tell  them  you  love  them,  it's  probably  the  most  important  thing  you  can  give  them  is  that  one  day  when  they  are  ready  to  give  up  they  will  know  that  you  love  them  and  that  when  their  behaviour  changes  they  can  resume  their  lives  and  their  place  in  your  heart.

But  beyond  all  that    give  yourself  and  your  partner  a  big  hug  every  single  day.  It's  a  long  tough  road  and  there  is  no  certain  outcome.  A  lot  of  Junkies  die,  a  lot  get  AIDS  and  hep  C  from  sharing  needles  and  a  very  few  continue  on  to  be  Junkie's  for  the  rest  of  their  lives.  You're  not  alone.  I've  often  thought  that  there  should  be  a  sign,  perhaps  a  yellow  ribbon  in  a  corner  of  the  window,  so  we  the  parents  who  suffer  in  silence  know  each  other,  know  we're  not  alone.  A  sign  we  can  put  out  on  display  for  our  children  to  let  them  know  we  care.  A  sign  that  says  a  member  of  my  family  is  a  Junkie  and  we  still  love  you  but  we  too  are  fighting  the  illness  the  only  way  we  know  how.  Perhaps  one  day  we  can  stop  being  ashamed  and  hurt  and  start  being  proud  of  doing  our  best  and  get  out  that  yellow  ribbon  to  say  we  still  care.  And  for  those  who  have  lost  the  one  we  love,  a  yellow  ribbon  with  black  tips,  to  show  another  victim  to  an  illness  that  nobody  wants  to  acknowledge.  Today  I  put  up  two  yellow  ribbons  acknowledging  my  family  members  who  are  out  there  on  the  streets.

Sick
I'm  sick  today.  Not  as  sick  as  I'm  going  to  be  tomorrow  and  the  next  day.  The  physical  side  is  awful,  I'm  puking  and    had  terrible  diarroeah,  and  my  skin  crawls  and  the  breeze  on  it  is  like  ice  or  some  sort  of  electric  current.  I  have  this  buzzy  thing  going  on  in  my  brain  and  my  ears  ring.  My  eyes  are  large  like  limpid  pools  and  I  am  photosensitive  to  light.  I  have  a  throbbing  headache.  My  hair  is  like  a  greasy  ball  of  ick  that  I  wish  I  could  shave  off  to  get  it  away  from  me.  I  am  sweating  and  stink.
But  it's  not  the  physical  symptoms  that  bother  me,  them  I  could  just  endure  and  get  over,  its  the  mental  stuff.  This  petulant  whine  in  the  back  of  my  head  that  says  there's  a  quick  and  easy  solution,  that's  why  it's  called  a  fix,  because  when  your  broken  you  can  be  fixed  with  one  clean  sharp  shot.    The  boredom  creeps  over me  and  waves  of  ennui  make  me  feel  more  depressed  and  defeated  and    totally  useless.
I  want  to  get  through  this,  to  have  it  all  over  with,  to  get  it  out  of  my  system  and  move  on.  I  feel  like  the  past  twenty  years  I  have  just  stood  still  and  put  my  life  on  hold.  I  want  it  to  be  over  and  just  get  my  life  back.
I  have  this  deep  sense  of  desperation.    This  is  my  last  chance.  I  want  something  real.  I  don't  want  to  always  feel  like  the  scum  of  the  earth.  Like  something  you  ignore  because  it  is  vulgar  or  crude  or  dirty.  I  want  her  to  be  proud  of  me  instead  of  despising  me.  I  would  give  anything  to  have  her  love  me  again.
I  had  it  all,  beautiful  wife,  home,  wonderful  kids  and  I  basically  drove  them  away  and  today  I'd  happily  cut  off  both  my  arms  just  to  have  them  back  and  for  her  to  look  at  me  with  that  look  in  her  eyes  that  shows  how  much  she  loves  me.  How  did  I  turn  from  the man  who  has  everything  to  the  man  who  truly  has  nothing.
This  time  I  can't  afford  to  fail.

Wacky  Backy

Mary  Jane,  Pot,  Hash,  Bush,  Reefer,  Hydro,  Weed,  Dope,  Dakka,  Savage  Cabbage,  Wacky  Backy,  Foil,  Ounce,  Hashish,  Grass,  Stick,  Buddha  Stick,  Smoko,  Gunja,  Bong,  Billy,  Toke  and  Joint.  All  are  common  usage  words  in  most  homes  in  every  street  and  every  suburb  in  Australia. Yes  we  are  talking  Marijuana.  The  most  popular  illegal  drug  In  Australia.    You  can't  possibly  create  a  book  about  drugs  without  including  it.

Buying  it  is  a  somewhat  social  thing  unless  your  high  up  in  the  scene.  Everyone  sits  around  and  has  a  few  cones  and  gets  all  mellow.  It's  the  only  drug  that  you  try  before  you  buy.  It's  used  by  housewives,  doctors,  solicitors  and  uni  students  and  features  in  the  majority  of  parties  for  the  under  fifties.  You  find  it  at  festivals  and  concerts.  It's  everywhere.  It's  even  delivered  to  your  door.

But  not  every  dope  deal  is  easy.  I  can  remember  some  friends    who  lived  in  the  country  who  brought  in  a  few  garbage  bags  full  of  Bush  (  Bush  is  home  grown  no  additives  as  opposed  to  hydro  which  sometimes  has  other  chemicals  infused  into  the  plants  to  make  them  even  stronger)  to  bring  to  the  city.  We  smoked  a  little  bit  and  they  knew  we  had  connections  to  the  "man".  But  still  it's  a  bit  much  when  your  mates  start  unloading  green  garbage  bags  full  of  pot  in  your  living  room,  kinda  makes  you  a  little  nervous.  I  built  up  a  bit  of  a  sweat  until  it  was  out  of  the  house,  I  can  tell  you.

So  with  a  little  trepidation  we  called  "the  man"  and  invited  him  round  for  a  few  social  "drinks".  He  duly  turns  up  and  we  all  sit  around  the  dinning  room  table  chatting  and  smoking.  Simon  always  kept  a  few  grand  in  the  car  for  just  such  a  purpose  and  the  deal  was  made  in  an  eye blink.  He  usually  travels  to  north  Queensland  twice  a  month,  we're  not  talking  hundred  dollar  deals,  were  talking  taking  a  car  to  north  Queensland  with  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  and  bringing  back  another  car.  He's  pretty  big  time  but  an  old  mate  from  20  years  ago.  He's  pretty  much  retired  now  after  he  got  busted  and  only  dabbles  for  his  own  use,  but  that's  not  today’s  story.

He  asked  me  if  I  wanted  to  take  the  wife  and  kids  on  an  all  expenses  trip  to  North  Queensland  and  I  say  "NO"  rather  firmly.  A  idiot  we  used  to  know  owed  him  a  few  dollars  and  got  caught  with  a  whole  lot  of  money  in  his  borrowed  car,  there  was  no  fucking  way  I  was  going  to  stick  my  neck  out  by  running  up  to  North  Queensland  for  him.  My  missus  looks  at  me  with  that  get  rid  of  him  look.  He  laughs  it  off  and  we  spend  a  jolly  evening  smoking  dope  and  hitting  the  piss.  All  in  all  a  pleasant  evening  and  everyone  walked  away  from  the  table  happy.  The  missus  was  happy  it  had  disappeared  of  the  table  into  his  car,  we  couldn't  get  busted  for  more  than  personal  use.  I'd  scored  an  ounce  and  was  happy  with  the  result.  We  threw  on  a  BBQ  and  invited  the  neighbors  around.  They  were  all  cool  and  everyone  smoked.  Of  course  we  didn't  tell  them  about  Simon  and  the    garbage  bags.

Not  all  smokers  go  on  to  bigger  and  harder  drugs.  In  all  my  years  of  smoking,  I  started  when  I  was  14,  I  have  never  felt  the  need  to  try  other  drugs.    Just  never  interested  me.  It's  a  weekend  and  holiday  drug  for  me.  I  hold  down  a  full  time  job,  have  a  wife  and  kids,  and  enjoy  mellowing  out  at  the  end  of  the  week.  I  don't  deal,  though  I  have  occasionally  helped  out  a  mate  when  there  was  a  need.  

I  don't  know  anyone  who  doesn't  smoke  a  little  bit  of  wacky  backy  sometimes.  It's  become  a  part  of  our  modern  culture,  even  my  parents    smoked  it  way  back  in  the  sixties,  though  they  rarely  admit  it.  I  reason  it's  fairly  harmless.  It's  a  lot  cheaper  than  alcohol  and  it  doesn't  fuck  up  your  liver.  I  am  pro  legalising  it,  for  home  use.  Let  us  grow  a  few  bushes  in  our  gardens  and  leave  us  alone,  we're  not  harming  anyone.

Hurt

I  hate  and  love  the  song.  It  does  things  to  me  that  are  uncontrollable  and  raw  and  hurt  so  fucking  much  that  I  cry  every  time  I  hear  it.  "  I  hurt  myself  today,  to  see  if  I  can  feel,  I  focus  on  the  pain,  the  only  thing  that's  real,  what  have  I  become  my  sweetest  friend,  everyone  I  love  goes  away  in  the  end,  and  you  can  have  it  all,  my  empire  of  dirt,  I  can  give  you  pain,  I  will  make  you  hurt"

Those  simple  guitar  cords  cut  through  my  soul  like  a  hot  knife  through  butter  and  I  hurt  and  I  ache  in  a  way  that  in  unexplainable  unless  you  have  loved  a  Junkie.  I  go  through  periods  I  put  it  on  and  repeat  it  over  and  over  again  and  sit  crying  for  hours.  His  brother  first  discovered  the  song  and  played  it  to  him.  He  listened  to  it  forever  until  it  became  ingrained  upon  my  soul.

