Memoirs Aren't Fairytales: A Story of Addiction

by Mann, Marni

  The weather was punishing me, but I didn't know what for. I was a good person and didn't deserve to detox like this. In rehab, they had medicine to help with all these symptoms—that was what Sunshine had told me anyway. We didn't even have Tylenol and neither did Claire. Why hadn't Eric picked Florida or California instead of Boston?

  It was like both my legs had been cut off, and I was left without a wheelchair. I had money too. I'd made sixty bucks the night before the storm, and I couldn't even use it to buy heroin. Richard didn't deliver bags of dope, only pounds, and there was no way for him to get to us anyway.

  I took a sip of orange juice, and as soon as I swallowed, I gagged. The juice came out of my mouth and nose at the same time. I made it in the bucket, but it still got all over me. Claire helped me change again and put my hair in a ponytail. She buried her nose under her shirt and sat by my feet. The smell was getting to be too much for me too.

  “Bucket, bucket,” Sunshine yelled and Claire brought it over to her.

  The sound of her puking made my stomach churn, and I barfed all over the floor.

  Specks of morning light came through our blinds. I remembered when Eric and I had gone to Que's and tried heroin for the first time. The light from Que's blinds had sparkled when I was high. That first hit from his pipe had tasted so good.

  I just wanted a taste. I crawled off the couch to the middle of the room, sweeping my hand over all the trash. I found an empty bag, opened it, and licked the inside. I searched for more and ripped the tops off, wiping the packets over my tongue like they were postage stamps. I licked spoons and bottle caps caked with resin, biting off the clumps of tar like it was taffy. But none of it got me high. All it did was change the taste on my tongue from orange juice and bile.

  Night came, and the snow continued to fall. Sunshine said we'd be dope sick for around seventy-two hours. Thirty had passed. We weren't even halfway through it.

  Claire brought us food and more juice. We ate and drank, and barfed it all up. She updated us on the blizzard. It wasn't going to stop snowing until tomorrow night. By then, I'd still be detoxing and probably too sick to go to Richard's.

  When I closed my eyes, I saw heroin. Mounds of brownish powder, buckets full of wax paper packets, piles of clean rigs. I wasn't sleeping. It was more like a daydream where my brain was teasing me. I couldn't sleep. Every bone ached, every muscle cramped, and when I moved, I puked.

  Sunshine cried. She said how much she hated heroin and then listed all the reasons why. It made her sick when she didn't have any, it took away her children, it got her beat up, raped, and put her in the hospital.

  How did dope get her beaten and raped? She was held up at gunpoint, but that wasn't the smack's fault.

  “So he raped you too, huh?” I asked.

  She didn't answer.

  “I know how it feels,” I said. But I didn't say any more. The words just weren't there, and my throat burned when I spoke.

  “I ain't got it in me no more, I'm quitting junk,” she said. “I'm too old for this shit. I'm getting a real job and moving away from here.”

  I didn't want to feel like this ever again. I wanted to go back to having fun. Fun like when Eric and I had gone to the Cape for Jimmy's bash and when we tripped on shrooms at the club. And like the fun I'd had before moving to Boston. In high school and college, I'd hang out with my friends and go to parties and have the best time.

  But besides Claire and Sunshine, and Heather, Richard's squatter, I didn't have any other friends. All I cared about was money and dope. I stole and whored out my body just to buy smack, and then I'd shoot up and have to whore it out again. There was nothing fun about being a junkie.

  If I went to rehab tomorrow night after the storm, I wouldn't have to detox and could start right in with the meetings. But did I really need rehab and meetings? Rehab was for people like Sunshine who'd used for years and couldn't stop. I could stop as soon as all this dope was out of me. And I was going to stop. When the roads cleared, I wasn't going to Richard's. I was going to apply for jobs around town and save enough money for an apartment. Maybe I'd have Claire move in with me. And I'd smoke pot. Yes, I'd go back to only smoking pot.

