Yesterday I saw someone with bruises on their arm, I’ve had bruises on my arms, lots of them. I spent a whole summer not wearing short sleeve shirts because of the marks.
The marks I saw were undoubtedly from having blood taken, but to me they looked like evidence of injecting drugs. They were nasty bruises, and around two veins, I could see one of the puncture marks very clearly, I struggled to imagine a nurse would be so clumsy. Seeing them stirred two different trains of thought for me, one of desire the other of guilt.
I’ll deal with the desire first, it was a craving nothing more and nothing less. I wanted to feel a needle piercing my skin, I wanted to experience that incredible rush. It made me think of sex, the hundreds of hours I’ve spent having sex and masturbating whilst high on meth, mcat, ketamine and GHB, all in varying combinations. Fuck I wanted it again so much, my mind told me that maybe this person does use, maybe if I mentioned it then I could get some stuff and once again feel like I did before.
But then came the guilt, that emotion that eats you up. I reminded myself of the way I used to hide needles around the house, the times I turned up to work late, or not at all, days on end with no sleep, the times I’d go out and not go home when I was supposed to. I remembered the debt that I’m in because of the thousands I’d spent on drugs, hundreds of pounds every month injected into my arm.
Why can’t I use drugs recreationally?, why can’t I just enjoy getting wasted once in a while, enjoying it and then getting on with normal life until having a session months later ? As much as I wish I could I don’t think I’m able to do that, something in my brain becomes obsessive about stuff, and that includes drugs, when I start I just can’t stop.
I need to protect myself from myself, I am my own worst enemy.