I  eat  dirt  every  fucking  day,  or  at  least  that’s  how  it  feels.  I  fucking  feast  on  a  famine  of  hurt  and  anger  and    humiliation  and  scars.  I  carve  big  swathes  in  my  arms  to  show  the  world  how  fucking  bad  I  feel  and  the  pain  doesn’t  ever  loose  its  potency.  And  yet  nobody    has  a  fucking  clue  what  it  takes.  What  it  takes  to  love  a  junkie.  You  can't  come  out  undamaged,  it's  simply  not  possible,  because  there'  always  the  equalizer  and  you'll  never  measure  up  to  junk.

To  be    so  humbled,  so  humiliated,  so  fucking  empty  because  he  chose  a  white  powder  over  the  wonderful  love  and  promise  you  offered.  To    offer  the  universe  and  the  depths  of  your  soul  to  have  it  turned  down.  There  is  no  greater  hurt,  no  greater  pain.  Unfortunately  unlike  him,  my  pain  is  real  and  wont  go  away  with  a  needle  and  five  minutes  of  heaven.  I  really  believe  in  love,  in  truth  and  in  beauty  and  a  needle  wont  make  those  less  real  or  less  tangible  for  me.

And  all  I  have  left  is  the  hurt  and  the  scars  which  no  one  understands,  they  think  they  are  a  sign  of  my  inadequacy    but  they  are  a  sign  of  my  love,  of  my  saying  I  have  these  limitations  and  I  still  believe  in  love.  Here  is  where  I  draw  the  line,  if  you  want  to  you  can  meet  me  here,  but  I  cant  go  any  further.  I  have  written  in  blood  on  our  walls  the  words  no.  No  this  is  the  end  of  my  limitations.  No  I  can't  take  anymore.  No  I  hurt  too  much.  NO  I  love  you  and  it's  killing  me  to  watch  you  die  in  front  of  me.  Nothing  more,  just  no.

Sometimes  I  loose  it  and  get  carried  away,  it  would  be  easy  to  loose  myself  in  the  pain,  it  is  so  all  encompassing.  it  is  like  a  dark  womb  ,  so  comforting,  like  death.  There  is  a  limit  to  all  people  and  I  have  reached  mine,  not  just  the  once  but  again  and  again  until  it  becomes  a  familiar  pattern  where  he  hurts  himself  with  a  needle  and  I  with  a  razorblade.  it's  amazing  that  in  our  shared  pain  we  simply  can't  find  each  other.

It's  a  long  time  since  I  reached  the  end  of  my  tether,  several  suicides  later  I  scream  at  him  and  rant  like  a  demented  thing,  you  didn't  listen,  you  caused  my  pain  and  then  ignored  it.  You  left  me  here  dying  and  alone  and  all  I  ever  wanted  was  you.  I  hear  mutterings  of  co-dependency,  but  it's  not  anything  like  that.  He  wears  my  soul  and  he  damn  well  knows  it.  He  knows  my  pain  but  ignores  it.  He  is  the  only  person  who  will  understand  upon  reading  this  story  exactly  what  it  is  about.  He  went  too  far  and  he  lost  or  killed  what  he  loved.

He  knows  that  it  is  the  natural  consequence  of  his  actions.  He  put  a  needle  into  his  arm  and  made  a  conscious  choice  to  hurt  me  today  tomorrow  and  every  fucking  day  until  I  die  and  I'll  never  forgive  him  for  his  actions.  Not  because  I  don't  care,  but  because  I  care  too  fucking  much.  Because  I    love  and  need  him  and  that    will  never  go  away.  Because  the  only  thing  that  matter's  is  he's  not  here.

Ice
Anyone  watch  Kerry  Anne  Kennel  today?  The  headlines  for  today  are  about  Ice  and  we're  not  talking  Ice  Ice  Baby  of  the  bad  80's  white  rapper,  were  talking  speed.  Ice  has  hit  and  hit  hard  and  the  panel  of  "experts"  all  agreed  that  Ice  is  much  much  worse  than  heroin.  Ice  is  Crystal  Meth.  Really  easy  to  buy,  cheap  and  easy  to  make  in  a  home  lab,  but  the  stench  gives  it  away.  It  looks  a  lot  like  rock  salt  and  is  usually  cut  with  salt.
But  today’s  headline  was  about  Ice  as  a  excuse  for  raping  a  17  year  old  girl.  About  it  being  an  extenuating  circumstance  in  her  rape  and  torture.  And  it  make  me  think  about  all  drugs,  even  the  legal  ones.  An  alki  gets  into  a  car  and  hits  someone  who  is  injured  or  killed  nearly  every  day.  They  go  to  the  court,  say  I  was  drunk  driving  and  receive  a  manslaughter  charge  instead  of  murder.  They  pay  a  huge  fine  and  do  a  few  months  at  best.  And  the  victim's  family  is  left  to  mourn.  It's  fucking  unbelievable  that  they  get  away  with  it  almost  every  day.
When  is  it  ok  for  it  to  be  the  disease  and  when  does  a  junkie  or  a  alkie  or  a  speed  freak  or  people  like  Martin  Bryant  who  was  obviously  mentally  ill  become  responsible  and  or  accountable  for  their  actions?  The  difference  is  in  my  opinion  they  all  knew  they  were  doing  the  wrong  thing  at  the  time,  they  knew  drink  driving  wasn’t  acceptable,  they  knew  the  effects  of  heroin  or  speed  before  they  took  the  drug.  They  knew  the  potential  for  harm  was  always  there,  but  said  "it  couldn't  happen  to  me".  They  lost  control  and  let  the  drug  control  them.  They  let  their  baser  instincts  have  free  reign.
Being  an  alkie  is  not  an  excuse  to  hit  your  wife  and  or  drink  drive  and  being  a  junkie  is  not  an  excuse  to  beat  up  little  old  ladies  for  their  handbags  and  being  a  speed  freak  doesn’t  make  it  ok  to  run  around  raping  people.  So  why  are  we  not  holding  these  people  accountable  for  their  actions?  Since  when  has  addiction  been  an  excuse  to  be  a  miserable  fucking  human  being?  
It  come  down  to  respect,  and  if  you  haven't  earned  it  why  expect  it?
So  if  your  going  to  jail  for  something  you've  done,  then  be  a  man,  put  your  hand  up,  cop  it  sweet  and  pay  the  piper.  But  try  telling  me  that  your  not  responsible  for  what  you  did  because  you're  on  something,  so  help  me,  I  think  if  I  was  a  judge  I'd  give  them  all  an  extra  five  years  for  being  fuckwits,  and  charge  them  with  using  prohibited  drugs  as  well.  And  fuck  extenuating  circumstances  and  being  drunk  and  driving,  you  do  the  crime  you  do  the  time  and  no  excuses.  You  chose  to  use,  its  doesn’t  matter  what  you  use,  or  if  it's  legal  or  moral.  While  I  am  all  for  decriminalisation  about  drugs,  I  think  that  you  can't  just  abdicate  responsibility  for  your  actions.  No  body  held  you  down  and  forced  you  to  be  like  this.  Everyone  has  other  options.
So  if  you  want  to  explore  your  options,  get  a  job  and  support  your  habit  that  way.  Try  NA  and  get  help.  Go  to  Detox  or  do  an  inhome  detox  with  the  staff  at  Quihn.  You  don't  have  to  remain  a  junkie.  And  if  you  are  a  junkie,  then  there  are  lots  of  options,  methadone  and  use  on  paydays.  A  controlled  morphine  plan  with  a  doctor  (  uncommon  but  does  happen).  Even  subutex,  great  stuff  to  help  you  come  down.  You  don’t  have  to  lead  an  unproductive  life,  you  don’t  have  to  hurt  other  people.
Now  back  to  Ice  as  an  excuse  to  rape  little  girls.  It's  not  on.  Yes  addiction  is  an  illness,  that  I  agree  with,  but  so  is  diabetes  or  overeating.  The  difference  is  whether  your  choosing  to  only  hurt  yourself  or  hurt  someone  else.  Ice  can  make  you  feel  ten  foot  tall  and  bullet  proof,  it  can  suspend  reality  but  there  is  no  fucking  way  it  turns  normal  person  into  a  rapist.  A  bit  punchy  sure,  but  it's  up  to  you  to  maintain  control  and  keep  it  on  a  leash.  There  is  no  excuse  for  violence  especially  towards  a  spouse,  there  is  no  excuse  for  rape,  there  is  no  excuse  for  drink  driving.  No  matter  what  your  on,  there  is  no  excuse  for  sharing  the  downside  of  drugs  with  anyone.  That  includes  sharing  needles  and  diseases.  If  you're  not  a  big  enough  man  to  use  responsibly  then  don't  fucking  use  at  all.

Legalise  It

I  read  "Rush"  in  a  magazine  and  nearly  wet  my  pants  in  delight,  I  could  almost  taste  it.  But  being  high  is  a  sensation  that  is  very  hard  to  explain.  With  Hammer  the  high  does  a  few  things,  one    of  them  is  it  freezes  your  insides,  you  don’t  go  to  the  bathroom  or  piss  for  hours.  Your  eyes  get  pinned  and  the  closest  way  I  can  describe  it  is  like  cumming.  Sometimes  the  gear  is  so  good  you  get  an  erection  and  can  fuck  for  hours  and  the  whole  time  your  body  tells  your  brain  your  cumming  and  its  fucking  incredible.  Amazing  stuff.  

