No Love but Lots of Other Drugs

My time with the Werewolf was never really about romance. This needs to be emphasized, it was never about romance and I never wanted it to be. It’s always been what I like to think of as a mutual fascination coupled with great sex and a common lust for drugs. We’ve never said “I love you” and I never want to. I’ve outlasted his numerous girlfriends, sometimes more than one at a time, with me on the side. We’ve always managed to weasel our ways back into each other lives. We’re both bad for each other. We’re enablers. And we love to do drugs. Not a good combo if you’re trying to stay sober– or even sane.

In the middle of my hypomania I started to experiment more heavily with drugs. I’d only ever smoked weed before I met the Werewolf. I’d taken some Xanax and smoked up with him a couple of times but that was about as scandalous as I’d been. One day we were making plans to smoke, and he told me he was trying to get morphine. Morphine. I was initially apprehensive but then I thought about it for a few short minutes and jumped on board. Impulsive and flippant about consequences, it sounded like an adventure. At the time, I didn’t realize how serious morphine was. To me, it just sounded like a good idea.

The Werewolf has the best house for doing drugs. In the spring of my second year of law school, the Werewolf bought a house in town. The house was a perfect drug den, neighbors were too far away to smell the smoke or complain about the music. We had the freedom, glorious freedom, to smoke in the living room, not cramped in the bathroom like we had to be at my apartment.

The house is not in a particularly good part of town. So the Werewolf adopted a big dog. Half pit and half sharpei, the dog is quite handsome but muscular and intimidating. There’s no mistaking the pit in him, even through the squished sharpei face and sharp yellow-green eyes. He’s a handsome lad and not many people would want to mess with him–not with that jaw. It locks down with massive force at whatever unfortunate item or creature that’s caught in it. Having the dog helped make up for the neighborhood. And the Werewolf is a pretty big guy, so not many people would come at him anyway.

He made me go with him to get the morphine. We were getting it from some townies, the chain of acquaintances beginning with his eccentric, gay, 30-40-something year old neighbor. I have no clue where this guy’s income comes from. He said he doesn’t work and that he plays video games all day. His house is clean and decorated in an unassuming 70’s retro-style. He’s stick skinny and has a thing for the Werewolf, who has made it clear that he is straight. Which may be part of the reason he keeps me around, to serve as a continuous reminder to this clan of gay, morphine-dealing and aging, townies.

We got to the house where the guy with the goods lived. “Guy” is the wrong word. These were men, older men, approaching 50-60. We awkwardly walked into this house of strangers, two dudes living together, both gay but not together. We walked in and, looking around. It was just like walking into a great-aunt’s house. Or a doll’s house. The place was clean but positively overflowing with knickknacks and doilies.

We walked into the bedroom of the guy who was selling us the morphine. It took awhile to really take the whole scene in. The guy was obviously pretty sick. Like ill. Sounded like he at least had some kind of emphysema going on. His walls were adorned with Boy Scout honors, special knives, and the American flag. He was a vet and there were various markers of this through out the room. He had a computer station that had at least 3 monitors. There was no place to sit in the closet of a room, so we awkwardly sat on his single bed, the Werewolf’s gay neighbor making syrupy and unnatural small talk and working his way towards the deal. We ended up paying two dollars a pill, dirt cheap– especially for the dosage we were getting– and popped them before heading back to the Werewolf’s house.

Morphine is my drug of choice. If I could spend my life feeling like I did that first night we took the pills, I would. We’d been smoking weed throughout the evening so there was no risk of that pesky nausea that so often accompanies opiates.

As the morphine hit me, I lay in the Werewolf’s bed, an incredible feeling of warmth washing over me and coming to rest deep in my stomach, where it radiated throughout my entire body. There was trippy music playing in the background and I was blissed out. Lying there, I heard voices for the first time. We’d been talking about me getting off my meds and getting back to my more creative– and more dangerous– self. The gentle voices were in my head but they seemed somehow external. Almost as if they were coming from the wall I was staring at in the dark of the Werewolf’s bedroom.

“Come with us,” they called in soft voices.
“You don’t need the meds anymore. Just get off them.”

I shook the voices out of my head and went back to dreamily enjoying the sensations and pictures passing through my mind in body.

The voices came back.

“Come with us,” they crooned, voices soft again.
“It’s better over here.”
“Come to the otherside.”
“It’s better here.”

I knew they were talking about killing myself. But the voices didn’t disturb me. I considered their offer seriously. Obviously, I ultimately decided that living was preferable to dying right then. The funny thing is that, at the time, the voices didn’t disturb me. They were a natural part of the warm morphine landscape. My pain was gone, I felt amazing– relaxed and with a pleasant itching warmth coursing through my veins. The voices were just part of the experience.

I told the Werewolf about the voices and he laughed at me, standard operating procedure, and told me that I was the weirdest person he knew. This was not news to me. I heard this from him on a regular basis but I didn’t really believe it. He did his undergrad at Bezerk-ly; there was no way I weirder than some of the crazy hippy chicks he surely met during his time there. We spent the rest of night, high as kites, talking about the world and ourselves and the universe. I eventually fell asleep for a few hours but he stayed awake all night, itching. I tried to ignore the nagging itches and fell asleep for a few hours while he watched me, itching and envious. Soon enough I’d learn to indulge and enjoy the itching. But that night the itch didn’t seem enviable so I ignored it and avoided scratching, knowing it wouldn’t take many scratches until the full blown body itch would burst out.

