Going to Court! (Unreleased: 09 October 2007)

This was originally written on 9 October 2007, but due to its poor composition, I never posted it for public consumption. Here it is, in all of its glory (albeit heavily modified):

I arrived at the courthouse — which, by the way, is two hours away from where I live — not fully knowing what to expect.

Three weeks prior, I had received a citation that simply prescribed that I was to arrive in the Hamilton County (Chattanooga, Tennessee) General Sessions court at 13:30.

One by one, people were called to the stand and testified on behalf of their case. From what I could figure, it was your basic traffic court; if anything, a slightly elevated traffic court for more serious offenses. I awaited my turn. The judge — who happens to be a woman — was making light of what could be considered fairly serious infractions (that is, in the world of traffic court). She even kept her cool when a girl, at best 18, obviously had no respect for authority. Her hearing was but a series of derogatory statements intermixed with juvenile laughter; she was a repeat offender who was caught driving without a license. Even with the complete lack of respect for the court or the infraction itself — not to mention the multiple offenses — the judge gave her a warning and sent her on her way.

It was at this pivotal moment that I, internally, resolved that I would receive such treatment at worst. I wasn't a repeat offender and I surely was not going to make a mockery of the legal system.

By this time, I notice that the court room is all but clearing out. A few unremarkable cases conclude and I hear my name being called out.

Slightly shaken, I stand up and proceed to the podium where I'll soon learn of my destiny.

I was professional; I spoke to the woman using only the utmost respect. I told her that I was remorseful for what I had done and that it certainly would not be happen again. She listened, but I could tell by the look on her face that she had already made up her mind.

Within seconds, I was being handcuffed and soon afterward I was escorted to the side of the court room.

"Please remove any watches, phones, wallets, money, or otherwise 'contraband' type items from your person," an aging, frail man requested.

"Your belt, too," he reminded me.

I had not been prepared for this. It had already been over sixteen hours since my last dose of Suboxone and six or more for Xanax. Both of these medications were in the car and I had decided not to take them until after court. Well, that was one promise I was able to make to myself.

I was sentenced to 48 hours in the county jail. Panic set in. This was going to be tough physically, emotionally, spiritually. I had enough experience with jails at this point to know what I would be in for. At best, I would be in a dorm-style room that housed fifty or so others. This would give me my own bunk and the ability to shower when it was needed.

As luck would have it, the entire 48 hours were spent in holding. This is an area where detainees are held prior to being placed in general population due to a few different variables: one, if you're getting out in the next few days, you are most likely going to the end of the list to begin with, especially if they are backed up — which they were; two, I was there on a Friday, further exacerbating the overcrowding issue. It surely didn't seem as though I would be getting to lie my head down on a mat of any sort. While in intake, you sit around with between thirty and seventy guys depending on the cell you've been assigned to. Time has a way of slowing down in such cases. When I was certain it was midnight, I caught a glance at a clock that smirked 19:00 back at me. I was an entire five hours off! This only compounds the soon-to-come complications of my impending opioid and benzodiazepine withdrawal. One guy had already had a seizure due to extreme benzodiazepine and alcohol abuse. Hopefully this wasn't a sign of what was to come.

To break up the monotony, every inmate goes through a book-in procedure. It takes several hours to complete each individual for what consists of snapping on an armband ID, snapping a photograph, being fingerprinted, and given jail-issue shoes. They surely have the dragging their feet thing down to a science. Furthermore, there are meals. My first meal was not a total loss; I was still not feeling so bad as to prevent me from having an appetite. That would be my last meal for the next 48 hours.

As time went by, my anxiety levels began to shoot through the roof. Soon after, I was feeling each and every opioid withdrawal symptom known: hot and cold flashes, sneezing, runny nose, diarrhea, nausea, vomiting, goosebumps, and restless leg. This, to give you a sense of time, was around 23:00 on the first night.

Needless to say, I did not get a wink of sleep that night. I tried to keep my mind busy by thinking of positive things awaiting me on the outside; unfortunately, I was in such bad shape that I couldn't conjure much up.

