addicts never feel quite right in their own bodies. They struggle with feeling like two people. They feel feelings very deeply. They care a lot about what others think of them. They’re codependent. The drugs are a SYMPTOM of the disease of addiction, and for a while, help become a temporary escape from the disease. The drugs are NEVER the cause. It doesn’t work like that.
See, the talk always seems to be about you. The focus is always on you. How are you doing? How are you feeling? Well, I have myself to ask how I am doing, how I’m feeling.
I see now that our flaws and damages should not be ignored or desensitized but harnessed and embraced — that all of our quirks and qualities have a part to play in the greater scheme of our lives and should never be silenced or drowned out.
Addiction is a disease, a cold-hearted monster who ruins lives and families and beautiful people every single day and literally gives zero fucks.
They say that love is enough to conquer anything but heroin has proven to our family that love is most certainly not enough.
Junkies Die Alone is a collection of transgressive narrative poetry that explores, in naked, unflinching detail, the day to day struggles of life as a drug addict.
Even though the future may look bleak, eventually you will get back to being happy.
For the most part, tweak dealers are like the President of the Hair Club For Men: not just the President, but also a client. It’s not a group of people who follow the adage “don’t get high on your own supply.”
The first time I met Heroin, she was smeared with static, spiraling down the coast in electrical signals, crowding my ear with a dull silence that I struggled to fill.
Kerouac abused Benzedrine, which was the 1950s answer to Adderall and he allegedly bashed out On The Road in a three-week bender with the aid of Margaritas.