Status Report: 03 October 2007

I made it through another day sans using; that's right, I have been sober for four days now. While this may seem a minuscule milestone to most, I for one could not be any more ecstatic. A single step closer to my goal is not to be frowned upon. A time when finding it impossible to attain but only ONE day of sobriety remains fresh in mind.

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 It took no longer than five minutes to receive a phone call asking if my card had been stolen or if I really had withdrawn the money.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.

Status Report: 01-02 October 2007

I can happily say that I have maintained sobriety over the course of the last few days. The slip up over the weekend has only further ignited my desire to succeed in defeating my demons.

It has come to my attention that I need to reach out for additional support. I have already decided to and planned on making regular visits to NA. Does anyone else have any other suggestions? I'm willing to consider anything. Counseling, psychotherapy, you name it.

Here's to day three of sobriety (as of Tuesday).

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...)

Status Report: 29-30 September 2007

I didn't abandon the blog, guys; instead, I have been spending an inordinate amount of time figuring out how I should break the latest news to everyone.

For those who haven't yet figured it out, I relapsed on Saturday.

I blame no one but myself. I am clearly not prepared enough to keep making these attempts at sobriety. I have been doing this exact same thing for the last few years. It is evident that I — although I'd like to think otherwise — am unable to do this using my current strategy.

My approach thus far has been to avoid old people (such as those that I would use with or dealers) and places (areas in which I got high in the past or areas where I would meet up with dealers to obtain what I needed). Then, this last go around, I set up this blog hoping that this too would be another deterrent — and it has been to an extent. Obviously — as demonstrated by this last relapse and countless others — this is not enough for me.

Reading through the comments that many of you have provided (THANKS GUYS!), it has become apparent that I need to re-establish some type of support group routine. Furthermore, I need to find a sponsor whom I could contact in times of need. Recently, this seems to be happening all too frequently. Each dramatic event has me scurrying away to find relief. Most times I am able to (internally) talk myself down, but others the emotional pain is just too much for me. These are the times when I seem to go into auto-pilot and make that phone call. It has become so routine that it is comparable to ordering take-out.

"Yo man."
"What's up? What do you need?"

On a lot of days, as few as ten minutes later, I can have it in hand ready to go. Many people think that because I do not have a car that I can no longer get drugs. That's funny. I still seem to be getting them. I wish THEY were right. I wish it were impossible to get drugs without a vehicle. But, as with most 'businesses', they exist solely to appease to the customer. Home delivery is not uncommon. In fact, it isn't even a problem most times. They'd just as soon drive to you to keep you one of their customers (read: addicted). It simply is too easy sometimes. In many ways these operations are no different than any other business, aside from their legality.

Ironically, in many areas, Heroin is sold in branded baggies. They will market and sell different bags stamped with logos indicating the different brands. This creates the same brand-loyalty that you will find with common products such as soda, fast food and vehicles. Word spreads fast throughout the streets. On one day, one bag may be equivalent to buying a BMW in terms of quality. This sets buyers up for the inevitable bait-and-switch that is much too common. Dealers will sell a particularly high-quality product for a set time. Once this brand has gained street credibility it is replaced with a lower quality product. This is a common tactic that increases the profits of the sellers in two ways; first, it sells the low-quality product which invariably leads the buyer to having to then purchase a second bag to compensate for the diminished quality. These types of activities indicate above-average intelligence in reference to the seller. Imagine if these people had channeled their energy into something more productive.

I did not use on Sunday, despite an extreme spike in my craving. I resisted temptation and made it through the day.

I plan to soon attend a 12-step meeting soon, though. There, I will seek out a sponsor; someone demonstrative of a strong willingness to help, a long duration of sobriety time and someone who I feel I could easily relate to. It is evident that I need to strengthen my support system as it simply is not working as is.

Status Report: 28 September 2007

Today was strange.

My day started off on the right foot with the completion of a project at work. This is a project I'd literally been preparing myself for for weeks. Once completed, tested and verified complete, I had a bit of an inner celebration.

After work, however, things changed drastically. I called up one of my friends to hitch a ride to the post office. I had something that I needed to mail next-day. USPS informed me that the best they could do was Monday. Unacceptable. This was after waiting in line for over thirty minutes while one cashier rang up the seemingly endless line of patrons.

I figured I would give UPS a try next. I enter the store hopeful but am once again shot down. Get this, though: USPS wanted US$4.xx for a Monday delivery; UPS wanted over US$20.00 for the same service! I walked out extremely irritated.

On the way back home I barely muttered a word. My friend noticed this and inquired as to what was wrong. I answered with a rude response.

It was then that I fell into one of the darkest moods I've ever experienced. I was borderline-suicidal. I told my friend (who I had been planning to get an apartment/condo/house with in the very near future) that I just didn't care anymore. I then began having suicidal ideation after ideation. It was pure hell. It makes me question whether I am bi-polar or not; it came and went like a car passing you in the oncoming lane. Ironically, during this entire episode, I did not crave the use or misuse (?) of Heroin.

I, fortunately, am now back to what I consider to be baseline. It is nearing the end of the day and I am readying myself for bed; it appears that I made it through another day without using! Go me!