At one point, I asked for a Xanax; I mean, why not? I have a valid prescription for it. The look on the lady's face was one I'll never forget; it was like I had just suggested we murder the President. She just could not, or would not, entertain the idea of giving a medicine to a known junkie. It's experiences such as these that make me ever so skeptical of the talk of drug reform (read: legalization). There are too many people that have unbelievably warped understandings of drugs and its subculture for it to ever be a realistic platform for discussion.

While in pre-holding, I watched the police bring in a guy that was obviously under the influence of some kind of narcotic. I spotted him as I scanned the holding cell. Still a bit out of his mind, I decided to approach him anyway. What else is there to do?

THIS IS NOT COMPLETE: PART 2 COMING SOON

Ever Enough?

I just realized something; something spectacularly grim.

I have worked at a total of two places this year. The first of which paid solidly, yet outstanding it definitely was not. I had been employed since 2005 June. Whilst there, I managed to amass a couple of ineffectual raises; it did nothing more than keep up with inflation. These raises were bestowed upon me during the first nine months of employment. My paramount approval swiftly materialized into an irreparable downturn.

You see, as I further earned seniority, I found myself using heroin more and more irrationally. The resultant penalty was substantial: I eventually was let go. I am not entirely sure that anyone knew — for sure — of my drug use; but, it must've been on their short list. I mean, come on, I was going to the restroom for twenty, sometimes thirty minutes at a time. Upon exiting the bathroom, I am certain that my demeanor was altered. My guess is that the powers that be were aware of some type of substance abuse, but as long as my level of work remained constant it was left unsaid. When you're working for a financial institution, and subsequently doing all banking through said institution, it is relatively easy to monitor a co-worker's spending habits; at the time, I was getting paid every two weeks; like clockwork, that second Friday, I would withdraw my wages and usually quite a bit more (read: overdraft). But, being an employee, I didn't get hit with the usual penalty fees. This went on for several months with not a soul saying a thing. This contrasts sharply to an incident while on a company trip in San Diego and, upon crossing over into Tijuana, I pulled out several hundred dollars at the border ATM. It took no longer than five minutes to receive a phone call asking if my card had been stolen or if I really had withdrawn the money.

I was unemployed for nearly a month before locating my latest nine-to-fiver; during which time I managed to live off of the returns of the eighty hours vacation owed to me. I haven't the slightest as to how I was able to pull that one off financially. I remember nearly immediately calling up one of my then-connects and purchasing $1,200 of OxyContin. This is only what I remember and my history tells me that it did not end there. I probably spent — down to the dime — as much money as was possible on drugs leaving just enough to scrape by.

I will forever be grateful for the job opportunity that presented itself that allowed me to return to working in such a short period of time.

The current gig is grand. I bring home quite a bit more than many entire households do in a month on a weekly basis. I apologize if this sounds pretentious as that is not my objective.

I tell this to instill in you quite possibly the most important understanding I've come to know. It does not matter if you make US$25K or US$500K per annum; because your addiction will too amplify, you will again soon find yourself penniless.

Can't Let it Happen Again (Part 2 of 2)

So, I'm there.

I broke out all of the supplies. The obligatory spoon, needle, cotton filter, lighter and pills.

I scraped off the coating and break the pill down into a fine powder. This effectively defeats the pill's time-release mechanism. A common misnomer is that the outer coating is the time-release and that you simply need to remove that. This is untrue as the time-release is contained throughout the pill in the form of a waxy matrix.

I used the edge of a credit card to scoop the powder into the spoon where I think mix it with water. Once I thoroughly mixed the contents, I briefly heated the underside of the spoon; this allows for any remaining time-release to separate temporarily from the oxycodone. The heating process is two-fold, really; it also helps bring the solution into a form that is more easily sucked into a syringe. After the brief heating, I wad up a piece of cotton to act as a filter. After wadding, I throw the cotton ball into the solution and proceed to suck every last drop of liquid out by placing the beveled-edge of the syringe upward and into the cotton. By then pulling back slowly, you are able to extract most of the contained oxycodone. I do not have any scientific figures, but I would estimate the extraction at being around 75-80%. So, with an 80mg pill, you are retaining approximately 60-65mg.

I let the solution cool and then use my belt as a tourniquet. I find a vein, enter it with the syringe at a slight angle, pull back on the plunger to assure that I am in a vein (this is called registering; you are in a vein if blood enters the barrel of the syringe when you pull back), and finally — when all things are right — inject the solution.

