JUNKIEDILEMMA

2007-10-27T02:43:57Z

I swear, one of these days he is going to catch on. I can’t believe he hasn’t yet. I barely blinked the entire time we talked. He must know something is up, I was all over the damn map.

2 Whole days. I did good for 2 days. And shit, the first piece of bad news I get, I have to get high. This is so stupid. I can’t believe I am this much of an addict. Have I really gotten to the point where I can’t stop anymore? I hate feeling like this. This antsy, guilt ridden, nausea. Ugh. Why the hell do I even get high? I got to hop in the shower, again. I am drenched. This is such a waste of time. Like I have nothing else to do. I am supposed to be looking for a job, trying to pay some bills. Gross, I am sweating. I hate sweat. I’ll never quit, let’s face it. I’ll be 65 and doing tweek. God what a thought.

That’s great. Now I am so frustrated that I got high, I am not even able to enjoy my freaking high. That’s just super. Will that damn phone never stop ringing!

“WHAT!? No, I am fine. I just had a little too much coffee and now I am all jittery. You know what I mean? Yeah, I am just going to take some aspirin. I’ll call you back.” Fool. Coffee my ass.

Oh damn, I got therapy today! Only you Sven, only you. Only you can shoot up, get pissed off and still make it to therapy all in one afternoon. There has to be something wrong when you can do a ½ gram and still actually function. I should just take a small break, bring my tolerance down. Make it fun, remember?

Okay, almost done. Get dressed; put some concealer on my arms. Not too bad for a junkie. Scars are almost gone. Only took 5 months. A rusty nail never knew it could do so much damage. NOT.

If they ever find out, I’ll have no friends left. Hell, I’d walk out on myself if I could.

Okay, where is the pipe? One hit and I am out the door.

Too high to cry

2007-10-27T02:41:16Z

Until the age of 6, when we moved out of the city I was born in, I had the most horrifying recurring nightmare. It was always the same one: this man hiding inside our home, who wanted to kill me. The dreams were so vivid and so real that at times I would wake up and be afraid to open my eyes, knowing he was standing right next to my bed. I could feel his breath, sense his body heat and I would pretend to still be asleep. Praying he would go away. There were times I would sit in the back of the car and look back to our living room window and see him standing there, staring right at me.

When we moved, the nightmare stopped and he never found me again.

Three weeks ago, the nightmares started again.

This time, nobody is trying to kill me. This time, there is no man hiding in my home nor am I being chased by the boogey man. This time, I land in a place where nobody knows me. I am still in Los Angeles but there is nobody left who knows me or with whom I have any kind of history with. I am as much a stranger to them as they are to me. And all my memories, all my history is contained just within me; without anyone to validate it or even collaborate with. I walk by an apartment building, remembering how I once visited a friend who lived there. When I go up to the lobby, his name is not on the directory. Nobody has even heard of him and I just stand there. Crying, scared, alone.

I start running down the street, trying to find something, somebody who can validate that I even exist. To prove that I am here, as a person, with a life and a past. Something. Anything. Somebody. Anybody.

With my heart racing, it feels like I am choking as I continue to run……

And then I wake up.

As much as I want to go home and visit my mother, I still haven’t booked my ticket. I talk about it with my mom; about how great it will be to come home and visit. I still haven’t booked my ticket.

Because I am afraid to go home and visit.

Because my mother will be 61 years old this year. My father was 55 when he died.

Because I found out 3 weeks ago that somebody I knew died and I was reminded how precious life truly is.

Because I am afraid that this visit back home might be my last visit back home.

Because I am afraid of what will happen when I become an orphan.

Because I am afraid of who I will be when I lose my roots; my history.

Because I am afraid of nobody knowing who I really am.

When I wake up, there are tears rolling down my face and I stare at the ceiling. Reminding myself, convincing myself, that it was just a bad dream.

My eyes closing again, I let myself get lost in the emptiness of my bed.

Once, I used to be too high to cry…..

My name is Sven.

My Name Is Sven

JUNKIEDILEMMA

Too high to cry