Wednesday, 2 March 2011

The overwhelming smell of oxtail soup

I well remember the last time I used. I sat in a prison cell in Camp Hill and watched my cell mate spread butter over his kit kat wrapper (to help the gear run better they say) and drop the smallest bag of heroin know to man on the foil. Three of four lines latter and he was finished, yep it really was that small. Then in what can only be described as a fit of pure kindness and generosity, he gave me the tube to smoke.

What followed kind of summed up just about all of my using. I unfolded the tube and tried as hard as I could to spot a trace of the drug I craved. I hovered above the foil and put a flame under it, then in a flash of  butter and burning nasal hair it was all over. That was on the 3/3/03, eight years ago tomorrow and I haven't used since.

I have absolutely no desire to go back to the life I lived then, it really was shit for so very many reasons, but I can forget that from time to time, I can forget the truth. The overwhelming smell of oxtail soup as I cooked up yet another snide bag of gear, all those half pints of back wash I would fling down my neck just to get a drink into me, the pot that had been soaked in and or pushed up God knows what on its way to my sticky paws. I was never much good at it yet I tried for so many years.

So as I trudge towards the eight year mark I think it's important for me to remember, important for me to make sure I never get to the point where I delude myself that my using was good, fun or even slightly enjoyable. It wasn't, it was a disaster from day one and it's a sure certain fact it would be a disaster if I ever did it again, thank God I don't have to.