Within seconds it hits you. A feeling of warmth begins in the chest and rises into your neck. Moments later, all is well. Nothing matters, you haven't a care in the world.

This hit was especially nice given the extreme amount of time and anguish I was forced to endure. At this point, it feels as though it was all worth it; all of the pain, agony and feelings of hopelessness.

I had arrived in San Diego on a Friday; the Friday before the Monday in which I would begin a week-long session of classes. By Sunday, I was out of my supply. I had to figure something out and QUICK.

Being in an unknown city made it all the more difficult. I had no one to turn to or to call. I would have to improvise.

San Diego is a major border-town and entry point from Mexico. I knew that my chances of scoring were indeed more realistic there. I get on the bus and travel to a subway terminal; the one I arrived at happened to be in Fashion Valley. I get on the subway and ride all the way to its endpoint in San Ysidro, CA. At this stop, foot passengers are able to cross into Mexico without any trouble. There is not an inspection of any type when going into Mexico; you simply walk through a turn-style and you are in Tijuana, BC, Mexico.

Upon entering, you are greeted by a plethora of taxi cabs all seemingly offering the same service: US$5.00 to 'anywhere'. I find my target — someone who looked to be in the know (this is a skill you seemingly pick up when you become a junkie) — and ask him to take me to a Farmacia with Oxy. He seems to understand my request and we arrive at one slightly off the beaten path. I enter the establishment and am confronted by a local who speaks surprisingly good English. I tell him what I am looking for and he affirms that he does, in fact, have it. I ask to see one as proof. He knocks on a door behind him and a small wooden panel slides open. He makes his request in Spanish and is handed the pill. The gentleman tending the counter then hands it to me. I bought it and exited the store. I would have purchased more, but had a few small problems: I had only brought enough money for one and wanted first to ensure that they were real before making a larger purchase. I get back into the taxi cab waiting outside and further tip the driver. I then request to be taken back to the border. Upon crossing back into the United States, it was soon apparent that it would be a tad more difficult than it had been upon entering.

After being in line for over half an hour, I get to the inspector. I tell him that I have nothing to claim and show him my ID. He asks me a random question pertaining to the information on my ID; I answer and am told to go ahead. I made it.

I get back onto the subway and ride back to the Fashion Valley point. I then catch another taxi back to the hotel. As soon as I get back in the hotel room, I verify the authenticity of the pill. Yep. It was real. Everything broke down as normal. I now felt relieved to know that I had a connection for the duration of my stay.

I would continue to use this same Farmacia the entire time I was there. I ended up spending over US$1,000. Luckily, the company I worked for at the time was paying me US$100.00 for expenses each day. This greatly assisted me in my across-the-border purchases. However, it being a financial institution that I worked for, and the fact that I had an account through this institution, they were on the look-out (for my safety) for any unusual purchases. I received a phone call about a $400.00 purchase in Mexico; they just wanted to verify that it was, in fact, me. I confirmed that it was and made up an excuse as to why it was so much. I'm not entirely sure it was believed... It became a common joke at work from then on out.

My second trip to yet another training session wasn't quite as smooth.

A third trip, which happened to be in Atlanta, was worse (if that's even possible). I got into trouble with my superiors for not attending scheduled events; instead, I had decided to take a break and go on a Heroin run. While this was not evident to anyone else, it sure raised a few eyebrows as to why I would've left the confines of the conference. It further stood out because co-workers attended the trip with me; it was the first trip in which I was not alone.

This placed me under the watchful eyes of my superiors and co-workers alike. I am sure that they noticed something was awry. I mean, first off, we had all planned to ride in the company van on our way to Atlanta. Realizing that this would be the demise to my mobility, I made up something to coerce my boss to allow me to drive my personal vehicle instead. This was viewed as strange as confirmed by various people inquiring as to why I'd driven myself. Was it really any of their business?

