I had recently acquired a taste for heroin thanks to the influence of my husband. My addiction to it took hold faster and more intensely then anything I had ever experienced. Maintaining my husband's addiction was already killing us financially and it quickly became apparent it was impossible to support both our habits buying in town. It would be far more cost effective to drive to the city than to keep paying in town prices.
Luckily, or not depending on your perspective, my husband knew a guy in town that was willing to introduce him to his Chicago connection as long as we agreed to bring him along and get him high. His guy operated twenty four hours a day everyday and lived in a suburb right off the interstate. Not quite as cheap as the ghettoes but definitely cheap enough to justify the cost of gas to get there.
The connection was a low-level dealer, higher on the totem pole then a street corner peddler but not high enough or important enough to draw attention from the local drug task force. He had been born and raised in the ghetto but moved to the suburb fifteen years ago when he was in his earely twenties. The violence in his old neighborhood had gotten out of control and he wanted a quieter safer location with fresh clientele.
He purchased from the gang he'd been affiliated with since his childhood and kept a very low profile. In the twenty years he'd been selling there he had attracted no attention from the police and had never been arrested. It didn't take my husband long to cut out his buddy and start buying directly from his connection. From then on my husband ran back and forth with his best friend since childhood.
I don't know why but I was stoked when it was time to take my first trip. Initially my husband wouldn't let me come with and went with his bestfriend instead. He said his reasoning for leaving me behind was to keep me safe but really I think it was more about not wanting me to know how much he was actually spending.
He'd been making the drive for a little over three months before he finally let me go with them. I was only using a little bit here and there at this time no where near as much or as often as my husband. His buddy would drive us there and I would drive us home so they could get really high and not worry about the road.
I was so excited! Now I would finally be a part of his circle instead of hovering on the edge among the shadows. Of course I would only be an observer and lookout of course. My husband had already lectured me relentlessly to be seen and not heard. I was to keep my mouth shut and my eyes and ears open. To be straight my nerves were wound up tight as kite strings and my stomach full of butterflies. Anything could happen and, if it did, chances were it was going to be bad.
I pushed all the very scary, very real scenarios out of my mind deciding instead to enjoy the drive and the company. The three of us quickly gassed up the van and bought pops and cigarettes for the drive. My husband had his kit securely hidden away under the driver's seat ready to be put into use as soon as the dope was on hand. I was only snorting still. I would not know the horrors of the needle until much farther down the road.
It was a beautiful day. The early spring sun was deliciously warm after all the ice and snow of winter. A cool breeze stirred the newly budding tree leaves creating a much welcome earthy smell. All the world outside our van windows glowed under the sun and appeared full of innocence and promise. It felt surreal in a way to be doing such a dirty deed when everything around me looked so clean and beautiful.
For some strange reason it made me smile inside that nothing of my outward appearance indicated I was becoming addicted to heroin. Still to this day I can't understand why I wasn't disgusted with myself. Why did I feel secretly pleased with my deceit? Why was I laughing inside instead of hanging my head in shame? Anyone outside my inner most circle would have been shocked beyond reason if they found out I was using heroin. I think i felt guilty for not feeling guilty if that makes any sense.
Being able to block out our internal voice of reason in order to ignore any feelings of guilt and remorse or fear of possible consequences is part of the addiction lexicon. Thoughts and feelings that what we are doing is wrong are quickly banished. Being an addict is like having a split personality. The addicted part of ourselves bullies the side of us that knows what we are doing is bad and beats it into submission to get what it wants. We addicts rely on this invaluable tool to ward off the devil known as regret.
With each passing mile I left more and more of myself behind. The physical distance from home allowed me to abandon my conscience and forget I had responsibilities. My mind became care free as I sang along with the radio and daydreamed about the size of the line I would break out. We were more then half way to Chicago by now and I was starting to feel antsy.
My husband and his friend were shooters and both were feeling the pains of withdraw. My husband's friend was behind the wheel, his desperate need to eleviate his suffering had us traveling close to ninety miles per hour. A thin sheen of sweat had broken out across his forhead and he shifted periodically in his seat, evidence he was growing increasingly uncomfortable. My husband dozed fitfully in the passenger seat, a low moan escaping every now and then. He too was bathed in sweat. His ability to sleep when feeling sick from withdraw would soon become his most irritating quality.
Signs of civilization slowly began to replace the fallow corn and soy bean fields as we got closer to the city. Big box stores flanked by cookie cutter housing additions unfolded first as we neared the closest suburb. My husband, his inner demon sensing we were getting close to our exit, cracked his eyes open and straightened in his seat. I felt the van slow down and heard the ticking of the turn signal as we veered onto the exit ramp. Strip malls and derelict abandoned houses leaned against liquor stores that in turn propped up cash advance shops with barred windows. As we left the suburb's outskirts the scenery gradually improved which helped my mood remain buoyant. I refused to entertain the shadows of doubt that popped up once again at the far edges of my conscience.
My husband was now fully awake and desperate to relieve his suffering. He and his friend were bickering back and forth about where to go to get high after the pick up. It was about a twenty minute drive from the off ramp to the dealer's house but that twenty minutes felt longer than an eternity. Each red light elicited a string of curses from my husband and his friend as they both squirmed in their seats and wiped at the sweat collecting on their foreheads. The pain they were feeling is called dopesickness among addicts. I had not suffered from it yet and felt mildly irritated as their complaints and anxiety grew stronger with each passing minute. I wanted to tell them to relax and chill out because it was beginning to spoil my good mood but wisely remained silent. Previous experience had taught me it would do no good and I sure didn't want their anger turned on me.
After what felt like an eternity we finally turned off the main road and into a fairly quiet looking neighborhood. It felt surreal when we turned right after a few blocks and pulled to a stop two houses from the corner. It looked like any other ordinary house and not at all what I expected a dope dealer's house to look like. Hollywood had planted a stereotype in my mind that didn't match reality at all. My husband sent a text to the dope man letting him know we were outside. Nothing to do now but wait for him to come out and exchange dope for cash.
He came out after a few minutes and casually walked up to the passenger side window where my husband waited with money in hand. The deal was done in less then a minute and for some reason I felt let down. I don't know what I was expecting a drug deal to be lime but it definitely wasn't that. More drama maybe? It seemed too quick and easy after the long drive. But the deed was done and we were driving again. A quick stop in a deserted parking lot and back on the interstate toward home. I felt strangely deflated.
United States • 48 years old