fuck. i can't sleep. i feel like shit. the worst part is, i can't quite place why i feel like shit. i'm just unbelievably uncomfortable in a really unspecific way. i'm also sweating alternating with chills. right now i'm wearing fleece pajamas, a bathrobe, a winter hat and a scarf, because a few minutes ago i was shivering. now i'm sweating again. i really really want to sleep. i even tried chugging two glasses of wine, which was really disgusting. we've found that that will make you sleep no matter how many uppers you've taken. but i guess it doesn't work for heroin withdrawal. i'm so uncomfortable i can't read or watch tv or anything. i spent the whole day sitting around trying not to think about how i felt. after my parents came home i talked to them to distract myself, and that was better. god, i'm so hot now.

anyway, i was lying in bed thinking of these scenes:

scene one:
the day i found out i had to go home. i'm lying on c's bed petting the cats telling him about my horrible day. he's cooking it up in the kitchen. he says, "do you want a stiff drink or a weak drink?" i say, "i want a lot. i have to call my parents." i love his cats so much. i miss them. and i miss him and donna a lot too.

scene two:
this one was about a week ago. we always shoot up by the stove. he goes first, always. his veins pop out because he's a boy. i need to wrap a belt around my arm. i always lay my arm on the stove to keep it steady; then i look at the wall. it only hurts a little when he sticks the needle in. proper procedure is: pull back on the syringe to make sure you hit the vein. you'll see blood. but sometimes even if you see blood it doesn't work. this time, he starts pushing the heroin in and i scream "OW!!" he stops. i turn and look at my arm and let go of the belt. he pulls the needle out. a bead of dark red appears on my skin. "fuck!" it hurts like hell when the heroin doesn't go in the vein, even though it's only a tiny bit, less than a millimeter on the syringe. "fuck."

i wrap the belt around the other arm and put it on the stove. look away. i feel the needle go in. i wait. "OW!!!! fuck!!" i let the belt go. red bead. i start crying. for some reason, being on dope makes me cry much more easily. tears on my cheeks, blood dripping down both arms. i stomp on the floor. "fuck." now both of the best veins are fucked up.

it's time to try the veins that never work, in my forearm. i tie the belt below my elbow and pump my hand and we poke around trying to find a vein that's big enough. they never work, though, it's just idle hope. arm on stove, look away, "OW!!", red bead. i'm sobbing. i just want the fucking dope to be in my fucking arm. he thinks i'm mad at him. he has a bad temper.
"see the position this puts me in? you need to learn to do it yourself. you know, if something happened to you, in a court of law, i would be implicated, because i'm enabling you."
"this is never going to be in a court of law. i'm not mad at you, it just hurts like hell. what do you want to do?"

i'm desperate and my arms are bloody. he wants to try one of the good veins again. they're both red and swelling from the heroin under my skin, but we try anyway. tie the belt, arm on stove, look away. the needle goes in. i wait. no pain. i hear the sound of the last drop going out of the syringe. i let go of the belt and look. another red bead. i sigh, "thank you." i walk in the bathroom to get toilet paper.

it always hits me while i'm wiping my arm off. i stand and lean on the radiator and close my eyes. when it's really strong i can feel it all the way down my legs, this heavy immersion. i walk into the living room and lie down with the cats.

but this time, i can't stop crying. heroin sometimes makes me cry uncontrollably. everything seems so fucked up. i shouldn't be crying with blood running down my arms, that just doesn't seem right. my arms hurt, the spots where he missed the vein are swelling. i cry until he comes in and apologizes. he says, "we really have to quit." but then he goes and cooks some more up for himself. he likes to be really fucked up. i don't. he likes it so strong that he just lies there with his eyes closed and doesn't talk, even when i poke him and yell "are you alive? helloooooo!!! how do i know you're not dead??" but i see his chest move so i know he's breathing.

scene three:
on the phone with gabe. he thinks i have a drug problem. he thinks i've done something bad. i don't understand "bad." i don't believe in drug problems. i don't have any lines. i don't understand that when i tell people, they think i'm bad. oh well. i'll keep telling them anyway. if they think it's bad then they don't fit in my worldview. donna doesn't think i'm stupid. she says, "you should be allowed to try something. you should be allowed to tell someone about it" (meaning the reed people). that sounds like it makes sense.

scene four?
my parents are extremely matter of fact. "how do you feel?" "do you feel sick?" "do you have cravings?" i tell them how i feel. my mom thinks i should find out if any vitamins would help. she gives me a back rub. i can't believe how calm they are, like this is completely normal. our daughter flew here from portland to go through heroin withdrawal. this happens every day.