Mastering Junkie Justification

“I’ll quit when it’s not fun anymore.” “Why do you keep using if you aren’t getting high anymore? What’s the point? I’ll quit when that happens.” “My health is fine, if I have a heart attack or something I’ll quit but I doubt that’ll happen.” “I can handle it, I’m not going to just let myself get addicted to meth.”

The second time I ever pushed a needle into my arm I turned to my friend and said, “I’m not still going to be using in three months and if I am, I want you to tell me to stop.” I’m glad she never brings that conversation up because clearly I was living under the false assumption that this would be only temporary. I was naive, it took me a year until I accepted I was wrong back then.

Ten minutes ago I emptied a syringe containing over a half gram into my arm—I’m already yawning and wishing I could take a nap, give it 30 minutes and I’ll be back in kitchen stuffing my face again. My tolerance is insurmountable, it’s expensive and no matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to catch up with the speed in which it climbs (either can my bank account).

I swore I’d quit if my health began declining but it was only a few months ago that my best friend rushed me to the emergency room because my heart rate was nearly 190. Tachycardia didn’t scare me, the blood clots and my vision which dropped 5 points below my 20/20 didn’t scare me either. I’m also not frightened when my fingers go numb, when my arm cramps or my veins feel as if they’re about to snap. If my friend had not been there to force me into the car that night, I’d probably be dead and yet—still using.

My tolerance is too high for me to reach or for my wallet to support, I’m using over a gram a day and it’s still never enough. And yet—I’m still using.

I haven’t truly gotten high in months. Now “high” means I’m awake, not punching holes in the wall because I’m so fucking overwhelmed, when my legs are no longer restless and aching, when the back pain is gone and when I stop stuffing my face with everything I can find in the kitchen. I stopped looking for “high” a long time ago, now I just want to “get well” and yet—here I am, still fucking using.

Where is my line, what will be my breaking point? What will it take to scare me into sobriety and keep my skin from crawling while my veins beg me for just one more injection? Every line I drew for myself has only been erased and stepped right over. My body hurts, my minds a fucking cluttered mess that seems to be incapable of organizing itself and my life is now a total train wreck.. with no sign of rescue. When will it all cease to be worth it? At this point, I’m scared that only death can separate my arm, my vein and my syringe.

It doesn’t seem to matter how bad things get, all the consequences don’t seem to matter and the sacrifices are irrelevant.. through everything and anything.. here I am— still fucking using.