Mind  you  most  of  the  time  you  just  don't  want  to  have  sex  or  you  cant  get  an  erection  because  your  brain  keeps  sending  signals  that  its  cum  already  and  it's  time  to  sleep.  Sexual  dysfunction  is  a  common  side  effect.  Even  infertility  in  both  men  and  women  users.  The  downside  is  because  you  constantly  use  heroin  to  replace  your  natural  endorphin,  your  body  no  longer  makes  it,  so  sex  becomes  even  less  pleasurable  and  often  painful.  Even  the  daily  aches  and  pains  aren't  covered  up  and  your  bones  ache.  The  other  downside  is  it  causes  constipation  and  stomach  problems.  Not  having  it  causes  diarroeah,  like  a  fucking  train  wreck.  It  also  causes  sneezing  and  flu  like  symptoms  because  it  acts  or  replaces  your  body's  natural  antihistamines.

You  take  the  smack  and  it  travels  round  your  body  through  your  veins,  it  reaches  your  liver  which  send  it  to  your  hypothalamus,  the  enzyme  or  in  this  case  chemical  that  gets  you  high.

People  who  don't  use  simply  don't  understand.  They  have  this  shock  horror,  but  heroin  isn’t  as  unnatural  as  the  media  would  have  you  believe.  It  is  simply  a  drug  extracted  from  the  opium  poppy,  it  then  gets  graded  in  strength  due  to  it's  chemical  breakdown    in  a  laboratory.  It  starts  with  opiated  hash,  then  opium,  then  codeine,  then  morphine  then  heroin.  At  one  stage  many  years  ago  heroin  was  just  a  brand  name.  It's  called  junk  because  it  used  to  be  legal  and  people  used  to  buy  it  and  use  it  as  snuff  and  when  they  couldn’t  get  anymore  would  wait  on  the  docks  until  the    Chinese  junks  came  in  carrying  the  heroin.    Even  back  then    some  people  injected  it.

Everyone  who's  ever  had  a  severe  illness  or  an  operation  is  likely  to  have  to  taken  something  in  the    heroin/opiate  family  tree  at  sometime.  It  is  without  a  doubt  the  best  painkiller  available  because  it  make  your  body  feel  good  even  when  it's  feeling  bad.  Surely  you  can  remember    being  given  pethadine  through  childbirth?  You've  taken  headache  tablets  with  codeine  or  even  cough  mixture  with  codeine  (  used  to  be  called  paregoric).  These  are  common  everyday  uses  for  a  much  maligned  drug.  It's  only  now  we  talk  about  natural  childbirth,  but  not  that  many  years  ago  it  was  common  to  give  pregnant  women  heroin,  it  stops  vomiting  in  small  doses  and  works  very  well  as  an  antihistamine  too.  In  fact  I  wasn't  terribly  surprised  when  a  doctor  saved  a  child  who  had  been  stung  by  a  stinger  up  north  by  treating  her  with  medication  one  would  use  for  a  junkie  going  through  detox.  The  child  lives.

So  if  your  a  pot  smoker  isn't  it  the  same  thing?  Opium  and  Pot  have  been  used  for  centuries  to  create  opiated  hash  to  smoke  in  those  big  middle  eastern  hookers.  Both  come  from  a  plant.  Both  are  from  the  Middle East.  Yes  you  have  to  be  a  lot  more  careful  injecting  because  your  more  susceptible  to  disease  or  bacteria  putting  anything  straight  into  your  veins.  Even  a  flu  germ  travelling  through  the  air  can  give  you  a  dirty  hit.  But  the  glaringly  obvious  thing  most  people  miss  is  that  by  injecting  it,  nothing  is  wasted.  Your  not  getting  the  kids  stoned  or  the  cat,  just  by  being  in  the  same  room,  just  yourself.

I  guess  what  I'm  trying  to  say  is  that  opiates  have  been  around  a  long  time  in  one  form  or  another.  It  was  used  as  a  means  of  control  to  subjugated  races  like  the  Chinese  through  out  history.  It  is  derived  from  a  plant  like  tobacco  and  marijuana.  It  has  been  used  as  a  painkiller  on  a  daily  basis  by  millions  of  Australians  in  a  legal  form.  It  is  easy  to  get  addicted  to  in  normal  hospital  situation  or  from  painkillers  prescribed  by  your  doctor.  Why  is  it  so  wrong  for  those  who  have  a  weakness  for  it  to  have  it  in  a  form  that  really  is  harmless  to  others?  My  case  is  that  responsible  and  safe  drug  practices  don't  hurt  the  public.  What  does  hurt  the  public  is  making  it  illegal  and  expensive  because  people  have  to  steal,  lie  and  cheat  to  get  it.  It  brings  up  your  taxes  enforcing  drug  laws.  It  blocks  up  the  court  system  with  drug  related  issues.  and  it  creates  crime  because  desperate  junkies  will  do  anything  to  get  it.  If  it  were  legal  and  you  could  walk  into  the  chemist  to  buy  it,  there  would  be  very  little  crime.

If  you  truly  want  harm  reduction,  then  making  it  legal  would  help  the  general  public,  the  savings  in  insurance  rates  and  police  needed  to  enforce  harsh  drug  laws  and  crime  associated  with  theft  of  property  alone  would  save  billions  to  Australian  tax  payers.  Hell  package  it  with  fits  and  tax  it,  making  it  actually  pay  it's  own  way  and  stop  the  spread  of  diseases  like  Aids  and  Hep  C.  It  would  go  a  long  way  to  cleaning  up  the  illegal  sex  industry,  without  drugs  there's    little  need  to  sell  you  body  and  soul.  Don’t  sell  it  to  minors,  enforce  safe  using  practices  and  make  it  an  offense  to  drive  while  under  the  influence,  that's  just  responsible  using.  Don’t  get  high  at  work,  the  same  as  you  shouldn't  drink  at  work,  especially  when  operating    machinery.  But  I  do  think  that  we  are  adults  and  entitled  to  make  our  own  choices.  There  are  far  deadlier  drugs  on  the  market  caffeine,  tobacco  and  alcohol  just  to  name  a  few.  There  are  far  deadlier  plants  growing  in  your  garden.  Heroin  isn't  the  big  baddy  it's  often  made  out  to  be.

Myths  and  Misconceptions  about  NA

I  went  to  NA  (  Narcotic  Anonymous)  today.  It  was  my  first  meeting  and  one  singular  thing  stuck  in  my  mind.  It's  not  about  the  drug  at  all,  it's  about  you  and  your  recovery.  I  always  expected  them  to  talk  about  their  addictions  and  their  drugs  of  choice  and  I  stayed  away.  But    this  guy  got  up  to  speak  and  said  he  had  felt  in  the  past  that  as  he  wasn't  shooting  up  that  he  didn't  qualify  for  NA.  That  he  wouldn't  be  accepted.  He  always  visualised  NA  being  for  junkies  and  not  for  all  drugs.  He  didn't  say  what  his  drug  problem  was  and  nobody  asked.    I  was  kinda  shocked,  the  meth  heads  don't  associate  with  the    heroin  guys,  the  morph  freaks  don’t  have  anything  to  do  with  heroin  users  as  a  rule.  Drug  culture  is  all  about  you  against  the  rest.  Na  simply  doesn’t  give  a  fuck.  Groovy  huh?

For  the  first  time  ever  I  felt  accepted  as  a  person  by  other  people  and  united  by  a  common  problem.  I  didn't  feel  inferior  or  looked  down  on  because  of  my  being  an  addict.  They  said  "I'm  an  addict"  and  that  too  blew  me  away.  I  know    junkies  who  have  been  using  for  40  years  and  they  don't  say  "I'm  an  addict",  they  say  stuff  like  "I  am  a  user",  it's  those  people  who  lie  and  steal,  they  are  the  real  junkies.

They  said  this  and  it  clicked  with  me  "  We  are  not  interested  in  what  or  how  much  you  used  or  who  your  connections  were  ...  but  only  in  what  you  want  to  so  about  your  problem  and  how  we  can  help."  I  was  just  blown  away.

I  always  took  NAs  as  being  real  religious  types,  but  even  that  was  a  myth,  they  don’t  have  any  problems  with  race,  creed,  colour  religion  or  the  drug  of  choice.  They  had  no  problem  with  me  telling  them  I  wasn't  Christian  but  was  Pagan.  It  was  cool.  They  said  "NA  is  about  getting  in  touch  with  your  higher  power  ,  whatever  or  however  YOU  perceived  him/her/it  to  be".  I  thought  about  this  and  said  "what  about  if  I'm  an  Atheist"?  The  chick  there  laughed  and  said  "that's  fine  too,  just  look  for  the  thing  inside  you,  that  ego,  the  part  of  you  that  makes  you,  you,  if  that's  your  higher  power  then  do  you  have  a  problem  with  NA?".

Ok,  I'm  still  not  sure.  But  one  thing  struck  me  rather  strongly,  and  that  is  that  I  had  all  these  preconceptions  about  what  NA  was  and  wasn't  and  I  looked  like  a  fucking  maggot  because  I  was  wrong.  It  gave  me  pause  to  think.  For  once  these  people  accepted  me,  didn't  judge  me,  asked  nothing  of  me  and  offered  to  help  me.