On the second day of the conference, we (including members from other financial institutions) all assembled in the hotel's main lobby. It was there that I realized that I would be going to be a guest to various speakers. I quickly scanned the itinerary trying to locate lunch or any other sizable break. There was nothing more than a few ten minute-breaks and a paltry thirty-minute lunch. This was beginning to look disastrous. I had intended on using this time to score. This discovery literally opened the floodgate of physical withdrawal symptoms. As I have found out over the last six years, early detox symptoms are primarily psychological. The more you think about your drug of choice (DOC), the more severe these psychologically-induced physical symptoms will be. This is, however, dependent on when your last dose was; if you're under the 18-24 hour mark, you can safely assess that what you are feeling is brought on by psychological stress. This is the general rule of thumb for MOST opioids. Their are exceptions to this rule, though. If you have been ingesting an opioid with a very short half-life (such as fentanyl) your actual withdrawal will occur a lot quicker.

I enter my first session, my second, my thi... at this point, I realized I was not going to be able to tough it out. I made a call and put in my order. I left the hotel's parking garage and headed toward my street pharmacist. Considering the time of day — around noon — I made pretty poor time. It was slow that my connect called me asking if I still intended to come. I reassured him that I was on my way.

I get back to the hotel approximately two hours later; and this is just getting back to the parking garage. I still had yet to go up into my hotel room and do any dope. So, all in all, I was gone for approximately two-and-a-half hours. I returned to the convention — thoroughly refreshed — and attempted to continue attending the events as if nothing had happened. It was then that I was approached by my boss. He, in a very negative tone, asked where I had been. For a moment, I wanted to tell him that I had been there the whole time; but, I didn't, I told him I had gone to visit a local friend. I acted as though I was unaware I had to attend the sessions that I had missed. I simply told him that I understood them to be optional as they did not directly relate to my role within the company. Although still very angry, he decided to let it slide temporarily.

So, what does all of this have to do with the blog's post?

These types of activities eventually led to my being let go earlier this year. It was "technically" for tardiness, but I knew the real reason. It was made very clear by my boss that he would not tolerate the kind of slacking off that I had continually been found guilty of. To paraphrase this blog's title, I will NOT let this happen again at any job for any reason. It is over. Playtime has ended indefinitely.

Can't Let it Happen Again (Part 1 of 2)

I take pride in my job; I absolutely love what I do. I work in the IT (information technology) field as a web site developer. I have several years of experience and earn very good money for my age.

I currently work for a company where I have been employed since March 2007. I bring in over double what I made at my previous job, but that is just a stroke of pure luck. Allow me to explain why.

In June 2005, I interviewed and subsequently was hired for a very lucrative technical position with a local financial institution. This was, without doubt, my first REAL job. I was making as much money as those twice my age, had a full benefits package and great co-workers. There was nothing at all that I could complain about. For those of you who have been reading my blog, this is the job in which I had been provided the fateful rental car (read more).

Things were going so well that soon after being hired, I was already being set up for a week-long training class located in San Diego, California. I had never been to San Diego — much less California — and was very much looking forward to the trip. When the week prior to the trip arrived, I began to panic a bit. Why?

I realized that due to the duration of the trip, I would have to somehow make arrangements to have an ample supply of drugs to avoid going into withdrawal. It did not take long to conclude that I would not be able to purchase enough before heading off. This was due to poor planning and overall financial instability. So, I bought what I could and hoped like hell I could figure something out while I was there.

I packed all of my supplies in various spots in my baggage. One pill inside a sock, another inside a deep pocket in my jeans and so on and so forth (I acquired Oxycontin for this trip). Not being a regular flying traveler, I did not know the exact protocol for baggage checks. More specifically: I made a connecting flight to the ATL Atlanta airport before being flown to my final destination at the SAN San Diego airport. I — being naive — assumed that upon arriving in Atlanta that the luggage would arrive in the claim area and I would then cart it off to where I was boarding the San Diego flight. Boy, was I an idiot. After waiting for what seemed like hours, I finally asked a lady where all of the luggage was. After explaining my story to her, she then explained to me that it was likely already on its way to San Diego and would waiting for me when I arrived.

This immediately struck fear in every nerve in my body. I had not taken any type of opioid that morning and was rapidly entering into withdrawal. Profuse sweating, abdominal pain, goose flesh, hot and cold sweats and puking were soon to follow. I give my Atlanta connect a call out of pure panic. I told him where I was and asked him if there was any way he could help me in my situation. He correctly refused knowing that the place was full of law enforcement types.

