Although I was a wise-ass, hard to deal with teenager and an irresponsible young adult, I wasn’t a loser. I was just hard to live with or have in your life. But as soon as OxyContin took hold of my every thought and my every move, I became a guy who was unloveable. I was the devil. An asshole, a loser, a scumbag, a villain, a monster. I was a junkie.
Day in and day out I chased that euphoric feeling Oxy’s once provided. I became a criminal overnight. If I was sick, I would think how I could scam you, rob you, and hurt you, just so I wouldn’t feel sick anymore. And looking back, I can say I knew what I was doing most of the time; I was responsible for my own actions because I was technically aware of what I was doing and my motives behind it. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about you. I didn’t care about my family. I didn’t care about my friends. I didn’t care about the store owner or the person who left there pocketbook in there unlocked car. I didn’t even care about myself. In fact, all I cared about was the drug dealer and what he had because what he had was the only thing that mattered to me. Towards the end, even the dealer I didn’t care about. I would set them up for a sale only to rob them at knife point as soon as we met up.
But I hated myself. I wanted to die. I’d sometimes wake up in the middle of the night because my body needed more OxyContin in order to feel stable again and I can not recall all those times I stared at the powder I was about to put up my nostril and ask out loud why I had to wake up for another day. I didn’t want to live. I wasn’t suicidle in the sense of attempting to kill myself but I would wish I would never wake up again. I would wish that my heart would just stop or that somebody else would put me out of my misery. I don’t know if it was lack of balls or stupidity that prevented me from ending my life but I could never do it on my own. I wanted it to just happen, suddenly, in a way I wouldn’t have seen coming. But it wasn’t just my years of depression or my actual repetitive mornings of being dope sick that caused me to feel this way. It was mainly because I could not stop hurting my mother.
As I’ve said, I’m a mamas boy. She wasn’t my best friend in the sense that we always hung out. In fact, she wanted nothing to do with me. But she was the closest person in my entire life and through everything I was doing illegal or not, evil or not, she never abandoned or disowned me. She didn’t agree with my decisions or my lifestyle but she tried her hardest to look out for me, her eldest of three boys, her first born, her baby.
Other then being a full blown addict, I was also a master manipulator. And my mother was victim number one. I went to her everyday, called her, texted her, and would first ask and later demand money from her. Sometimes I would just show up at her work (a school mind you) and other times I would be waiting for her to return to her house. I learned later that she avoided coming home for hours at a time just because she didn’t want to deal with me and my is sickenly lying ways. Almost every time I’d get money from her; resulting in either her or myself crying. The end of these ordeals were always the same though; I would get my fix and come off “E” and she would be broke. I held her prisoner of her own life. I held her hostage to where she could not be available to anyone else in the family except to me because if she didn’t continue enabling me then I’d threaten to rob a store like I already had at this point or I’d tell her I’d rob some poor stranger on the street which I had never done and thankfully never did.
i couldn’t help these thoughts or these actions. A part of me knew it was wrong but the part of me that didn’t care easily talked the other part away from doing the right thing. I hated myself so much that I no longer felt remorse for myself or others. I lived to get high and prayed I would die. That was my conscious every single day during my using. I was numb to feelings that normal people feel. At one point, I recall, I convinced myself that the greatest gift I could ever give my mother was me dying. And I did just that: died. Three times during my drug use that called for administering Narcan or/and difibulators. Flatlined. Out. But still, I’d wind up waking out of it in a hospital, angry and mean because of how sick I felt, and I’d go about blaming the whole God-damn world for my problems and never once take ownership that I am causing myself and everyone else who shared my last name this misery and suffering. To this day I believe that as horrible as I felt being the addict, my mother felt 100 times worse. She found me overdosed before. She always saw me in my worst condition, beard growth and an odor from not showering. Still, she pretended nothing was wrong and tried carrying normal conversations with me. I was mostly unresponsive; looking only for a quick handout and some groceries.
OxyContin as I knew it was pulled from the shelves in every pharmacy across the country and replaced instead with a newer time release pill which upon breaking up into a fine powder would instead turn into a gooy gel-like clump that was unsnortable. I played around with 30mg Percocet afterwards but eventually turned my will, or lack there of, to heroin. The high wasn’t as consistent as the synthetic opiate that Oxy’s were but none-the-less it did the trick. Bruises and pock marks, dead purple veins replaced my once thick and scarless arms. Others noticed but I was usually oblivious to the way I now looked. There was still a tiny light that shined in me that I must have mistakened as a life in which nothing was wrong because I hadn’t had enough of this horrific lifestyle yet and I was just becoming progressively worse.
January 13,2011 I had enough. Sadly, my end did not come because of an apifoney or realization that my life was unmanageable or out of control. It’s sick to admitt but I would have continued using and getting high, although I woke up that day in a Beverly hospital because the hotel I was getting high in found me dead and sprawled across the bathroom floor. I didn’t stop because I was tired or didn’t want to use any longer. The reason was simple: I stopped because when the hospital contacted my mother to inform her I had overdosed and was found dead, she asked them to relay a message to me after the phone call. She asked the doctor to tell me to never try contacting her again. She wanted nothing to do with me, a statement she has never said to anyone, especially me. My best friend who’s life I made into a living hell had finally cut me clear out of her life.
I informed the nurse I wanted help and she found me a detox, which I then went to a holding until a bed was available at a halfway house. Finally, this vicious run I’ve been on for over a decade was over, and now the real work must begin.