Morphine was only the beginning. It remains my favorite as I’ve made my way through the gambit of drugs with my friend and sex partner– but never lover– the Werewolf. Morphine is still my favorite. It’s one of the few drugs that, if offered to me right now, I’m not sure I’d be able to resist. Of course the drugs were bad for my brain chemistry and bipolar brain, but I tabled that discussion for another time. Now was the time to experiment and I went all in.

Morphine was quickly followed by ecstasy and we, in our infinite wisdom, decided that combining the two and adding in a full fledged bender– was a good choice to make. In fact, we perfected the bender.

    G and the Werewolf’s Guide to the

Perfect Bender

*this Guide was written by two, high tolerance, crazy-ass users. DO NOT ATTEMPT. Seriously, don’t, it’s dangerous.
** If you’re going to attempt the perfect bender, do it with someone you get along with and like to have sex with.

Start Friday
1. Assemble all the necessary drugs in generous amounts (Morphine, ecstasy, Xanax, weed)
2. Buy Alcohol, preferably Champagne. (It’s easy to drink at any time of the day and easy on the stomach)
3. Smoke weed
4. Pop a morphine
5. Pop the champagne
6. Let the party begin
7. Take ecstasy
8. Smoke weed
9. Listen to music and chill
10. Take ecstasy again.
11. Go lay in bed with sweet music and get touchy. For hours.
12. Smoke more weed.
13. Chill and enjoy begin high until the sunrises.

Then, on Saturday at sunrise
1. Try to sleep.
2. Take Xanax
3. Itch.
4. Sleep/try to sleep for 2 more hours.
5. Get up. Order food.
6. Have champagne
7. Hydrate.
8. Smoke weed
9. Watch TV/lay in bed and chill for two hours

Saturday Afternoon/Evening
1. Smoke weed
2. Rent a movie
3. Pop half a morphine
4. Watch movie
5. Leave the house to run errands, preferably on foot.
6. Smoke weed
7. Take morphine
8. Lie in bed enjoy begin high. Preferably with sweet tunes. For three hours minimum.
9. Get up and do things. Like clean up the big mess made by last night.
10. Shower
11. Smoke weed
12. Get food
13. Take morphine
14. Retire to bedroom for the night.
15.Turn on sweet tunes.
16. Itch. all night.

Sunday morning
1. Take a Xanax and some Advil, maybe Tums
2. Get few hours of sleep.
3. Wake up.
4. Order Food
5. Smoke weed
6. Eat Food
7. Watch TV
8. Smoke Weed
9. Lay in Bed
10. Smoke weed

Around 7 on Sunday
1. Leave.
2. Party over.
3. Sleep for days.

During the spring of my second year of law school, the benders were close to bi-monthly. It didn’t take me long to run my way through molly, coke, benzos, muscle relaxers, uppers, opiates, and DXM. There is only thing that I’ve ever been offered and refused: methadone. I made a “Do not EVER Do” List. Which consisted of: Heroin, PCP, Meth. Not all the drugs stuck with me. I don’t like uppers and coke doesn’t really do much for me.

I came away from experimentation with some favorites. Morphine. Also, smoking weed, opiates, ecstasy and molly, and a benzo for my anxiety.

Those were my favorites. And because I was having so much fun I didn’t think what I was doing was a problem.

Well, it turned into a big problem. I thought I was in control of myself, sure I was isolating myself from friends and trying to hide my escapes from my roommate, but that didn’t mean I had a problem. I managed to make good grades that spring, in spite of my heavy drug use. It would be months before I encountered anything like a “consequence” because of my drug use. So I didn’t think I had a problem. I wasn’t like those people that had problems. I didn’t have a problem. There was no problem with my drug use.

I was wrong. Very wrong. Hindsight is 20-20 but I think that even if I had the benefit of hindsight, I still would make the same choice. The pull of the drugs was just so intoxicating.


3 responses to “No Love but Lots of Other Drugs

  • One-in-Mind

    Morphine was always my favorite too…. I’ve been clean for say, 3 years now. Opiate free.
    But still I crave, and find it hard to walk away when it’s on offer.

    I hope you make it out. x

  • cabrogal

    Beautiful stuff, the opiates.

    My last taste was about 25 years ago, but I know if there was a quarter gram of smack in my room right now I wouldn’t be able to leave it alone for long.

    But I would NEVER mix it with alcohol or spend time again with someone who does. She didn’t die, but waking up next to her with spew all over the pillows and no detectable breathing was all the scare I needed (mouth to mouth on someone who has just vomited ain’t nice either). And when we got back from the hospital after the Narcan (instant withdrawals) we had a godawful fight just to round off the night’s entertainment.

    I didn’t lose her to it, but I lost a few friends.
    The last one was a girl I used to babysit when I was a teenager.
    That one hurt the most – probably because by then I’d given up so I couldn’t just jack it back and blast the pain away.

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