I make it to the boarding area for my San Diego flight. It was then that the captain informed all of the passengers on board that it would be over five hours before we would arrive to our destination. Hearing this only further increased my discomfort. Minutes went by as if they were hours; seconds as minutes; mere moments seemed to go by in slow motion. I was in some kind of alternate reality. Further making matters worse was my lack of prescription Xanax (alprazolam). I had been prescribed said medication for panic disorder for over a year at this point on a dosage of 3mg per day, split into 1mg every eight hours. I was literally one millimeter from implosion!

I was sitting in the middle seat in a three-seat row. It had to be very apparent to my two row-mates that something was very, very wrong with me. Each time a snack or meal was offered, I declined knowing that it would only be thrown up or out of me in mere minutes. Paranoia set in about mid-way through the flight. I kept envisioning that everyone was thinking or looking at me in disgust; knowing that I was a junkie and secretly laughing inside.

Then, it hit me. What if — especially since this was post 9/11 — the TSA had located my stash? What if there were police waiting for me to arrive in San Diego? At this point, I had to get up. I darted toward the bathroom only to find it locked and in-use. After it had been freed up, I quickly got in and shut the door behind me. I was a total mess. I had sweat dripping down my forehead, my intestines felt like they were about to explode and I was having a panic attack. I began to feel as though I was about to die; my heart was beating a million beats a minute; I had feelings of losing touch with reality, losing control. I was experiencing full-on derealization.

I don't know how long I was in the restroom, but I remember several knocks; many accompanied by a voice either asking if I was fine or blunt requests for me to get out. I didn't care. I just pushed up against the door to prevent anyone from entering.

Upon getting out, it felt as though everyone was looking at me, and to an extent, many probably were. I know I couldn't have looked too well.

Eventually, we made it. I was never more elated than at the precise moment that we made contact with the ground.

I do not remember much between getting off the plane and arriving to the luggage pick-up carousel. Once again, I was frightened out of my mind at the thought of somehow being jailed for the possession of the drugs in my bag. It didn't help that the main security office was right behind my particular plane's baggage retrieval area.

After looking down at my watch at least one-hundred times, the machine began spinning and, slowly by surely, bags began to make their way to the upper platform. I watched, in horror, as others were locating their luggage and walking away. There were a handful of people left before the machine stopped. I instantly thought about jumping ship at this point. I had no question in my mind that I had been found out. As soon as I made this assertion, the machine started again. I then saw my bag. I ran toward it and grabbed it. Sure enough, it was someone else's. What was going on here?

A few minutes later, my bag exited. It was the last bag. I was later told that this had occurred because of the mix-up in Atlanta; when I had asked about the bag at the other Airport, they took it out of queue momentarily. It ended up being flown out on a different plane than everyone else's, thus explaining the delay.

I grabbed it and immediately went to an area to sit down. I unzipped the bag — my heart pounding and my hands shaking — and began to look for what I had hidden earlier. I was quickly greeted with a slip of paper notifying me that my bag had been randomly selected for searching purposes. My heart skipped a beat. I continue searching... digging deeper and deeper into the abyss. I finally locate one, then another and another; they were all there!

Arrangements had been made to have a shuttle take me to my hotel. I walk outside to where the Airport transportation existed. I looked around for what was to be my shuttle. It wasn't there. This had taken a lot longer than I'd realized. I queried one individual who appeared to be directing a lot of people to their designated shuttle buses. He pointed me to a van; I thanked him and walked to it. The driver spoke only but a few words of English. I showed him the flyer for the shuttle service and he indicated that he was the right guy. I was in too much pain to question it. Once I got to my hotel, he asked for US$55.00. I told him that that could not be so because my company had paid for it in advance. He then told me that I was not in the right shuttle, so basically I'd been taken for a ride (quite literally). I paid up, not caring, as I'd finally arrived at the hotel. I had everything I needed and was only moments away from getting well!

Well, of course, life doesn't work out like that. There was a long line at the service desk and everyone seemed to be in an overtly-chatty mood. This only further irritated me. I finally am at the front of the line and everything went through smoothly. This was a nice contrast to what I had experienced earlier in the day. I grabbed my key card, got into the elevator and ran to my room. I was finally there! (To Be Continued...)