  I heard the trucks outside. I could hear them over the TV, their metal plows scraping against the pavement. Sunshine shouted one swear after another. I didn't know if they were happy shouts or shouts of pain. I didn't bother to ask. I buried my head under a pillow and tried to fall asleep.

  “It stopped snowing,” Claire said.

  Her words woke me. Claire's voice was like my mom's on Christmas morning when she came into my room and said, “Santa came.”

  The gnawing in my stomach, the aching in my bones, the pounding in my head were all still there. But I had energy. Enough energy to get to Richard's.

  “Where are you going?” Sunshine asked from the bed.

  “Richard's,” I said, sliding on my jeans and sneakers.

  Claire didn't say anything. She didn't have to, the disappointment was on her face. I had told her that morning I was going to stop using, get a job, and find an apartment to rent. I had asked her if she'd move in with me, and she said yes, as long as I was sober.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'd stop. One little shot wasn't going to change my plans. I was already somewhat detoxed and a couple bags of dope wouldn't set me back.

  “I'm coming with you,” Sunshine said.

  We finished getting dressed and moved to the door. Claire was leaning on it, holding the knob like she wasn't going to let me through.

  I stood in front of her and put my hands on her shoulders. “It will be my last time,” I said. “One final goodbye.”

  I meant it. I'd get closure and I'd stop after this shot.

  “You can't go,” Claire said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because this won't be your last time. Can't you see how addicted you are?”

  “Claire, I promise. Now please move,” I said.

  “No.”

  “If you don't let go of the door, I'm going to hurt you, and I don't want to do that.”

  “Then hurt me,” she said.

  My hands dropped from her shoulders and clenched into fists. I punched the door on both sides of her face, and pressed my nose against hers. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

  “Look what it's done to you,” she shouted back.

  I felt the skin on my knuckles burst open and blood seep down my wrists.

  “You're just like my Henry,” she said.

  I took her hand and yanked it off the knob, pushing her away from the door. She stumbled back and tripped over a pile of Sunshine's clothes. When she landed on the floor, she let out a cry. I wanted to help her up, but I wanted heroin more.

  I walked through the door, and Sunshine followed me. We took the train to Richard's, and outside the station she puked. She was leaning against a wall, taking deep breaths and still retching. I told her to wait for me at the corner, and I went in and bought eight bags for us to share.

  I rushed back to meet her. “Can you make it to McDonald's?” I asked.

  She nodded and held her stomach as we walked to McDonald's and locked ourselves in the handicapped stall. I dumped four bags on each spoon and cooked it all up. The metal needle sparkled under the florescent light. The skin on my arm looked purple from all the track marks.

  The rush wasn't like when I had first smoked dope with Eric and Que. It was better. My back slid down the wall of the stall. My feet and hands went numb. My eyes closed, and before me was a magical land made of nothing but heroin and paraphernalia. The grass was needles, the plants were poppies, and the waterfall was cooked-up H. Willy Wonka was giving Sunshine and me a tour of his factory. And as we walked around, he let us sample the goods.

  I'd only gone two days without smack. Sunshine had said after you detox, the high was always stronger than when you shot up every day. Damn. She was so right.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sunshine and I left the McDonald's bathroom, turned som
e tricks, and I went back to Richard's to re-up again. The next day wasn't any different, more tricks and more heroin. I'd broken the promise I'd made to Claire, and I went to her room to apologize—not for lying, but for pushing her away from the door. She told me she'd seen the devil in my eyes, and she never wanted to see that side of me again. I gave her my word. But if she ever stood in my way, I didn't know if I could keep that promise. Heroin was stronger than me.

  I had convinced myself I could stop using, like dope was something simple like chocolate. But heroin was my air. It had a hold of me like we were chained together. And those shackles weren't just around my wrists, they were tied around my brain too. Once that powder was injected, I forgot about the puking, diarrhea, sweats, chills, and all the fun I used to have before dope, like none of it had ever happened. At the end of the high, all I could think about was getting my next fix.

