A Junkie's Journal

Eleven

edited (11.3.16)
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God, he had missed this. The lines were bigger than the pen casing he used to snort the powder with. The powder was yellow; the pills he'd crushed were benzodiazepines, also known as fast-acting anti-anxiety medication. Tristan knew that snorting benzos wouldn't make them work as well, but he needed something to snort and they were the only pills he had.
After he snorted the lines, he fell back in his bed and let out a sigh of relief. Tristan finally had his way of dealing with reality again. He started laughing for no particular reason; he laughed so hard that he teared up and his sides hurt. He felt good.
Tristan didn't remember much from that night. He had always had problems with remembering things, especially while he was fucked up. Maybe he only remembered the things that he could live with. What would be the point of remembering something terrible and having a burden for as long as one would live?
A few days later, Tristan had been able to sleeve a Focalin pill, which was an ADHD medication. His grandmother hadn't been watching him swallow his pills as closely as she used to. His mind was talking gibberish because he was so excited about sleeving a pill. He could get high again, and maybe start sleeving pills now. Tristan didn't know if that was a good or bad thing; to many people, it might seem bad, but to him, it was good. It was the only thing that provided true happiness and it prevented him from harming himself. Why didn't anyone else understand that part of it? Sure, he was harming himself in a different way, but for right now, it wasn't detrimental to his health. At the moment, snorting pills was the only thing keeping him alive.
At the beginning, Tristan had limited himself. He kept telling himself, "Just one line. Just one, so you won't get addicted." One turned to two, two turned to three, three turned to four. Tristan still remembered the first time he made lines and crushed his pills; he was staying at his aunt's house "babysitting" his younger cousin while she was at work. Back then, his parents didn't care about leaving his pill bottles around, because they knew Tristan wouldn't abuse them. So, Tristan stole one of the extended-release Focalin pills from the bottle and snuck into his cousin's toy room. He crushed the powder with a makeup brush in the lid of the pill bottle, and poured the powder on top of a plastic set of drawers. He snorted the lines with a rolled up post-it note. That time was Tristan's happiest memory; he would feel guilty if he had to share it with anyone, because most people's happiest memories are ones made with friends or family.
Tristan hated telling the story of how he got caught the first time with the powder and a shit ton of Ambien in small baggies, because it was embarrassing. If someone took Ambien, a sleeping medication, and fought off the tired feeling, it would make them loopy, and they would have memory loss in the morning; they wouldn't know what the hell they did the night before. Tristan got caught because he had taken an Ambien earlier in the day, so he was out of it. Apparently, while Skyping a friend, he took a few more Ambiens. When he went to leave his room, the doorknob came off in his hand. He murmured the word "mom" over and over until his mother came up the stairs. Tristan's dad had to kick open his door because no one could open it. As soon as they got the door open, there was water spilled everywhere and all of his baggies were on his floor. He mumbled, "Why's this?" and showed his mother the doorknob. His father asked the question before his mother did: "What did you take? What are you on?" Tristan told them that he had taken Ambien. Shortly after this happened, Tristan went to sleep.
The next morning, he remembered bits and pieces of the night before, but he was hoping that it was just his imagination. Tristan was extra cautious when it came to drugs, and he couldn't believe that that was how he got caught. To him, it was, without a doubt, the dumbest thing in the world.
The second time he got caught, Tristan's grandmother had walked into his room while he was crushing a pill. He ran into her arms and sobbed, begging her to let him snort it this last time. He told her he wouldn't do it anymore if he could do it this last time. She threw the powder out his window, and Tristan screamed and made a hole in his wall.
It was an endless cycle. Tristan was more careful than ever with his drugs nowadays, but he knew that he would get caught again, and again, and again.
The memories were thought about by Tristan too frequently to be healthy. What if he hadn't taken Ambien that night? What if he had waited to crush that pill that his grandmother caught him crushing? What if he was never caught? Would his addiction have gotten worse, or would he still be crushing pills any chance he got?
He made a line out of the Focalin powder with a post-it note on his laptop, careful to not spill the powder over the edge or get it in the keys. He used a pen casing to snort the line, enjoying every second of it.
Tristan loved everything about crushing and snorting pills. He enjoyed crushing the beads from the extended-release capsules and the instant-release tablets. He was fond of making lines on his laptop or a different surface. He took pleasure in staring at the line as he railed it. He adored the slight burning of his nostrils. He savored the drip down his throat. Having this powder made him feel powerful, like he was on top of the world and no one could bring him down. He felt the happiest he had felt in years while he was going through the process: crush, line, rail. Crush, line, rail. Crush, line, rail. Would this ever end?