As I’m sitting here typing this, my mind and body is in the beginnings of opiate withdrawal; a sniffly nose and agonised legs are the only physical symptoms thus far. I know I have a lot more to go. I’m craving, physically and mentally, and I have the edgy energy driving me to go score, if only there was something in this town to get. This ‘detox’ is not voluntary. In fact, in the city I live, opiate addicts are breathing a tortured sigh of pain simultaneously. There is just nothing here to get right now. Heroin isn’t a huge market here, at least not recently, so junkies rely on supplies of morphine, oxycodone, to get through - too much effort to go to Brisbane to get on, too unfortunate to be blessed with a compassionate doctor… we can only wait until those who do have such a doctor pick up their next supply, throwing it to the junkie crowd, all clawing their way to the middle to get the most. It’s a sad existence, but it’s one that I participate in so much of my time.

It’s my pay day Tuesday. I should be using that money to find somewhere to live, to buy food, to pay back the money I owe to so many people, unwittingly supporting my habit, or at least just turning a blind eye to the fact. I think they know they won’t be getting their money, at least anytime soon. It doesn’t matter what good intentions I start out with on the day, my junky habits muscle their way to the front. Tuesday will be the beginning of trying to score enough opioids to last me the next two weeks until next pay - many phonecalls and hours spent, trips to Brisbane. It’s insanity, I know the trouble it’s going to lead to, but I’m compelled to do it, over and over again. ‘Such is the nature of addiction‘, I tell myself and anyone who questions my behaviours, my motivations.

Excuses…

I’ve realised I spend more time trying to reason this with myself, rather than others. I don’t care if others think/know/see how much of a junky I am. Sometimes I don’t care how much of that I know is true. Other times though, I hate myself. This wasn’t the way I was supposed to turn out. I was never meant to be homeless, over and over again, diagnosed crazy in my middle adolescence, having to leave school as a result, becoming a drug addict, and then continuing on this path of self hatred and destruction. Perhaps that’s why I do it. All that doesn’t matter though, when I start doing crazy headmiles, thinking how I’m supposed to be half way through medical school by now, well on my way to a successful career as a specialist surgeon… the thing that eats at me the most is the fact that even if I cleaned up now for good, I’d still never get to become a doctor; not because of any lack of intelligence. Just the simple (yet limitlessly complex) reason that I have a drug history. Those two words change so much.

Anyway, I started to ramble there. I have to sign off now, this isn’t my computer and my friend wants it back. I shall return though - I feel this is the perfect outlet for me to get out my thoughts via a combination of mediums - writing, and computers.

Namaste