A Small Serving of my Insanity

I am currently at work, where I have been since 7.30AM — an entire half-hour before anyone else arrives at 8.00AM. Why, you may ask?

I currently do not have a vehicle and am at the mercy of others to drive me places when it is most convenient for them. I am blessed to have people in my life that are willing to provide such means; I know several people in a similar situation that do not have this same luxury. So, where's the car?

Approximately a month ago, I totaled my vehicle. I hit a guard rail head on. I was on my way to day three of three at a DUI school. Needless to say, I did not make it to class and, subsequently, this forfeited my first two days. I would be required to attend class at another point in time; the entire three days. To make matters worse, I had just received a letter from the Department of Safety notifying me that my license had been revoked. This stems from a June 2006 arrest in which I was found to be driving under the influence. I was in a rental car my previous employer paid for; a car that I had chosen not to additionally insured through the rental agency. This occurred on my drive back home from a work-related convention at approximately 7.45PM EDT. Actually, scratch that. I promised I would be completely honest in this blog and I intend to stand by my words. I wasn't going home — at least not yet. As I was driving, it occurred to me that it would be a great idea to drive to Atlanta to pick up some more Heroin, as I had run out that morning. So, after changing directions, I get off at an exit just past the border of Georgia. It was there that I drove into a gas station parking lot in an attempt to make use of a nearby pay phone. Normally I would use my cellular phone for this but I had recently lost coverage due to non-payment. My plan was to call my then connect to make advance arrangements for a deal. This would give him approximately an hour-and-a-half to be ready. I did not make it to the pay phone, much less Atlanta.

En route to the phone I collide into a parked car; actually, two of them. I seemed to think I could maneuver between two cars parked at opposing gas pumps. I was wrong. Flat out wrong. I side-swiped both vehicles.

I jump out to assess the situation and to ensure that no one is injured. The police are called to make a formal accident report. I had no idea what was about to happen next.

At the time of the accident, I thought that I was completely coherent and able to operate a motor vehicle. I was wrong. I now realize that my ever-increasing tolerance had fooled me into thinking all was well. While I may not have had severe mental impairment, I was about to learn how physically impaired I was.

An officer arrives. Instantly, I begin to feel uneasy around him. He gave off that air of arrogance that so many officers do. He asked for permission to search my vehicle. I complied, knowing that there wasn't anything incriminating in it. During this time another police officer arrives. He immediately sized me up as driving under the influence. He had me go through a series of field-sobriety tests. He did not officially inform me of my competency, but the hand cuffs secured the deal. I then knew that I would be spending (at least) a night in jail.

Since I had not been drinking (something I do not partake in), they were unable to assess my impairment by way of a breathalyzer. Instead a blood test was performed. The results only further confirmed their suspicions: I had opiates (Heroin) in my system.

That night, I sat in a jail cell unable to sleep. I was preoccupied with the impending withdrawal syndrome, not to mention the fearful questions running through my mind. What if my employer found out about the car accident? What if they knew I was detained?

I made a collect phone call to my mother at approximately 11.00AM the next morning. Beginning to tear up, I told her what had happened and all of the circumstances surrounding it. Due to my being arrested twice before she, at first, told me that there was nothing she could do. As it turns out, she did post my bond. In a later conversation, I was told this was done not because she loved or felt sorry for me, but because I had wrecked a rental car — now impounded — that was to be turned back in the following day. To this day she will continually remind me that my chances are up. That if I am ever incarcerated again — for whatever reason — she will not be my savior.

As I was exiting the jail, all I could think about was Heroin. I was in the early stages of withdrawal and with each passing moment I became more and more uncomfortable. I get a ride to where the rental car had been towed to and briefly consider my choices. I did the right thing and headed home. This was likely the only time — up to that moment — that I had ever turned my back to Heroin.

After hiring an attorney for my pending court case, I made the choice to request a continuance. This happened two or three times before I had the nerve to face my punishment.

I arrive at the courthouse and locate my attorney. He gave me a list of options ranging from two days in jail to fines, community service and more.

I got lucky and made out without having to serve additional jail time, yet I did have a $2,500 fine in addition to 40 hours of community service and one year of probation.

