How I Got Hooked on Opiates
And How I Quit...
TRIGGER WARNING
2024 wasn’t an easy year for me. It started with crippling back pain, severely swollen legs and the diagnosis of a spinal tumor. I was 32 years old and felt as if I was on the precipice of death itself. To make matters worse, I was in a tumultuous pseudo-relationship or “situationship” with a girl who could have been named faucet for how fucking hot and cold she was.
After the diagnosis of the tumor, I was quickly rushed into surgery. Upon waking up, I was introduced to the wonderful world of opiates. I was temporarily paralyzed and the doctors were nice enough to pump me full of morphine, the only problem was, I eventually had to go home and I was becoming a fiend who wanted more. Luckily for me, I was prescribed Oxycontin, and regularly popped those like they were going out of style. I was in my bad back-having hillbilly heroin era, and honestly despite the deplorable conditions I was in, I almost didn’t give a fuck. I was popping pills and getting pussy, things were okay. Kind of. Not really, but kind of. You know how it is. The glass half full perspective is more achievable while inebriated no matter how fucking dire things actually are.
This relative bliss in a sea of backpain and copay ambiguities came to an abrupt end as the demons at Kaiser made the correct move and rejected my refill request for Oxycontin. I was annoyed, but I understood I had to go back to a life unguided by the opiate angels. I always had the option of taking my chances copping on the street. Unfortunately for me, there was enough fentanyl in street drugs to kill an elephant. Despite being the size of an elephant, I decided not to chance it.
However, maybe Kaiser should consider weening people off of addictive narcotics that they pump patients full of for two or more months instead of just ripping the rug from under them, but what do I know? I am not a medical professional, just a victim of their professional incompetence.
After the doctors circumcised my drug supply, I consulted with Rabbi Google about opiate alternatives and quickly stumbled upon Kratom. It’s basically a pseudo-opiate you can buy at gas stations, as well as smoke shops where friendly Arab dudes with perfect beards call you “boss.”
“I’m here to buy 500 tablets of Krave.”
“Sounds good, boss!”
I’d then take like 50 fucking tablets at a time. I’m not kidding, I was swallowing Kratom to the point of nearly throwing up. In the event I did throw up, I kept my mouth closed and swallowed it. I was living in hell. But then the kratom kicked in and that familiar opiate glow came over me. If you’ve taken heroin or any type of opiate, you likely know what I am referring to. If you’re a bitch and your life is going too well to turn to substance abuse to deal with your problems, I have a question for you: What is it like to be a pussy? Just kidding. I wish I was you.
I really do.
After months of swallowing way too much Krave, I decided I needed to get high more efficiently, so I reached out to an old friend who is kind of a female pharmacopeia, and she did not disappoint. She turned me to on to high quality kratom — 60 pills suddenly became 6, and I was back on cloud nine-eleven because I was basically flying a plane into my life, but I hadn’t stumbled onto that realization yet because I an idiot who just happens to know how to write, so people mischaracterize me as smart. Wrongo bongo, bucko. I’m a fuckin’ savant. Don’t expect anything from me ever. I literally fucking hate myself.
After months of swallowing these high quality pills, they started to lose their kick, and I began playing with the idea of heroin. That’s right! Old Abe was considering taking BART to the Tenderloin and finding a friend in the drug business. Which, admittedly, was a horrible idea, but was an idea I acted on anyway.
I approached a friendly fellow by the name of “Gooch.” Gooch wasn’t his real name, I honestly don’t know his name, but if you follow Cities by Diana, you’ll catch the reference, if not, you should go watch her videos because they are pretty funny. Anyway, Gooch sold me heroin. I asked him pointblank.
“It this fentanyl? I don’t fucking want fentanyl.”
He started laughing and assured me that what he was selling me heroin. And it was heroin. I tested it. Gotta test your drugs, kids, and you gotta love Gooch. Honest man. Well, as honest as a Tenderloin heroin dealer can be I suppose.
After acquiring said heroin, I walked the 3 blocks back to the Civic Center BART station, and I sat there not far from an unhoused fellow who was clearly in crisis and having a conversation with himself, which caused me to have a conversation with myself about my little crisis.
It went a little something like this:
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the voice in my head loudly said.
“A lot of things, now shut the fuck up,” I replied.
As I got back to my apartment in Oakland, I sat on my bed and stared at the heroin in my hand, and for the first time in a long time I made the right decision and flushed it down the toilet. I had realized I had reached a point in my life where I had to make a decision, and smoking that heroin was a decision I would undoubtedly regret.
However, my drug journey wasn’t complete. I was still taking the high quality Kratom tablets, and I needed to stop. My wake up call came in the form of a severe panic attack. I called an ambulance, by the time they arrived, the panic attack had passed. The paramedics were my age and we talked to each other like we were friends. One of the paramedics genuinely complimented my tattoo, which made me feel better, and I decided I didn’t need to take on $3,000 in debt for a loud cab with the ability to run red lights and a bed in it. I needed to quit doing fucking drugs.
So I did. As of originally writing this, back in like fucking January. I was five days clean, and I was depressed as fuck. I’m talking full on weepy. I’m talking taking bathroom breaks at work to cry without people knowing. I talking vomiting food for no reason. I’m talking restless leg syndrome in bed, but it’s not just your legs — it’s your entire fucking body.
But it passed.
When you see people hunched over on street corners in America’s cities, try to be empathetic. If this experience gave me anything positive, it’s a better perspective of the hell that the addicted are dealing with. And if you’ve never experienced it or the various circumstances that lead to it, don’t be so quick to condemn. One fuck up, and your worst fears can become your reality. I am the child of an addict, and while I wanted addicts to legitimately get help, I also had contempt for them because of old trauma.
That contempt is gone. I didn’t know what the fuck they were dealing with.
Recently I tried shrooms to reset my brain. I’m not sure if it worked, but I do feel like it helped me. I had fun for the first time in a long time. In the meantime, I recite the lyrics to “Delete Forever” by Grimes and hope for better days.
"Lying so awake, things I can't escape
Lately, I just turn 'em into demons
Flowing to the sun, fucking heroin
Lately I just turn 'em into reasons and excuses
Always down when I'm not up
Guess it's just my rotten luck
To fill my time with permanent blue
But I can't see above it
Guess I fucking love it
But, oh, I didn't mean to”
I really didn’t mean to.
💖it’s your old roomie, Ashley. I deleted IG and most of my social media except Substack. But I’m following you here now. And I’m wishing you well
you do write well. and you were able to make and implement a critical existential decision in order to protect yourself, while also widening your range of compassion to others. whenever you can, i hope you will be able to grasp onto these merits and propel yourself out of the self hatred you describe. there are strong reasons for you to appreciate yourself.
best of lucks!