I can feel the point of departure like a bleed warm and pleasant in the upper region of the brain – quite sudden but not a kick, rather a diffused, comforting energy. I’m sure it’s inspiration-driven and don’t want to make too much of this neuro-chemical aspect, it’s just that there’s been so much talk of the destructive effects of heroin lately.
What maintains the enticingly beautiful image of this substance in spite of its filthy reputation, and how much access have its fallen victims had to this beauty outside of the syringe, apart from the powder? And how long does it last and where does it go when it’s gone?
I can’t write anything but highly pure shit when I’m depressed, which is the rule – ergo, my window of opportunity is teensy-weensy. When I feel that warm swell in my head, sparked by whatever brilliant or inane idea, if I don’t run with it toot-sweet, I may as well sign on to yet another significant fraction of my life spent creatively constipated – this out of a resignation so self-defeating, you’d have to have lived it to imagine actually choosing the path; words are wholly inadequate.
For sure, someone somewhere at some time has expressed this better than myself, but not as precisely as one might believe is possible; for the resignation, short of which one can’t have lived the experience enough to describe it, precludes the concurrence of motivation required to get it down when it is fresh with sense, and, frankly, a chosen regret so recursive is not something anyone wants to hear about until it’s titillatingly too late, and even then it’s only the prurient periphery that’s of interest.
And I’m just a nobody, whose passing would not have so massive a ripple effect, at least beyond dreams of butterflies and chaos. How many of us feel empowered enough to imagine our lives as tragic as those so-deemed based upon assumptions about the glory that’s garnered from an abundance of attention that’s assumed to’ve been sought only to be sacrificed? Why would someone of immense talent and acknowledgment thereof find “an out” so attractive?
First of all, drugs get a bad rap; likewise guns and books and religion and rock & roll, and reality shows. It’s humans who are so god-awful, and we know this, yet still lend these little props in our melodrama entirely too much meaning. Blaming drugs for stopping one’s heart makes as much sense as cursing the heart for not keeping the beat.
And it’s not just that we are forever identifying and managing symptoms. These are symptoms of symptoms at best.
Clearly, most people should not do heroin. I am one of those people, which is why I don’t do it. But the reason someone would do it in the first place is closer to the core of this problem too hastily covered with the addiction sticker, the physical dependency, on the other hand, is just a most cruel passenger on this already torturous trip.
People make assumptions about the lives of others: how their professional success and family life are supposed to be on the left side of life’s grand equation, then comes an equals sign, and on the right you get “everything”. They ask, “Why, oh, why would someone with seemingly everything throw it all away?” and answer this complex problem with “addiction” without considering the falseness of original assumptions.
Even the clever come up with nothing better than an “in spite of” factor. Why can’t it be both “because of” and “in spite of”?
Oh, yeah: The ultimate taboo is the suggestion of suicide… even/especially when it’s an OD. I don’t speak here of any one particular person, but about a whole mass of mindful human heads that found their way free before the mature date imposed by their peers. But “it was that horrid addiction” is easier to swallow. One dare-not credit the evil substance for providing the sought release – a release sought both because of and in spite of the beauty and horror of everything, not just the drugs.
Users can apparently hide it well from some of the people all of the time, for drug use is something to be ashamed of, though evidence would seem to indicate otherwise: that the admission to addiction is part and parcel of the popularity contest, an occasional badge of honor. You could say the same thing about depression; indeed, I am often dubious of others’ claims to medically mediated misery. Neither of these views is fair, but they stem from humankind’s tendency to get stuck in its own being full of shit. Why would I be any different?
The reason nobody ever tells you they’re gonna shoot up later – unless you’re tying each other off – is the same reason you don’t hear your fellow travelers fess up that they think an awful lot about killing themselves: Admitting unrelenting unhappiness ranks way up on the embarrassment index, and beyond this, implies the inadequacy of dear friends and family, an implication the suicidal are well aware of: that the hurt goes beyond simple loss; it’s an indictment, even if it’s unintended. There’s this thing about people expressing anger at someone else’s passing by their own hand: it’s taken as the ultimate slight.
When someone does make such an admission or, further, the attempt on their own life, what are the chances somebody else says or thinks they were just looking for attention? Go about your life, but try not to be so loud about it.
I seriously doubt there’s an example under the human species that relishes going through this journey entirely unnoticed, even if they like to keep a low profile; more than that, though, virtually all of us are seeking attention of some kind or another – otherwise, like, why would we bother?
Still, the reticence to reveal one’s all-too-real misery is a resistance to the humiliating attention, but implies the ultimate: “I’d rather die than discuss this with you,” or no less hurtful a thing to share than “Nothing you have to offer will change how I feel. No offense, but just leave me alone.” And they’ll come round eventually; how do you feel about them then?
A posthumously revealed explanation and apology, no matter how painstakingly scribbled, could hardly ameliorate such a betrayal if it came to pass.
Why, oh, why, would someone who has all the attention in the world keep shooting what he knew would eventually kill him? Who of us ‘ll admit that we know the answer to that question better than we’re letting on?
Frankfurter Allee, Lichtenberg – 2014