This was back in April 2007. It has now been around six months. I have completed my community service and just completed the requisite DUI school (taking a total of five days to complete a three day course).

Regarding the car: it was a 2004 Honda Civic Si. For the type of impact, the car held together amazingly well. I sustained only bruised lungs. I am so very thankful for the second chance I was granted. Someone was — indeed — watching down on me that day.

In a strange way, the wreck worked in my favor. It was a leased vehicle that was approximately 11,000 miles over the limit with over six months until the end of the contract. The car also contained two major spots of body damage that had been estimated to cost nearly $2,000 to fix each. One spot was my fault, totally. I was extremely high and nodded off at the wheel. Moments later, I awoke to a loud crashing noise; it turns out that I hit a barrier while on the freeway. Luckily this did not involve any other vehicles or (UGH!) construction workers. The other spot was a hit and run while I was parked. I received very little money for both instances, but it didn't matter any way. I spent the entire insurance amount on Heroin. So, to wrap up, I got out of a $9,700 liability; insurance paid off Honda Financial which relieved me of having to make arrangements to purchase it myself. I guess it could have been turned in, but who wants to pay for the astronomical damage estimates and the extra mileage?

Now I wait in fear of what my nearing court date may bring. I will keep you posted.

The Scope of this Blog

It occurred to me that I all but defined the reasoning behind this endeavor. Simply put, it was an ingenious idea that I'm unable to take credit for; instead, it was a friend of mine who had the inkling. He — after having watched my recovery resemble more of a party — concluded that I had a rather obvious Achilles' heel: the most problematic issue surrounding my addiction was having to admit to others that I had failed. This was then, and as painful as it was, I still managed to relapse quite frequently. The idea here is to introduce a much higher dose of negative feedback. Instead of admitting to a few choice individuals, I will now literally be admitting my failures to all ends of the world. It may be a breeze at first, but I have some fairly persistent friends that will ensure that this site is advertised in just about any way possible. Consequently, my audience of four — which felt large at the time — will increase exponentially. The internet is an amazing thing.

Now you may be thinking that I will simply gloss over periods of relapse to avoid the embarrassment. THIS SIMPLY IS NOT TRUE. I am one of the most honest people that most know (or so I've been told) and good news or not, only the entire truth will be parsed through this forum. It has been resolved that this will become a major facet of my life; that I will spend many hours per week working on this. I believe that in doing so, I will be able to improve my life and finally tell the monkey on my back goodbye.

So, where am I at right now? Read on to the next post to find out.

My Brain... Derailed.

I'm often asked what got me here. It is, by far, the most common question. As such, it may prove to be the most difficult question to answer.

Heroin is a member of a class of drugs called opiates. Like members of this class are morphine, codeine, thebaine, papaverine and noscapine. You may be familiar with morphine and codeine. These are the only two chemicals extracted from the opium poppy with any appreciable analgesic (pain-reducing) effect alone. This is not to say that the other chemicals are to be scrapped; thebaine is the pre-cursor to better known pain medications such as Hydrocodone (Vicodin) and Oxycodone (Percocet, Oxycontin). Hydrocodone and Oxycodone are considered to be fully-synthetic opioids (not opiates). An opioid includes all natural, synthetic, and semi-synthetic pain relievers. Opiates, on the other hand, refer only to the natural chemicals extracted from the poppy; again, this includes morphine and codeine. Heroin is not an opiate, even; it is a semi-synthetic formulation. When in the human body, Heroin is quickly converted back into its pre-cursor morphine. Subsequently, in urinalysis screening, there is no possible way for one to know if someone took morphine or Heroin. Codeine, another chemical from the poppy, also exits the body as morphine. This (a process in which Heroin goes through, too) is due to first-past metabolism. This is simply a process in which the liver converts the substance back into its originating chemical: morphine.

A frequently unknown fact: a drug test that tests for Opiates will only result in a positive if morphine, codeine or Heroin has been ingested. Semi-synthetics like Hydrocodone and Oxycodone are not synthesized into morphine (partially incorrect: these and other opioids break down into codeine and then result in morphine, however in trace amounts), and therefore require a specialized test to detect its presence. This information applies to NIDA-5 (5-panel) drug tests that only seek appreciable metabolites of Opiates (morphine), Marijuana, PCP, Methamphetamine/amphetamine/MDMA (methylenedioxymethamphetamine) and cocaine. Other tests exist, however, that do test for the metabolites of (semi-)synthetic opioids; but, again, these are normally only used if such use is suspected.