  The rush and the nod weren't the only things I was addicted to. It was scoring the dope and riding home on the train, knowing those bags were in my purse. It was dumping the powder onto the spoon and watching it turn to liquid. It was taking the orange cap off the rig and filling it. It was seeing the flash—my blood creeping into the chamber—and emptying the chamber into my vein. I'd fallen in love with the steady rhythm of working, buying, and shooting.

  But shooting dope wasn't as easy as it used to be. The veins in my left arm were tapped out because I'd stuck them too many times. I had switched to my right and those were toasted too. Finding a vein was like a game of hide-and-go-seek. I'd poke anything that looked green or popped up when I used a tourniquet. My body was scarred with needle marks, and when I missed the vein, my muscles ached.

  I lost track of time. My days all started and ended the same. Weeks blended together, and I didn't know if it was June or July. I shot up first thing in the morning, before I peed or brushed my teeth. I went to Richard's to score and split the dope with Sunshine. I panhandled and shot up. I boosted and then shot up. I shot up and hit the streets. I sucked dick and screwed, and shot up in between Johns. I shot up and went to bed.

  When I had my period, I couldn't hook and was short on cash. I'd wake up sick and hug the toilet, and make all these promises to myself. Tomorrow would be the day when I'd change my life, I thought, in between heaving and shaking. I'd get a job and an apartment with Claire, and I'd stop using. Tomorrow came, but my plans didn't.

  As time passed, though, there were slight changes. The weather got warmer and then cooled off when the leaves turned from green to bright oranges and reds. Three bags wouldn't get me straight, so I had to shoot four. And five if I wanted to get high. I stopped looking my tricks in the eyes. I used to like seeing all the different shades of blue and hazel. But I'd seen so many eyes, the colors started to repeat.

  By the middle of the winter, my body began to change. I stopped getting my period. Sunshine hadn't gotten her period in years and said it was a combination of junk and being too thin. I was the skinniest I'd ever been, and everything I ate, I threw up. Food wasn't staying down, even when I was high. I put condoms on all my Johns and my stomach was flat, so I knew I wasn't pregnant. Actually, my stomach caved inward, and my ribs stuck out. Just as I was getting ready to buy a pregnancy test, I felt blood in my underwear. My period was light and lasted only two days.

  And then my molar got infected. The gums around my tooth swelled and turned dark red. I used Claire's floss and mouthwash, but it didn't help. I called a dentist and the secretary told me the minimum charge to come in was eighty-five dollars. Without insurance, tooth extractions or cavity fillings would set me back a couple hundred at least.

  I couldn't eat on that side of my mouth, and when I slept, even the pillow hurt my cheek. I went downstairs to Frankie's office and asked for a pair of pliers.

  “What do you need them for?” he asked. He didn't even look up from his computer.

  “My tooth, I have to get it out.”

  He stood from his chair and told me to sit, and open my mouth.

  “Yup, that sucker needs to pulled all right,” he said. “You don't got the strength to yank out a big molar like that, let me do it.”

  He opened his desk drawer and took out a pair of pliers and a bottle of gin. He cleaned the pliers with the flame of his lighter and told me to drink.

  “This isn't gonna feel good, you ready?”

  My head was already leaned back against the chair and my mouth was open. He splashed more gin over the tooth and then gripped the pliers around it. I held onto the armrest and closed my eyes. The metal tasted awful and the pressure was shooting pain into my head.

  “One,” he said. “Two,” and then he pulled.

  Tears filled my eyes and my nose ran. But the pain was gone once the tooth was out.

  He told me to keep my mouth clean and rinse it real good or the hole wouldn't heal. I bought a bottle of mouthwash and after each blowjob, I gargled and spit.

  One morning, I woke up to Claire singing “Happy Birthday.”

  She had opened all our windows. The sun was bright, and the birds sitting on our window ledge were chirping and tapping the glass with their beaks. For months, we had quiet mornings, and now those damn flying pests were back from their winter vacation.

  Mid-song, I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

  “Do you want some Rolaids?” Claire asked from the bathroom doorway. “They might help settle your tummy.”

  I shook my head and heaved up another mouthful.

  “Come by my room when you feel better,” she said and closed the bathroom door.

