Raw and Uncut
I had a flowery story but I stratched it off today's list. This story is raw and uncut. The last day I used, I used speed heroin cocaine weed and booze. It was the day before check day. I had settled in with a half ounce to sell. I shot a half gram and two dimes. I was fucked up beyond reason. There wasn't a big police chase or much drama. I went out of that room in handcuffs with a whimper.
It took a awhile in processing for the high to start to wear off. I ignored the girls who pulled crack out of their pussy and smoked it in the cell. I knew what was coming for me- pain. Kicking heroin is a living death. I have seen grown men beg to be suffocated by a pillow, too weak to stand.
By the time I made it to the kick tank after stripping naked in humiliation. Inmates are forced to spread their ass cheeks and squat and cough. Some drugs are dropped or found. Most are not. I was processed into the kick tank. The kick tank is a large multi person cell with mattresses on the floor. Plastic bags are provided to hold your vomit. The first day I was fine. By the second, chills shakes vomiting. The jail provides an ibuprofen, Tylenol, belladonna. You have to provide evidence you have puked to get a shot of compuzine. I was not smart enough to lie. Alcoholics also get Librium. Shaking starts. The ride began.
I was hallucinating so bad I was looking for my outfits aka needles in the blankets. I started master bating any time I was awake in hopes I could sleep for ten more minutes. All of the feelings that have been numbed seem to arrive in your crotch. The utter humiliation of having the deputy ask you to take you hands out of your pants to get your tray. A total animal. Years later, I used to see that same deputy when I worked in the jail. Did she still think I was nasty? Who knows.
Around the third day, I was paralyzed by muscle cramps. I was wishing I could die. The worst part of the detox is that now your mind is clear enough to flood in memories of all the terrible things that have ever happened. Why did I do this to myself? If I get the chance to get out of here, will I do it again?
I don't recall the argument now. Another inmate jumped on me in my vulnerable state. As I grabbed her neck and reached back to beat the living hell out of her with my last bit of nervous energy- I froze. I had a moment of clarity. I AM NOT DOING THIS ANYMORE . I am not fighting her. I not fighting -period. I am going to get out of the motherfucking kick tank (that's how I talked back then) and ask to go to a program. Fuck this life.
And I did that. The woman from the story ended up passing through my life some point. She had apologized to me the moment after the altercation ended. She did not remember the moment my life changed. I certainly remember. She later lost her arm to an infection that left her bone exposed before she got help. She lost her arm but eventually got clean.
As for me, you know the rest of the story.
It took a awhile in processing for the high to start to wear off. I ignored the girls who pulled crack out of their pussy and smoked it in the cell. I knew what was coming for me- pain. Kicking heroin is a living death. I have seen grown men beg to be suffocated by a pillow, too weak to stand.
By the time I made it to the kick tank after stripping naked in humiliation. Inmates are forced to spread their ass cheeks and squat and cough. Some drugs are dropped or found. Most are not. I was processed into the kick tank. The kick tank is a large multi person cell with mattresses on the floor. Plastic bags are provided to hold your vomit. The first day I was fine. By the second, chills shakes vomiting. The jail provides an ibuprofen, Tylenol, belladonna. You have to provide evidence you have puked to get a shot of compuzine. I was not smart enough to lie. Alcoholics also get Librium. Shaking starts. The ride began.
I was hallucinating so bad I was looking for my outfits aka needles in the blankets. I started master bating any time I was awake in hopes I could sleep for ten more minutes. All of the feelings that have been numbed seem to arrive in your crotch. The utter humiliation of having the deputy ask you to take you hands out of your pants to get your tray. A total animal. Years later, I used to see that same deputy when I worked in the jail. Did she still think I was nasty? Who knows.
Around the third day, I was paralyzed by muscle cramps. I was wishing I could die. The worst part of the detox is that now your mind is clear enough to flood in memories of all the terrible things that have ever happened. Why did I do this to myself? If I get the chance to get out of here, will I do it again?
I don't recall the argument now. Another inmate jumped on me in my vulnerable state. As I grabbed her neck and reached back to beat the living hell out of her with my last bit of nervous energy- I froze. I had a moment of clarity. I AM NOT DOING THIS ANYMORE . I am not fighting her. I not fighting -period. I am going to get out of the motherfucking kick tank (that's how I talked back then) and ask to go to a program. Fuck this life.
And I did that. The woman from the story ended up passing through my life some point. She had apologized to me the moment after the altercation ended. She did not remember the moment my life changed. I certainly remember. She later lost her arm to an infection that left her bone exposed before she got help. She lost her arm but eventually got clean.
As for me, you know the rest of the story.
Comments
Post a Comment