I  came  to  NA  by  accident  rather  than  design.  I  wasn't  feeling    great  and  this  guy  said,  "you  look  like  you  could  use  a  friend".  Right  then  I  was  just  about  ready  to  shoot  myself,  I'd  tried  everything  and  it  didn't  work.  My  wife  had  left  me,  I  wasn't  allowed  to  see  my  kids,  even  my  mum  wouldn't  talk  to  me.  I  had  just  come  out  of  detox  and  was  sitting  at  the  mission  cafe  deciding  whether  to  go  score  or  to  kill  myself  and  along  comes  this  bloke  from  absolutely  nowhere.  I  was  so  fucking  down  I  burst  into  tears  and  told  him  about  my  problems.  He  took  me  to  a  meeting.

When  I  saw  where  he  was  taking  me  I  thought  to  myself  "Jesus  H  Christ,  FUCK  NO."  But  this  guy  was  so  damn  nice  to  me  that  I  felt  bad  saying  no  after  him  reaching  out  to  me.  Hell  none  of  my  supposed  mates  who  used  ever  did  anything  for  me.  He  helped  me  find  accommodation  and  say's  he'll  come  get  me  tomorrow  for  breakfast  and  another  meeting.

What  the  fuck  have  I  got  to  loose?  I’ve  tried  everything  else  and  maybe  these  people  know  something  that  I  don’t,  all  I  know  is  I  want  more  out  of  life  because  I  have  fucking  nothing,  I  want  something,  I  want  to  be  me  again  and  I'm  so  fucking  lost.  Doing  it  my  way  didn't  work.  My  mate  just  came  to  the  door  and  I  actually  smiled,  I  still  feel  weak  as  a  kitten,  I'm  still  fighting  the  urge  to  go  out  and  score  but  for  one  second  there  I  felt  normal  and  I  thought  maybe  just  maybe  there  was  life  after  junk.  Maybe  I  could  find  me.  Worse  thing  I  could  do  was  put  of  using  till  tomorrow.

I  went  to  the  meeting.

Life  After  Junk

I  think  back  to  the  crazy  days  of  active  addiction,  how  my  thought  processes  were  so  far  from  reality,  where  all  I  thought  about  was  getting  on  and  junk.  It  was  like  I  carried  around  this  huge  burden  that  I    alone  could  bear,  that  no  one  understood  me  or  my  pain.

When  I  started  NA  (Narcotics Anonymous)  I  had  some  bad  starts,  there  were  days  when  my  problems  seemed  bigger  than  I  could  cope  with,  that  my  sponsor  could  cope  with  and  all  the  wonderful  people  who  loved  me  and  supported  me  could  cope  with.  What  worked  for  me  was  not  being  alone,  when  the  burden  seemed  too  big  there  were  simply  more  people  to  help  me  carry  it.  I  took  it  to  meetings  and  we  shared  it  with  the  group  in  general.  I  took  it  to  a  internet  chat  room  for  support,  in  fact  I  spread  that  big  load  fairly  thinly  over  hundreds  of  people.  That’s  what  NA  means  to  me.  It's  beyond  friendship  it's  a  brotherhood  of  people  who  share  your  pain,  share  your  hurt,  share  your  problems,  understand  you  and  help  you  carry  the  burden.

It  was  with  a  whole  lot  of  help  from  everyone  in  my  wonderful  group  that  I  finally  became  clean    and  stayed  clean  8  months  now.  It  was  something  I  had  tried  on  my  own  and  just  couldn't  make  it.  I  didn't  have  the  strength  on  my  own.  It  took  a  long  long  time  for  the  burden  to  seem  bearable  and  the  problem  solvable.  Much  of  that  was  due  to  my  personal  growth.  I  kept  that  recovery  growing  but  it  was  always  tough.  When  it  was  hard  I  just  did  it  day  by  day,  putting  it  off  one  more  day.  The  longing  never  left.

The  steps  were  painful  for  me.  It's  hard  to  acknowledge  just  how  badly  you  have  treated  everyone,  why  my  wife  and  my  family  hung  in  there  with  all  the  miserable  things  I  did  to  them  I'll  never  know.  But  she  doggedly  drove  me  to  every  meeting,  waited  patiently,  took  me  to  my  sponsor  when  I  was  having  a  breakdown.  I'm  one  lucky  man.  But  I  hung  on,    grimly  at  times  to  the  balance  I  was  starting  to  see  emerge  in  my  life.  And  every  single  day  I  wanted  to  use.

Yesterday  I  had  a  breakthrough.  I  work  construction,  which  is  tough  as  lots  of  my  fellow  workers  use,  though  most  don’t  use  smack.  I  got  paid  and  I  stopped  on  my  home  to  pick  up  some  things  at  the  shop,  a  few  groceries  and  went  home  had  dinner.  I  just  did  normal  things,  had  a  shower,  made  love  to  my  wife,  just  a  very  normal  day.  I  was  working,  and  I  felt  good.

It  wasn't  till  late  into  the  evening  that  I  realised  why  I  felt  so  good.  I  had  got  paid,  went  grocery  shopping,  made  love  to  my  wife  and  lived  a  normal  life  and  I  was  happy  and  I  DIDNT  ONCE  THINK  ABOUT  GOING  TO  SCORE.  I  actually  mulled  it  over  and  I  didn't  want  to.

Every  single  day  of  my  adult  life  since  I  started  using,  junk  has  been  this  focal  point  of  my  life.  I  felt  like  a  million  dollars  because  I  didn’t  feel  like  it  owned  my  soul  anymore.  I  can't  explain  what  that  feels  like,  a  high  of  kinds  I  guess,  but  this  was  real  and  tangible  and  so  incredibly  satisfying.  When  they  tell  you  something  you  work  for  has  more  value  than  something  that  you  didn't  earn,  well  they  certainly  knew  what  they  were  talking  about.  I  rang  my  sponsor  at  2  am  gleefully.

Look  I'm  not  foolish  enough  to  think  I'm  cured,  once  an  addict  always  an  addict.  I  know  that  If  I  started  using  again  I  would  go  straight  back  to  hell,  but  I  no  longer  wanted  to.  I'm  not  sure    when  it  happened.  It's  like  a  miracle.  I  know  that  tomorrow  I  may  well  fall  into  the  old  pattern  of  thinking  about  it    but  that  no  longer  matters,  I  know  I  can  control  it,  that  with  a  lot  of  help  and  love  I  can  get  through  this.

I  went  to  an  early  morning  meeting  today,  I  just  had  to  tell  everyone  about  how  empowered  I  felt,  how  wonderful  I  felt  because  they  had  finally  gotten  through  to  me,  with  their  love  and  support  I  could  see  a  life  after  junk.    This  might  not  seem  such  a  big  thing  to  you,  but  for  me  it  was  a  huge  breakthrough.  Just  simply  enjoying  the  life  that  such  a  short  time  ago  seemed  such  a  burden.  I  yahooed  and  carried  on  and  cried  and  hugged  a  hundred  people  and    was  just  so  elated  at  being  alive.

For  me  it  took  a  long  time  for  the  message  to  get  through.  I  only  went  to  meetings  because  I  didn’t  know  how  to  do  it  alone,  it  was  all  I  had  left.  I  needed  someone  else  to  help  me  live  with  the  pain  and  self  loathing  that  junk  had  created  and  made  me  forget  for  fleeting  moments.  I  just  got  through  the  day  not  using  by  the  skin  of  my  teeth  and  because  my  brothers  were  carrying  me.  Today  I  felt  like  a  toddler  who  has  taken  a  step  alone.  Today  I  knew  that  all  their  love  and  all  their  energy  and  all  their  effort  and  my  higher power  knew  something  about  me  that  I  didn't  know,  that  I  could  live  without  Junk.

It's  not  a  cure,  if  anything  it's  a  glimpse  through  a  keyhole  to  see  hope,  its  a  fleeting  feeling  of  having  some  balance  and  control  in  my  own  life  where  before  I  had  none.  I  got  down  on  my  knees  before  everyone  and  thanked  God  and  my  Brothers  and  Sisters  and  my  wife  and  my  family  for  hope.  I'd  lived  without  it  for  so  very  long,  I  had  forgotten  how  it  felt.

The  most  important  thing  I  can  think  of  doing  right  now  is  giving  it  back,  and  I'm  writing  this  story  to  tell  you  that  there  is  more.  That  at  the  end  of  the  tunnel  there  is  light  and  hope  and  love  and  I  have  been  like  a  blind  man  all  this  time,  unable  to  see  because  I  had  my  eyes  closed.  I'm  not  asking  you  for  a  leap  of  faith,  I  just  want  to  invite  you  to  a  meeting,  my  name  is  John  and  I'm  an  addict.  I  just  want  you  to  know  that  there  is  a  way  to  a  life  without  junk,  let's  do  it  together  one  step  at  a  time.          

The  Valley   

(Spoken  in  a Tom  Waits Voice)                           

Who  can  think  of  drugs  and  not  think  of  the  Valley.  Quihn  down  a  dingy  old  alley,  picking  up  fits  and  hurrying  to  go  score.  Krishna  meals  reheated  in  a  microwave.  The  food  van  giving  away  roast  dinners  and  pies  to  the  homeless.  Sleeping  through  the  day  at  the  139  club  when  your  sick  and  can't  keep  walking  anymore.  Just  having  a  place  to  lie  down  for  five  minutes  because  your  bones  ached  so  damn  much.  Coffee  at  the  Mission  Cafe.  Sitting  on  the  damn  bench  outside  the  train  station  waiting  for  some  dumb  fuck  to  come  in  who  wants  to  score.

Waiting  in  a  queue  outside  the  Commonwealth  Bank  at  3  am  to  see  if  the  money  magic  machine  would  spew  forth  fifty  bucks,  and  racing  off  with  all  your  mates  to  go  score  at  Annerley    at  4  am.    The  bleach  man  walking  past  with  his  shopping  trolley  full  of  Bleach  and  cleaning  products  to    douse  down  the  bus  shelter  he  was  sleeping  in  that  night.  His  arms  red and  cracked.  The  crowd  sitting  up  on  the  corner  of  the  Valley  fiveways,  drinking  cask  wine  at    7  am  in  the  morning.

