...please don't turn your good intentions my way, misguided sympathy I can do without! I don't feel sorry for myself, I damn well don't expect anyone else to. If you are stupid enough to extend a sympathetic hand, don't be surprised if I lop it off and sell it for dope, **** your pity and the horse it rode in on bitch!
I refuse to be that person, the one who pens a pretty tale of coercion, addiction, destruction and eventual redemption.I'll leave that to all the whiny ****s who get off on waxing about how high were their highs and how low their lows. Pfffft! Enough whiny ****s, I won't add myself to their number.
I am reminded of the song by Sinead O'Connor that says
He won't ask for your pity or your sympathy
But surely you should care...
SINEAD O'CONNOR: SCORN NOT HIS SIMPLICITY
In Oklahoma, Noah says he wants methadone (why?!) Methadone is more addictive than heroin (simple fact: if you don't believe me, phone a detox centre claiming to be on heroin and methadone and see if they don't tell you to stop the methadone before you come in (not the heroin ~ the methadone! What does that tell you? Which is worse? And how did this farcical situation ever arise?))
If you don't want heroin OR methadone, here is a lullaby to lull you to sleep.
I don't know WHY she called it "rebel song" ~ it is a traditional Irish ballad!
Talking of whiny ****s moaning about high highs and low lows and redemption, she just put her finga on why I couldn't write a misery memoir. It's not like I didn't have the material. For one thing there was no redemption, so I thought that might make a good surprise ending I AM STILL ON IT TODAY! Other thing was, I had a thing about changing names to protect the guilty. How much was my own story, how much theirs? In the end, I decided the TRUTH could be far better told fictionally, where you have full range to say anything you like about anyone. Because they are not real. If I actually finished this, if it was actually any good. If it actually came out and I actually got cash, I would put myself through rehabilitation. But not some summer camp for the broken. I mean quick anaesthetic detox and away to Timbuktu type rehab. I would rather sit on an African beach crying alone than talk this crap out "in group".
When junkies get clean and the mutual interest of the sheen of drugs is dulled, they are incredibly boring people to be with. Addiction bends unique individuals the same same way. That is one reason rehab is so intolerable. The talk talk talk. All the same. And the untruths about "chasing some first-time high"... that they probably heard on television and didn't think about long enough to see it's NOT TRUE. Are you chasing breast feeding or the bottle every time you eat a meal? Heroin (but not so much crack/cocaine or speed ~ which I don't bother with now) is like food. It is taken to feel OK, maybe better than OK, but not much. There is so much hypocrisy and bullensheisse around drug addiction. Someone someday should tell the truth as it actually is. Until then, hope lies with the dealer, not the government (certainly not with the self, who lets us down time after time) ~ at least for most of us, in most situations.
Until then: heroin ~ TILL DEATH DO US PART.
Move him into the sun -
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds, -
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved, - still warm, - too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
Wilfred Owen 1893-1918