My Story: I was nineteen; a virgin to any intoxicant (alcohol, marijuana or otherwise). I had made a new acquaintance who revealed that he had tried ecstasy for the first time the prior weekend. Naturally, I was left wondering what it would be like. His stories sounded very intriguing. About two weeks later, I further inquire about his experience. It sounded too good to be true.

A few weeks later, I decided I would try it. It began at a local sit-down restaurant, where we split and shared a single pill. This led to no appreciable effects. This set the stage for yet another attempt.

A few weeks more and I had an entire pill to myself. My friends and I were on our way to a local club. We had all already dosed.

The next part is a bit hard to put into words. As we were driving up to the club, we hit a set of rail-road tracks at a pretty high rate of speed. This, in turn, causes me to rise out of my seat; had I known better, I would've realized that this is when it all began. On my way back down from the bounce, I realize that I am feeling different. Dare I say WONDERFUL? I recognize this as the come on. This realization is followed by my saying "Holy Fuck!" an unknown amount of times. This quickly followed by the statement that should've ended it all: "I now understand why people are drug addicts!" Laughter erupted from my friends in the car. Looking back, it should have been a reaction of horror.

I am going to stay on the topic of Heroin, but I felt it necessary to outline my first drug experience. How much of an impact it had on me, and so forth. My "understanding" of drug addiction will be a continue to come up from this point forward. I am positive that this early acceptance is what inevitably kept me using for such a long period of time.

A Brief History of Heroin

I am a Heroin addict. I have been for the majority of the last six years.

Heroin is an acetylated form of morphine. Its common chemical name is diacetylmorphine. In most countries, it is classified as one of the most dangerous substances known and holds no medicinal value. In the United States, it was placed in Schedule I standing of the Controlled Substances Act of 1970. It shares this designation with other substances such as LSD and MDMA (Ecstasy). Because Herion is essentially a stronger version of morphine, much of Europe uses it as a potent pain reliever in terminal patients. It is approximately twice as potent, by weight, than its morphine counterpart. However, due to it's altered chemical structure, it is approximately eight times stronger than Morphine when administered intravenously. This fact, coupled with it's more rapid crossing of the blood-brain-barrier (BBB), makes it a drug that is much preferred to addicts.

In 1874, C.R. Alder Wright, an English chemist working at St. Mary's Hospital Medical School in London unknowingly synthesized the first known batch of Heroin. He did so by boiling anhydrous morphine alkaloid with acetic anhydride over a stove for several hours. This produced the more powerful, acetylated form of morphine, now commonly known as diacetylmorphine. Wright's discovery did not lead to any further developments; at least not immediately.

It was independently re-synthesized twenty-three years later by another chemist, Felix Hoffman. Hoffman, who worked for Bayer Pharmaceutical at the time, was instructed by his supervisor to acetylate morphine with the objective of creating codeine, a natural derivative of the opium poppy which was similar to morphine but less potent and addictive. But, instead of producing codeine, the experiment produced diacetylmorphine which is twice as potent than morphine itself. A tidbit that one likely will find interesting is what happened next. Bayer would go on to name the substance Heroin, likely from the German word heroisch, because in field studies test subjects reported feeling heroic.

From 1898 until 1910, Heroin was marketed as a non-addictive substitute for morphine and as a cough suppressant for children. This was before it was realized that Heroin was simply a quicker acting form of Morphine; this was proven when it was discovered that the liver simply metabolized Heroin into morphine. This would go down as a historical blunder for Bayer.

During the prior decade, Heroin was available over-the-counter and there were no restrictions on the sale or distribution.

In 1914, the Harrison Narcotics Tax Act was passed and effectively controlled the sale and distribution of Heroin. The implication was that Heroin was to be dispensed as a prescription-only medication. As such, recreational Heroin users were still able to visit their physician and be legally supplied with Heroin. Heroin was still available until 1924. It was in 1924 that the government passed additional legislation banning the sale, manufacture or importation of Heroin into the United States.