Today I find myself thinking of that last time I used. I was in prison (yet again) and my cell mate had just smoked one of the smallest bags of heroin know to man. Although I watched longingly, he didn't seem to want to share. He did however (in a fit of wild generosity) give me the tube he used to smoke it when he had finished.
I carefully unrolled this tiny gift and put a flame under it ready to inhale. Then in a flash of burnt nasal hair and prison butter, it was over. Like most of my using, it was piss poor at best.
The man who gave me that tube walked this road of recovery for a little while, but sadly so far he has never stayed. I see him now and again and when I do I think of that cell in Camp Hill, and I think of the importance of sticking around should he ever decide to join us for good.
Today I'm nine years clean and sober. I know what I owe, and I know who I owe it to.
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