The  gay  men  making  out  under    the  strobe  light  and  the  music  pulsating  as  you  go  past  the  night  club.  The  Queens  Ball  and  everyone  dressed  in  sequins  and  tiaras.  The  wafting  aroma  of  pot  laces  over  the  dance floor.  The  leather men  looking  all  masculine  and  sweating  in  the  heat.  The  yuppies  at  the  outdoor  cafe's  drinking  Latte's  and  talking  animatedly  into  their  mobile  phones  and  punching  numbers  into  their  laptop  computers  like  they  knew  the  secrets  of  success.  Meanwhile  your  begging  HADS  to  let  you  in  just  one  more  time  because  you  don’t  have  anywhere  else  to  go,  you  even  owe  Pindari  all  your  cheque.

The  streeties  hustling  some  old  queer  out  of  his  money.  The  Prostitutes  wearing  too  much  makeup  and  wearing  too  little  clothes.  The  wigs  and  the  perfume  and  the  smell  of  the  street  and  the  sex  oozing  of  the  bitumen.  The  young  girl  crying  because  she's  got  on  the  wrong  bus  and  has  to  change  at  the  Valley,  she’s  worried  she  will  get  dirty  by  the  sin  in  the  city.  The  dark  alley  where  junkies  are  silently  trying  to  hit  up  by  the  light  of  the  dashboard.  The  DJ  selling  speed  while  the  music  goes  msk  msk  msk.  Cold  hard  cash  changing  hands.  One  fifty  dollar  bill  moving  through  thirty  sets  of  hands  in  one  night.

The  drunk  fallen  over  and  hit  his  head,  the  trickle  of  blood  running  down  past  his  eyes.  He  can  no  longer  see  through  his  blood  shot  eyes,  and  he  no  longer  cares  where  he's  going.  The  workers  looking  bored  and  no  longer  caring,  sloshing  your  drink  when  it's  slammed  on  the  bar.  The  young  man  mooning  over  the  tired  old  barmaid,  who  takes  his  tips  for  a  smile  and  a  grope.

The  scared  and  the  weary  street  sweepers  cleaning.  Avoiding  the  needles  in  the  gutters.  The  cops  patting  down  some  likely  young  prospects  and  dragging  them  of  to  their  car  with  disdain.  The  tired  old  people  who    hide  through  the  day,  in  fear  of  the  mania  rising  up  from  the  streets.  The  bars  on  their  windows  and  deadbolts  on  doors,  a  deathtrap  for  fire  but  still  they  retreat.

The  undercurrent  of  tension  and  fear  and  disgust.  The  ugliness  only  the  streets  can  share.  The  shame  and  the  filth  and  the  dirt  of  the  tracks.  The  glowing  embers  of  cigarette  butts.  The  old  down  and  out  man    who  reaches  and  picks  it  up,  and  rolls  it  with  a  new  paper  he  bought.  The  shaking  hands  holding  the  cigarette  like  it  was  a  beacon  of  hope  against  tragedy.  It  doesn’t  matter  that  half  a  minute  ago  it  was  sitting  like  a  jewel  in  a  sea  of  vomit  strewn  across  the  pavement  where  some  drunken  idiot  threw  up  a  hotdog  bought  from  an  unlicensed  street  vendor.

The  lights  are  so  bright  that  the  dirt  fades  away,  and  your  lulled  by  the  sensuousness  of  it  all.  Seduced  by  the  glitter  and  glamour  it  promises,  but  give  you  more  pain  for  your  earthly  reward.  The  Valley  a  diamond,  cold,  sharp  and  shiny.  The  capital  of  cold  steel  on  the  face  of  the  city.  I  can  sell  you  anything  that  your  sick  mind  could  want,  but  first  give  me  money  so  I  can  go  score.  I'm  aching  and  hurting  and  wretched  and  weary,  but  for  just  fifty  dollars  we  can  go  to  your  car.  Your  hands  disgust  me  and  your  breath  is  fetid.  My  skin  crawls  and  I  want  out  of  this  now,  but  give  me  that  money,  in  turn  I'll  endure  it,  and  get  out  and  get  on  and  do  it  some  more.

The  markets  and  hippies  and  shoppers  in  high  heels.  The  men  with  their  wallets  and  the  hungry  eyes  watching,  for  a  moment  of  inattention  for  quick  fingers  to  find  a  few  bucks.  The  careless  scramble  when  change  is  dropped,  and  someone  walks  of  with    something  to  hock.  Cashy's  don’t  take  silver  but  buy  electrical  goods,  so    computers  and  mobile  phones  are  quick  to  be  hidden  and  sold.  The  desperate  housewives  coming  in  to  sell  the  kid's  Xbox  for  fifty  dollars  so  they  can  cope  with  the  kids  today  by  using  and  staying  somewhat  sane  in  an  insane  world.

If  you've  lived  in  the  valley,  you  know  the  score  and  its  a  loose/loose  proposition.  The  only  man    winning  is  "the  man"  and  he  wont  give  you  tick  and  he's  not  interested  in  your  skanky  old  arse.  Cash  passes  for    his  heart  and  he's  not  hurting  but  feeds  of  the  pain  of  others  like  a  vampire  feeds  on  blood.  Just  not  dying  today  seems  like  a  major  achievement,  that  is  on  days  where  dying    doesn’t  seem  so  much  more  appealing  than  living.

Eternity

My  mate  introduced  me  to  NA  about    twenty  years  ago.  He  was  a  very  intelligent  and  complex  man  who  had  battled  with  addiction  for  all  his  life.  We  shared  a  flat  together  after  we  came  out  of  Detox  many  years  ago.  We  had  a  lot  of    similarities  but  he  was  always  brighter,  smarter  and  more  plagued  with  self  doubt  and  a  brooding  melancholy  that  never  went  away.  Over  the  years  he  was  best  man  at  my  wedding.  when  I  had  the    pre  -  wedding  jitters  he  was  there  at  2  am  listening  to  me  and  bolstering  me  up.  He  gave  of  himself  selflessly.

I  took  to  NA  like  a  duck  to  water,  I  guess  I  was  so  far  down  that  I  had  no  where  else  to  go,  but  it's  not  that  easy  for  everyone,  some  people  just  can't  surrender  to  a  higher  power,  cant  let  go,  are  always    torn  by  doubt.  He  was  one  of  life's  tortured  souls  but  he  always    wanted  and  longed  to  be  clean.  And  that's  what  being  a  member  of  NA  is  all  about,  wanting  earnestly  to  be  clean  and  working  towards  it.  Go  figure,  he  introduced  me  to  NA  and  I  got  all  the  anniversaries.

Over  the  years  we  lost  touch,  but  I  would  see  him  periodically  at  meetings  and  renew  my  acquaintance.  There  were  periods  where  he  was  clean  and  periods  I  am  sure  he  was  using.  It  wasn't  my    place  to  judge  him,  but  we  had  shared  something  special  together  and  I  always  felt  like  he  had    given  me  life,  when  no  one  else  cared.

I  hadn't  seen  him  for  years,  I  had  moved  away  and  we  didn’t  attend  the  same  meetings  anymore,  I  was  involved  in    my  life  and  was  a  pretty  holier  than  thou  toadie,  I  had  succeeded  in  my  own  mind  with  my  addiction  problems,  was  married  had  a  car,  mortgage,  kids  and  I  was  smug  and  self  assured  and  I  kept  going  to  NA  but  I  thought  of  myself  as  the  shining  example  for    younger  and  less  time  up  members  to  admire.  I  had  been  clean  for    12  years  and  I  was  fucking  complacent.  I  no  longer  thought  of  myself  as  an  addict.

Big  mistake.  Big  fucking  mistake.  I  injured  myself  at  work,  nothing  terribly  life  threatening  but  the  doctor  gave  me  pain  meds.  I  told  my  group  and  my  sponsor  and    was  at  first  very  careful,  the  model  of  propriety  and  took  them  if  anything  late.  I  would  take  them  hours  later  than  I  needed  to.    Then  one  day  for  absolutely  no  reason  I  took  two.  That's  all  it  took.    I  was  Doctor  shopping  and  back  on  the  band  wagon.  I  would  go  to  meetings    loaded  and  tell  everyone  how  wonderful  I  am.  I  treated  my  wife  and  kids  like  crap  and  I  lost  my  job.

Then  I  ran  into  my  friend,  and  he  looked  at  my  pinned  eyes  and    my  thin  frame  and  he  had  that  knowing  look  in  his  eyes,  and  he  took  me  to  our  old  meeting  just  for  old  times  sake.  Here  I  was  thinking  I  had  them  all  fooled,  but  the  only  fool  was  me.  And  I  stood  up  in  front  of  everyone  and  told  them  I  had  thought  I  was  cured    but  I  was  worse  than  ever  and  could  they  help  me.  Straight  back  to  step  one  after  12  years  and  I  had  done  it  myself  by  forgetting  who  I  was.  I  am  an  addict.  I  wept  like  a  baby,  my  mate  took  me  to  my  doctors  and  we  rang  the  DDU  together  and  I  booked  into  Detox.

This  time  I  went  back  to  NA  with  humility  and  without  my  blinkers  on.  I  apologised  to  my  fellow  NA  members  for  my  contempt  for  them,  for  my  despicable  attitude  and  my  bigotry  and  conceit.  It  took  a  long  time  to  feel  like  I  was  worthy  of  those  fine  folks,  and  through  it  all  no  one  judged  me,  which  only  made  me  more  miserable.  But  this  time  I  was  determined  to  put  my  faith  in  God  and    surrendered  my  will  completely.