  I stuck my head under the faucet and let the water run into my mouth. I lifted my head to spit and froze when I saw my reflection in the mirror.

  I grabbed some toilet paper and scrubbed the mirror, but it didn't help.

  If it weren't for my blue eyes, the scar under my chin, and my nose, I wouldn't have recognized myself. My skin had turned gray, and there were brown smudges under my eyes from yesterday's markers. Boils, scabs, whiteheads, and blackheads covered my face. My teeth were yellow, and my gums were caked with plaque. Sections of my hair were dreaded. My lips were dry and cracked. I was twenty-four today. Damn, I looked worse than the morning after I was raped.

  “I need the can,” Sunshine said, knocking on the bathroom door. She didn't wait for me to answer. She walked in and sat on the toilet. Since the storm last year, we'd given up on privacy.

  Was the mirror lying? I couldn't really look this bad.

  I touched my face, running my fingers over my cheeks and across my forehead.

  “It's the junk,” Sunshine said. “It ruins your skin.”

  I turned towards her. Her front teeth were missing, and her cheeks were scarred with pockmarks.

  She wiped herself and flushed the toilet. “Slam some dope, you'll feel pretty again.”

  I sat on the couch, cooked up five bags, and couldn't find a vein. I poked my ankles and thighs, and eventually found one on my left boob. The rush was warm and tingly.

  The room wasn't as messy as usual. The trash on the floor was organized into piles, and all the wax-paper packets of heroin were scattered on top like sprinkles on a sundae. Sunshine was on the bed. Her eyes were so deep and rich, they looked like blueberries bursting with juice. I traced the track marks on my arm with the back of my finger, drawing hearts and diamonds, and squares. I spotted a pattern on my other arm. It was the Big Dipper, and I found the little one too.

  Claire cooked my favorite for dinner, lasagna with meat sauce. After we ate, she surprised me with a homemade cake, chocolate on chocolate, decorated with purple flowers. She also made me a card. She wrote how much she loved me and thought of me as a daughter. At the bottom of the card, she wrote, “God willing, my final breath will be taken before yours.”

  The card dropped from my hands and swished in the air before it hit the floor.

  Claire got up from her chair, kneeled in front of me, and wiped the tears from my eyes. “I didn't mean to upset you,” she said and pulled me into her a
rms.

  I buried my face in her neck. “I don't ever want to lose you.”

  “Honey, I'm seventy-nine years old.”

  Both sets of my grandparents had died in their early seventies. But she seemed healthy, and I'd never seen her sick or take any medicine.

  During one of my nods, I had dreamt that Claire and my mom were in the delivery room and I was giving birth to a baby girl. Would Claire live to see that happen? If I kept using, probably not.

  Sunshine and I hit the streets once it turned dark. At midnight, I told her I needed to use the bathroom and left her on the corner. I went into an alley and sat on the ground next to a box of rotten bananas. I opened my cell phone and placed it on my lap. I knew the screen would show two new voicemails. And it did.

  When I lived at home, mom would make my birthday an all-day celebration. She'd decorate my room with balloons and serve me breakfast in bed. For lunch, she'd take me out of school, and we'd eat burgers and sundaes at Friendly's. And after dinner, more cake and ice cream, the whole family played Monopoly until they carried me up to bed.

  The phone felt heavy in my hand and hot against my ear. I heard a beep, and the message began to play.

  “Happy Birthday, baby girl,” Mom said. “I love and miss you so much.” She started to cry. “I decorated your room this morning with purple balloons.”

  “It's been two years since we've seen you, and we think of you every day,” Dad said.

  I could picture them, mom at the kitchen table, twirling the phone cord between her fingers. Dad on his recliner in the family room with the cordless phone. When one finished talking, they'd nod and the other would take over.

  “Cole,” Dad said. His voice turned shaky. “You're killing us.”

  “Steve, don't, it's her birthday,” Mom said.

  “All right, fine. Happy birthday, pumpkin,” Dad said.

  Mom sniffled. “Please come back to us,” she said, and they hung up.