I Am A Heroin Addict: Ghost Of Christmas Past

"Daddy, Daddy, Santa Claus was here! Come quick!" My son, Jack, is four. It's 6 o'clock Christmas morning, and he doesn't have a clue that his father is locked in the bathroom dope sick. Jack twists and pulls frantically on the bathroom doorknob. "You should see all the presents, Daddy. I was a good boy." The cramps in my lower stomach are in a full-scale riot. I can't stand. I can't walk. I am sitting on the edge of the toilet trying to be quiet as I dry-heave. The cramping in my calves is unbearable. My T-shirt is marked with cold sweat as I bite off the top of the small rainbow bag holding the heroin. "Please, God, help me steady my hands," I whisper. I need to pull it together for my son. He didn't ask for a junkie father. He just wanted to find the green and yellow Tonka dump truck that he asked Santa for at the Methuen Mall last week. Like a doctor performing microscopic surgery, I pour the contents of the rainbow bag into a tarnished spoon, turn the cold water on and watch the bottom of the sink begin to fill. I insert the syringe, draw up about 20cc, squirt the water into the spoon, and watch it move across the white powder and turn to liquid. "Daddy? Are you coming out?" It's impossible to talk. Complete focus. I can't think about anything but the spoon. If my hands shake, if my speech rattles, I could spill the spoon into the sink and ruin Christmas. I move my lighter back and forth under the cooker until the heroin bubbles. The smell is sweet. It makes my st...
Source: Healthy Living - The Huffington Post - Category: Consumer Health News Source Type: news