The  steps  were  much  harder,  I  had  taken  the  whole  process  for  granted.  I  was  truly  humbled  and  humiliated.  I  renewed  my  commitment  to  NA  and  to  God  and  got  on  with  my  life,  once  again  loosing  touch  with  my  mate.  Went  back  to  work,  reconciled  with  my  wife  and  everything  went  back  to  business  as  usual  as  if  I  had  never  relapsed  at  all,  except  I  now  knew  I  was  truly  an  addict  and  how  fine  a  line  I  truly  walked.

Then  one  day  his  wife  called  and  told  me  my  mate  had  died.  Twice  this  man  had  saved  my  life  and  brought  me  to  NA  and  what  had  I  ever  done  for  him?  How  often  had  I  given  anything  of  myself  to  anyone  ever?  I  took  another  long  hard  inventory  and  I  wasn't  at  all  happy  with  who  I  was  and  my  attitude  hadn't  realistically  changed  much,  It  was  all  about  me,  and  I'd  missed  the  entire  point  of  NA,  to  give  it  back.  These  days  I  truly  try  to  be  understanding,  non-judgmental  and  to  be  as  much  help  to  others  that  I  can,  not  only  in  NA  but  in  my  life.

God  and  my  Guardian  Angel  had  given  me  two  strikes,  I  wasn't  about  to  fail  them  after  everything  they  had  done.    I  can  still  go  to  work  and  support  my  family  and  fit  into  my  schedule  the  time  to  pick  someone  up  and  take  them  to  meetings,  to  sponsor  new  members  and  to  be  available  24  hours  a  day  for  my  brothers,  because  I  was  now  after  20  years    ready  to  give  it  back.  

It  doesn't  happen  easily,  the  self  growth  and  such  you  go  through  need  constant  re-evaluation.  There  are  always  going  to  be  opportunities  to  use,  it  takes  as  much  effort  and  commitment  to  stay  clean  as  it  ever  did  to  use.  I  still  walk  the  fine  line,  still  know  how  venerable  I  am  but  I  have  something  wonderful  that  I  would  share  with  you,  that  is  NA  and  my  brothers  and  sisters  in  the  program  who  have  made  me  who  I    am  today.  

I  don't  care  if  you  come  to  meetings  loaded,  been  there  and  worn  that  t-shirt.  Just  as  long  as  you  understand  that  there  is  hope  and  there  is  life  after  drugs,  come  back  as  many  times  as  you  want  until  you  too  are  ready  to  see  you  a  life  without  junk.  I  am  an  addict  and  I  am  in  recovery  and  I  thank  God  and    my  good  friend  and  guardian  angel  and  NA  and  the  wonderful  people  within  it  for  giving  me  a  third  chance  at  life.    It  was  far  more  than  I  deserve.

Last  week  we  laid  an  eternity  medal  on  my  friends  grave.  I  wept  openly.  He  deserved  so  much  more  out  of  life.  He  died  of  AIDS.  There  but  for  the  grace  of  God  go  I.  I  am  not  man  enough  to  fill  his  shoes  but  I  will  humbly  do  my  very  best. My  name  is  Robert  and  I  am  an  addict.

There's  a  Bomb  in  my  Cunt

I  can't  remember  how  long  I  have  been  speeding,  seem  like  forever,  I  am  eternally  awake  and  cleaning  something.  I  work  as  a  nurse  and  have  lost  my  credentials  for  being  a  little  careless  and  helping  myself  with  the  drugs  cabinet.  You  have  no  idea    just  how  many  medical  professionals  use  drugs,  it's  quite  a  party  scene.

I  can  remember    going  down  but  not  quite  why,  I  kept  buying  speed  and  whacking  it  up  compulsively,  spending  all  my  pay,  the  rent,  the  food  money  and  money  I  convinced  my  mother  to  send  me,  the  end  result  was  a  sure  fire  case  of  speed  psychosis.  It  got  so  bad  that  I    thought  that  MI5  were  sending  me  secret  messages  through  the  television,  so  naturally  I  took  apart  the  television  and  left  it  laying  strewn  around  the  living  room.  

MI5  had  told  me  they  were  sending  me  a  suitcase  full  of  money  and  that  I  had  to  go  to  the  airport  to  collect  it.  I  left  Jack  a  note  and  caught  a  taxi  all  the  way,  confident  that  there  would  be  a  suitcase  there  with  my  name  on  it  full  of  pound  notes    arrived  from  England,  I  could  change  it  at  the  airport  and  I  had  taken  my  passport  with  me  as  identification.  Obviously  the  taxi  driver  wasn't  paid,  the  police  were  called  and  I  was  incarcerated  in  H  Block,  the  local  hospital's  mental  facility.

While  I  was  there  I  was  still  getting  messages  from  their  television  and  it  told  me  that  I  had  a  bomb  that  had  been  inserted  into  my  body  by  MI5  and  I  was  going  to  blow  up  and    kill  everyone  there.  I  was  desperate  how  could  I  remove  the  bomb  and  disarm  it?  The  nurses  found  me  gouging  my  vagina  with  a  spoon  I  had  taken  from  the  food  tray.    God  only  knows  what  damage  I  could  or  had  done  to  myself  trying  to  get  the  bomb  out  and  what  damage  I  would  have  done  had  I  been  home  and  not  locked  up.

At  first  the  nurse  though  I  was  trying  to  incur  a  miscarriage,  but  when  I  started  screaming  at  her  and  telling  her  to  get  away,  get  everyone  to  safety,  there  was  a  bomb  in  my  cunt.  Then  they  came  with  a  shot  and  restraints  and  I  spent  two  weeks  restrained.    You  have  no  idea    just  how  fucking    humiliating  that  is,  going  to  the  toilet  on  a  bedpan  and  being  spoon  fed.

I  stayed  for  a  few  months  in  the  tender  care  of  the  lunatic  asylum.  Slowly  I  got  myself  back  to  rationality  and  was  no  longer  a  danger  to  myself  and  others.  You  sit  there  and  think  why  or  how  could  I  not  know  I  was    in  a  psychotic  state?  Surely  I  didn’t  believe  the  things  my  mind  told  me  where  happening.  The  truth  is  I  didn't  believe  it  at  first.  But  the  worse  it  gets  the  more  plausible  it  seems.  Reality  fades  and  there  is  only  this  huge  conspiracy  that  you  are  interwoven  with.

When  you  come  down  the  psychosis  stays  for  quite  a  while.  The  hospitals  are  full  of  speeding  people  like  me  who  do  and  say  the  strangest  things.  I  met  someone  who  had  seen  little  purple  pixies  having  sex  on  the  blinds    in  our  ward.  Speed  psychosis  is  very  real,  very  dangerous  and  if  you  suspect  that  someone  you  love  might  be  psychotic  from  drugs  and  likely  to  harm  someone  even  themselves  you  should  ring  000  or  the  medical  emergency  line  in  your  local  area.

At  first  I  was  very  hard  on  Jack,  I  rang  him  and  told  him  I  hated  him,  never  wanted  to  see  him  again,  but  regardless  of  whether  I  was  screaming  at  him  or  weeping  in  his  arms  he  came  every  day.  I  blamed  him  for    my    being  locked  up  and  I  blamed  him  for  my  addiction  problems.  Eventually  reason  took  over  with  the  help  of    my  doctors.  After  eight  weeks  I  went  home.  My  friend  who's  writing  this  story  recalls  Jack  sitting  in  his  living  room,  telling  her  "My  lovie  is  coming  home  today,  I  am  so  excited  I  just  can't  wait."    I  don't  know  how  he  puts  up  with  me,  it  certainly  is  a  trial.

DoCS

Ok  for  those  of  you  who  don't  have  kids  we're  talking  Department  of  Children’s  Services  or  DoCS.  If  you're  a  drug  user  and  a  parent  your  likely  to  LIVE    IN  FEAR  every  single  day  because  of  these  people,  because  these  are  the  people  who  can  just  walk  into  your  house  and  take  your  fucking  kids  and  not  give  a  reason,  not  have  any  proof  just  an  anonymous  phone  call  from  some  fucking  malicious  piece  of  shit.  A  couple  of  them  and  they  simply  walk  into  your  house  and  take  our  kids.  I'm  not  talking  about  someone  else's  kid's  I'm  talking  about  my  kids.

You  may  have  guessed  that  I've  lost  my  kids  and  they  DoCS  aren't  good  friends  of  mine.  We'll  start  with  my  caseworkers,  they  were  young,  unmarried  and  didn't  have  kids.  They  have  since  got  the  sack,  but  you  got  the  general  idea,  fucking  idiots  who  had  no  idea.  Worse  still  I  had  taken  my  kids  to  SCAN  for  sexual  abuse  and  they  said  my  three-year-old's  hymen  wasn't  intact  but  as  she  was  so  young  children  heal  so  quick  and  of  course  it  was  inconclusive.  There  was  nothing  to  prove  who  had  done  this.  My  kid  had  told  me,  "My  sister  doesn't  want  to  sleep  in  Daddy's  bed  anymore,  because  it  hurts  too  much,  but  I  still  do,  I  love  my    Daddy."    If  you  are  a  parent  your  heart  has  frozen  and  you  reach  another  plane,  where  your  in  such  fucking  agony  ,  and  you  say  "It's  ok  sweetie  Mummy's  listening  and  it  won't  be  a  problem  anymore"  .  Wasn't  fucking  inconclusive  to  me,  I  fucking  knew,  and  their  Dad  could  see  them  over  my  dead  cold  body.  Fuck  them  all.  I  would  have  murdered  the  fucker  then  and  there  if  I  could,  and    no  fucking  apologies.

Of  course  this  made  me  universally  unpopular  with  my  friends,  family  and  of  course  my  neighbors.  Blaming  him  was  like  shooting  myself  in  the  foot,  I  was  one  of  thousands  of  anti  ex's  who  was  slightly  neurotic  and  hiding  something.  My  husband  was  a  popular  fellow,  intelligent  witty  and  likable.  He  was  a  drinking  buddy  with  half  the  town  including  the  local  cop  and  there's  no  way  that  I  could  prove  it  was  him  in  a  court  of  law,  and  the  kids  weren't  happy.  They  saw  my  new  partner  as  an  obstacle  to  their  Daddy  coming  home,    funnily  they  didn't  see  his  live-in  girlfriend  who    he  was  seeing  when  we  were  together  as  a  obstacle  at  all.  Ok  kids  do  strange  things  when  their  parents  divorce.  I  won't  blame  them  but  they  just  wanted  things  back  the  way  they  were  because  they  felt  safe.  With  their  step  dad  there  were  new  rules,  my  second  youngest  when  throwing  a  temper  tantrum  and  kicking  me  in  the  pregnant  belly  got  put  under  a  cold  shower.  This  is  perceived  as  child  abuse.

What  was  my  mistake?  I  was  pregnant  and  my  boyfriend  was  a  genuinely  nice  guy  he  just  had  a  drug  problem.  You  don't  even  have  to  prove  he's  a  drug  addict  you  only  have  to  allege  he's  a  drug  user.    My  mortgage  was  2000  dollars  a  month  and  I  was  on  a  single  mum's  pension,  so  it  was  beyond  tight,  my  mortgage  was  actually  more  than  my  income.  I  hadn't  contributed  a  single  dollar  of  my  money  to  his  drug  habit,  and  he'd  often  given  me  money  for  food  or  necessities  for  my  kids  despite  him  running  a  drug  habit.  Even  with  his  help  I  couldn't  pay  the  bills  and  I  was  going  downhill  fast  financially.  

Guess  what,  you  don't  have  to  prove  your  using,  you  only  have  to  have  enough  people  say  he's  using  and  bingo  you  automatically  loose.  My  kids  were  taken  for  assessment.  He  files  for  custody,  Bada  Bing,  I  don't  get  representation  and  he  wins  because  my  kids  were  taken  into  DoCS  custody.  Charming.

Well  you  can  imagine,  he  rang  everyone  we  knew,  made  a  whole  lot  of  allegations  about  my  partner,  who  I  hadn't  even  met  before  they  were  taken  to  SCAN  and  he  didn’t  know  and  had  never  met  and  I  had  my  kids  taken  off  me  and  given  to  my  ex  the  fucking  paedophile.  If  I  live  to  be  a  thousand  I  will  still  remember  being  in  court,  representing  myself  because  the  fact  that  my  partner  was  a  IV  Drug  user  became  the  focal  point  of  the  entire  case  and  I  didn’t  get  representation  because  "  I  couldn't  win  ",  I  can  remember  screaming  at  the  Appointed  Child  Barrister/Child  Representative,  "You  fucking  cunt  you  had  a  duty  of  care  to  protect  my  children  and  you  gave  them  to  a  fucking  paedophile."

Things  went  well,  didn't  they?

I  think  Junkies  are  so  badly  perceived  by  society  that  we  ignore  their  rights.  We  ignore  the  overall  situation  and  focus  on  one  thing,  that  they  inject.  My  kids  never  missed  a  meal  in  their  lives,  we're  well  cared  for  and  very  much  protected  from  the  whole  drug  culture.  My  partner  enabled  us  to  eat  when  there  was  no  food  or  money  to  buy  food  because  I  was  overcommitted  on  my  income.  He  bought  the  kids  three  hundred  dollars  worth  of  presents  for  xmas  and  was  doing  his  goddamned  best  to  support  a  family  that  wasn't  even  his.  He  was  even  using  prescription  meds  doled  out  daily  by  his  chemist  and  not  using  anything  illegal,  was  doing  the  whole  trip,  we  were  expecting  a  baby  and  he  wanted  it  to  have  a  future,  even  booked  into  HADS  and  walked  away  from  morphine  every  day  for  me  and  his  baby.  Dedication  huh?.

When  DoCS  turned  up  and  took  my  kids,  with  two  armed  police  officers,  the  baby  died,  The  doctors  said  it  was  shock,  it  can  do  funny  things  to  you.  He  went  downhill  and  personally  I  can't  blame  him.  I  was  a  basket  case  who  tried  multiple  time  to  kill  myself  and  he  went  into  a  downward  spiral.  Honestly  I  can  remember  that  time  as  the  worst  I  have  ever  been  through  in  my  life,  and  it's  a  blur.  I  got  to  see  my  kids  for  two  hours  a  fortnight  under  supervision.  These  are  kids  I  didn’t  eat  more  than  a  mouthful  of  food  in  a  month  to  feed,  who  I  smoked  butts  for,  who  I  had  spent  all  my  life  and  energy  protecting  and  I  hadn't  been  able  to  save  them.

Long  term  problems?  My  older  daughter  is  18  and  has  already  done  the  miscarriage  and  single  mum  thing.  My  11  year  old  daughter  is  already  sexually  active.  My  son  is  a  very  dominating  child  at  14  who  thinks  nothing  of  punching  his  sisters  in  the    mouth.  My  ex  disregards  a  court  order  and  if  I  and  my  new   husband  are  together  refuses  to  let  me  see  my  kids  at  all.  Overall  things  are  pretty  fucked.  

DoCS.  Mate  if  ever  an  organisation  made  a  mistake,  it  was  DoCS.  I  had  dickheads  who  had  no  fucking  idea.  I  don't  even  use  and  my    hubby  is  now  and  was  then  seeing  a  doctor  who  controlled  his  problems  with  a    controlled  opiate  program.  Yes  he  lost  it  when  our  baby  died,  but  he's  only  human.  We  now  have  a  baby,  and  guess  what?  Not  a  single  complaint  to  DoCS.  Not  a  phone  call,  not  a  whisper.  My  ex  still  only  let's  me  see  the  kids  when  and  if  he  sees  fit  regardless  of  Court  Orders  which  consisted  of  a  year  of  supervised  visits,  psychotherapy  for  not  only  me  but  my  husband,    assessment  and  then  an  ok  for  me  to  see  the  kids  at  my  mother's  for  a  while,  then  months  of  one  day  a  fortnight,   then  a  year  of  weekends,  then  afterwards  half  the  holidays  and  half  the  weekends.  But  still  he  denies  me  access  if  my  husband  is  home.

I  could  take  him  to  court  but  what's  the  use?  He  can  simply  allege  drug  use  and  we're  back  to  square  one.  I'm  lucky  my  new  husband  has  stood  by  me  all  these  years.  Better  men  than  him  have  walked  away.  We  have  a  beautiful  son,  and  without  him  I  think  I  wouldn't  be  here  today.

Not  all  drug  addicts  are  bad  people,  sure  they  have  bad  moments.  He  can  be  an  absolute  cunt  at  times  but  I  still  can  say  no,  draw  a  line  and  tell  him  to  fuck  off.  Whereas  people  like  DoCS  seems  not  to  have  limitations.  They  have  the  ability  to  take  over  your  life  on  a  whim.  They  can  judge  you  without  knowing  the  circumstances  and  make  a  judgment  that  will  totally  fuck  up  your  life.  Ok  I  wasn’t  upfront  with  them,  but  some  of  their  allegations  were  so  ludicrous  that  I  laughed  at  them  and  slammed  the  door  in  their  faces  saying  something  like  "You  have  got  to  be  fucking  kidding".  I  actually  had  complaints  that  because  I  was  Pagan  the  children  and  I  were  supposedly  naked  in  the  backyard  chanting  "We  are  the  demons,  the  demons  from  hell".  Of  course  I  laughed  at  them.  Their  allegations  were  absolutely  ludicrous  and  unfounded.  They  don't  actually  have  to  prove  you're  a  danger,  you  have  to  prove  your  innocent  in  a  court  of  law  without  any  legal  representation.  Not  once  did  they  ask  us  to  do  as  much  as  piss  in  a  cup,  because    it  could  all  have  been  proved  or  disproved  by  a  simple  test.

Yes  I  am  dirty  on  them,  they  passed  judgment  without  any  proof,  and  my  kids  were  normal  kids,  they    did  all  the  acting  out  things  kids  do  when  parents  split  up  and  they  have  been  or  are  being  abused  by  one  their  parents,  they  protected  their  abuser,  they  hated  my    new  husband  for  replacing  their  Daddy  and  stole  from  me  (fifty  dollars  at  a  time  I  might  add)  and  refused  to  go  to  school  etc.  I  was  the  evil  one  who  made  them  go,  and  got  in  trouble  for  it  no  less.    Scenario  13  yr  old  girl,  refuses  to  go  to  school  second  day  of  school  year,  has  a  blister  from  ridiculous  wedge  heeled  joggers  she  had  to  have  at  enormous  expense.  I  ring  the  school  they  say  take  her  to  the  doc,  doc  says  kids  in  wheelchairs  go  to  school,  you  can  attend  with  a  blister.  School  give  permission  for  her  to  go  in  thongs  no  less  as  long  as  she  goes  to  the  library  for  PE  and  manual  arts.  Rang  the  police  who    told  her  she  had  to  go  to  school,  so  I  finally  get  her  into  the  car,  get  her  to  the  actual  front  gate,  and  she  won't  get  out.  I  go  in  get  the  deputy  and....she's  being  an  absolute  idiot  until  eventually  six  hours  later  locked  in  a  battle  with  a  13  year  old,  I  do  what  any  responsible  parent  would  do,  I  smacked  her  right  in  front  of  her  headmaster,  not  in  the  face  but    on  the  leg.  Ok  yes  I  would  applaud  my  actions,  but  the  courts  see  that  as  child  abuse,  go  figure.  School  allows  poor  abused  child  to  ring  her  ever loving  Daddy  who  keeps  her  out  till  seven  that  night  and  of  course  she  doesn't  go  to  school.  I  have  zip  authority  over  a  13  year  old  kid  and  yet  another  complaint  to  DoCS.  He  drives  up  to  the  front  door  breaching  his  DVO  and  smirks  at  me.  Cunt.

Try  winning  when  you’re  perceived  as  the  bad  guy.  No  matter  how  well  meaning  you  are  or  whether  you  have  your  kid's  best  interests  at  heart.  I  know  I'm  not  the  only  one.  I  know  not  only  a  few  but    hundred's  of  mother's  like  me.

To  DoCS  I'm  trying  to  give  you  a  message,  I  do  not  use  drugs  and  my  partner/husband    would  rather  puke  his  way  though  a  month  of  Sundays  than  have  the  kids  wear  less  than  Nikes  and  if  you  come  to  take  my  baby,  you'll  have  to  take  me  in  a  hail  of  bullets,  I  am  a  damn  good  mum  and  I'm  not  giving  you    fucker's  another  chance  to  hand  my  children  to  another  paedophile.  You  can  stick  your  do-gooder  bullshit  up  your  collective  arseholes,  you  don't  always  get  it  right.  Sometimes  you  make  mistakes  at incredible costs.    You're  going  to  have  to  live  with  it,  because  there  are  days  still  where  I  can't.  You  fucked  up  and  because  of  you  four  fucking  kids  were  fucking  lost.  You  have  a  lot  to  be  proud  of.  Discrimination?  What's  that?  I  am  damn  glad  you  don't  know  who  I  am  and  there  is  anonymity  at  least  here,  here  I  have  dignity  and  respect,  Suck  my  fucking  dick  you  wankers.  You  fucked  up.  You  let  them  down  and  I  will  never  forgive  you.

Statistics
I  checked  the  statistics  on  drug  use  online  recently  at  http://www.aihw.gov.au/publications/phe/sdua02/sdua02-c04.pdf  and  found  some  statistics  on  drug  users  whish  I  found  quite  startling.  I  wanted  to  share  them  with  you  all.  These  are  from  2001  so  are  five  years  out  of  date,  but  in  case  you  felt  that  the  percentage  of  drug  users  were  small,  then  think  again.  Here are  a  few  facts  for  your  titillation.
37.7  percent  of  Australia's  population  have  used  illegal  or  illicit  drugs.  I'll  just  let  that  sink  in  for  a  few  minutes.  37.7  out  of  100  people  or  377  out  of  a  thousand  has  used  drugs  illegally.  More  than  one  third  of  Australians  are  or  have  taken  drugs  illegally.  Out  of  that  1.8  percent  that  is  18  people  in  a  thousand  have  shot  up/injected  illicit  drugs  and  six  in  a  thousand  used  recently  in  their  survey.    This  is  not  prescription  medications  like  Benzos  and  Morphine,  but  street  drugs  only.
1.6  percent  have  used  heroin,  that’s  16  per  thousand  or  more  than  one  and  a  half  per  hundred.  Of  them  2  in  a  thousand  used  recently.  (  I  don't  know  about  you  guys,  but  the  users  I  know  are  not  going  to  tell  some  damn  government  dept  if  they  are  using  and  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  the  figures  are  actually  larger.)
Amphetamines  are  a  staggering  8.9  percent  of  the  population  has  tried  them.  3.4  percent  used  recently.  89  in  a  thousand  people  use  speed  either  now  or  at  some  point  in  their  lives.
Cocaine,  a  staggering  4.4  percent  have  used  cocaine.  That's  44  in  a  thousand  Aussies  out  there  on  coke,  with  1.3  percent  using  recently.
Marijuana  a  staggering  33.1  percent  have  used  cannabis,  and  a  whopping  12.9  percent  have  used  recently.  6.1  percent  for  ekkies,  6  for  illegal  opiates  and  the  list  goes  on  and  on.  These  are  not  legal  use  of  these  drugs  such  as  prescribed  painkillers  but  the  illegal  use  of  drugs.
If  you  think  drug  use  doesn’t  happen  in  your  home,  your  street  ,  your  suburb  or  your  family,  then  your  probably  not  being  honest  with  yourself.  Recent  drug  use  was  most  likely  to  be  in  the  20  -  29  year  age  bracket.  The  next  highest  bracket  was  the  children  between  the  ages  of  14  and  19.  Drug  use  tapered  of  with  older  people.  Mind  you  the  older  you  get,  the  more  likely  you  are  to  get  legal  drugs.
One  startling  thing  I  found  was  that  a  whopping  61  percent  of  male  and  56.2  percent  of  females  between  20-29  has  used  illegal  drugs  at  some  point  in  their  lives.  There  doesn't  appear  to  be  a  decline  in  using  in  younger  kids,  so  will  in  30  or  so  years  time  the  percentage  of  Australians  who  have  or  actively  use  illegal  drugs  have  increased  above  50-60  percent  of  the  population?
(Source  :  National  Drug  Strategy  Household  survey  2001  taken  from  http://www.aihw.gov.au/publications/phe/sdua02/sdua02-c04.pdf)
I  looked  at  drug  deaths  and  found  a  1998  figure,  so  it's  way  out  of  date  but  here's  some  stats  for  you.  In  1998,  575  people  died  from  drug  dependence  problems,  222  by  poisoning  ,  135  by  suicide  and  91  by  other  drug  related  problems.  Making  a  grand  total  of  1023  drug  deaths  in  Australia  in  1998.  
(Source:  Ridolfo  and  Stevenson  2001  http://www.aihw.gov.au/publications/phe/sdua02/sdua02-c07.pdf)
But  what  is  staggering  to  say  the  least  is  the  hospitalisations  from  Drug  use,  I'll  shock  you  with  the  total  first.  14,471  hospitalisations  due  to  drug  dependence  issues  in  1998.  That’s  a  fucking  lot  of  hospitalisations.  That’s  an  extraordinary  amount  of  your  tax  dollars.  I'm  not  going  to  break  it  down  totally,  some  are  detoxes,  some  are  poisonings  but  some  5696  hospitalisations  are  due  to  other  drug  related  problems  and  health  issues  caused  by  illegal  drug  use  in  1998.
I  somehow  can't  see  this  problem  just  going  away  by  ignoring  it.  Can  you?

Fin

Hi,  I'm  Jessamy  and  I  hope  you  enjoyed  this  compilation  of  stories.  I  know  they  are  sometimes  graphic  and  savage,  but  that’s  what  a  life  of  drug  addiction  is  really  like.    There  is  no  cure  for  addiction,  just  a  few  incredible  people  who  do  their  best  to  help  each  other  in  a  tough  situation.  It  takes  incredible  courage  and  tenacity  to  make  it  to  the  point  of  being  clean.  Relapses  are  common.  I  only  hope  you    never  give  up  on  yourself.  There  is  a  life  after  drugs.  It's  not  always  apparent.

My  opinion  is  very  strongly  that  there  is  way  too  little  funding  for  agencies  like  needle  exchanges  and  detoxs.  There  is  way  too  little  education  about  drugs,  and  we  have  ignored   this   problem   far  too  long.  Will we  ignore  it  enough  to  let  more  people  die?

For  all  the  addicts  who  are  still  using,  there  are  lot's  of  people  out  there  who  fight  for  equality  for  all,  for  an  end  to  the  discrimination  against  users  and  their  families.  This  book  was  always  about  raising  awareness  and  to  give  hope.  If  it  just  became  too  tough  and  you  want  help  to  quit,  there  are  some  options,  some  of  which  were  listed  in  book  one.  Contact  your  local  needle  exchange  and  they  should  be  able  to  refer  you  to  services  who  can  assist  you  with  your  addiction  problems.  I  neither  condone  nor  condemn  taking  drugs.  I  am  not  a  paid  drug  professional,  I  am  simply  a  story  teller  and  found  a  series  of  stories  that  needed  to  be  told.  These  are  your  stories.

For  the  families,  don't  ever  stop  loving  them,  because  they  need  your  love  more  than  you  can  possibly  imagine.  Knowing  you  still  care  is  the  biggest  encouragement  you  can  give  for  them  to  give  up.  Don't  despair  when  it  takes  fifty  times,  every  single  step  is  worth  the  effort.  You  are  not  alone.  In  every  family  there  is  at  least  one  addict.  Addiction  isn't  about  your  drug  of  choice,  it's  about  your  inability  to  control  your  intake  of  certain  substances,  even  coffee  is  addictive.

I  would  like  to  thank  everyone  who's  story  I  have  told,  You  know  who  you  are.  Without  you  these  books  would  have  been  impossible.  I  would  like  to  thank  the  NA  members  who  told  their  stories,  they  were  truly  inspiring.  

For  those  who  have  quit,  a  big  round  of  applause,  it  took  a  lot  of  guts  to  walk  away.  It  takes  a  lot  more  to  do  it  every  day  for  the  rest  of  your  life.