Addiction implies that a drug dependency has developed to such an extent that it has serious detrimental effects on the user (referred to as an addict). They may be chronically intoxicated, have great difficulty stopping the drug use, and be determined to obtain the drug by almost any means. The term addiction is inextricably linked to society's reaction to the user, and so medical experts try to avoid using it, preferring dependence instead.
Addict is a drug user whose use causes them serious physical, social or psychological problems. As it is a much-abused term, many people prefer to talk of problem drug users instead.
I’ve been in Philly six months and I’ve never been in this bad a shape before. I’m down from 235 lbs. to 160 lbs. I have a fucked-up job in a factory, working six days a week for minimum wage.
I get paid on Friday and as I’m walking home I start saying to myself, “I’m not going to get high today”, “I’m not going to get high today”. Sadly by the time I get to my roach infested shabby-ass rented room, I have a bundle of Crack and a 40oz bottle of cheap beer. I’m no longer living for me but living only for the disease.
I really hate this life.
I hate how weak I am against this thing. It seems as if I have absolutely no will power. I hate working 60 hours plus a week, getting paid on Friday, only to be flat broke on Monday. I hate those instant noodles that are the only thing I can afford to eat for the rest of the week. I hate not knowing what to do about it.
It’s summer in the Badlands (North Philadelphia) and there are plenty of things to do. Summer in the city means that there will be allot of scantily dressed beautiful women to see and talk to, but instead, I’m locked up in my room smoking this shit, alone. This thing has become my woman, my wife, my bitch and my life.
It’s three in the morning and I’m out of Crack. I’m looking at the last 18 dollars to my name. I want to buy twenty dollars worth but I’m short two dollars, since I’ve been buying from the same guy all night, I’m expecting that he will let me sly for the rest.
I hit the dark trash strewn and mostly cruel streets of the “Badlands” and started to make my way to the “drug spot”. Along the way the only people I see are the crack-whores (calling to me, looking to trick) and all the “geeking” drug users who are out trying to do the same as me (get one more hit). The only vehicular traffic out at this time are the “John’s” out “trolling” for pussy and the “not so undercover Police”. Mind you I’ve just smoked four hundred dollars worth of rock, so I’m pretty “skitzed”.
Skitzed or skitzing- The state of paranoia induced by smoking Cocaine. The levels vary from the individual’s amount of use and length of use. Some smokers are so paranoid after use that they will not step out doors. It is also known as “geeking”. You will see one walking down the street, eyes wide and round, jerkingly looking around not unlike a chicken. Other terms include: Geek Monster, Cluck head, Clucker and Skeezer. Usually the last one “Skeezer” is reserved for crack-whores.
I crossed a popular (drug) park and went to the corner. My dealer was there peddling his poison. I approached him and ask for a twenty. He handed it to me and took my money. He counted it and asked for the two dollars. I told him I was short and he refused the sell. He reached and snatched the twenty of Crack back. I exclaimed “What the fuck!” “I just spent my whole fucking check with you and you can’t let me go for two fucking dollars!?” He sneered at me and said “I don’t take shorts!” “Get the fuck out of here before I smoke you (shoot you). “You fucking Crackhead!”
Crackhead?!
He hit home with that insult. I was enraged, broke and wanting more. This motherfucker’s insults were the last straw. He made concrete all the things (in my mind) that I was trying to deny. I was a “fucking crackhead”. All these months I had been trying to repress and deny what deep down I knew to be true; I had let this drug turn me into a loser. This drug had me all to its self, alone and isolated. I used to be a proud man. No one would ever talk to me like this asshole and get to keep their teeth. Even with his insult fresh on my face, I tried one more time (how terribly pathetic) only to be told to “Get the fuck out of here!”
I went across the street, beyond his line of vision and watched him while I decided what to do. It wasn’t long before I made up my mind. I decided to take what I wanted. I was going to show this motherfucker who the fuck he was messing with. I hid myself, with the word “crackhead” still resonating in my mind.
With mounting rage, I watched him as he continued to conduct his business. I saw where he had his drugs hidden. I deduced that he was armed. I did not see what his weapon was but his swagger and “ghetto” bravado implied as much. He continued to berate all those that came to buy Crack from him. He was excessively insulting and very arrogant.
It was time for me to get a weapon. I found a loose brick and hid myself in the shadows. As luck would have it, he started to close shop (after about an hour) and proceeded to come towards my direction. Thankfully the city is very negligent in its up-keep of parks located in the ghetto, so I had plenty of cover and concealment. I was crouched by a tree and overgrown bushes by the very sidewalk he was walking on. I was seething, drowning in machismo and hurt pride. As he came abreast to the tree, I lunged out, brick in hand, swinging for his head. I struck him between ear and jaw with a bone crunching “thwack!” The blow carried so much power (or either the brick was so old) that the brick broke in two. To my great satisfaction he immediately and noiselessly slumped to the ground. I straddled him and repeatedly punched him in his face. This was totally unnecessary. He was bleeding from various cuts to the facial area and very much unconscious. As I stood over him, striking him, I remember insanely screaming at him “I’m a man!” ” I’m a man!” (Spraying spittle on his face) “I’m a motherfucking man!”
Man? Is this really the actions of a MAN? Do MEN waylay unsuspecting drug dealers/ victims in the dark? It was so easy for me to fall into bloodlust. How easy it was to do violence. It was as if all my frustrations, feelings of hopelessness and degradation focused to a pinpoint and then let loose on this very unfortunate human being. I will not lie. It felt good. I felt as if I was finally in control. I was in charge! Being at the bottom for as long as I had been, I was finally (if not momentarily) on top.
Sadly, I was never so “out of control” as in that *moment. I had become an… ANIMAL!
“It” (the animal) stood over **him and rummaged thru his pockets. “It” relieved him of his “golf ball” sized ball of Crack. “It” also took all his money and as an added bonus “It” found a nine-millimeter handgun stuffed in his waistband. “It” checked to see he was still alive and then ran (hugging the shadows) all the way home. “It” was careful to take as many alleyways as possible (in case “It” was being followed). I was extremely saddened and ashamed; there was no escaping or denial of the fact that “It” was I.
Rock bottom was where I finally arrived. My mind was a whirlpool of jumbled and irrational thoughts. My conscious was trying to be heard but I kept repressing the ugly and awful realization of what I had just done. The idea that I was insane never crossed my drug-saturated mind. I rationalized that it was okay to knock this motherfucker unconscious just as maybe a Police Officer might rationalize beating me down because I’m a crack head. A plagued individual better off removed from society.
I finally reached my hovel of a room, rushed in, locked the doors and spent the next forty-five minutes furtively looking out the windows. All the while praying “foxhole prayers” that the Police or the compadres of my stretched out drug dealing friend did not show up at my doorstep. Feeling like shit, I sat at the foot of my bed.
I looked at the ball of Crack Cocaine; all those righteous and moral thoughts were quickly pushed back into the farthest recesses of my mind. I started to feel ashamed and guilty. These two feelings are what fuel the disease. Now all I felt was the obsession to feel nothing. This was my release valve. I did not want to feel or face the fact of the animalistic levels I had sunk to. All I wanted to do right then was to FEEL GOOD. To lose myself into oblivion, just go numb. Fuck it all to hell. Fuck him, fuck me, and fuck everything else. I needed a blast.
I sat up and pulled the coffee table nearer. I grabbed my pipe and started to smoke. Right next to the ball of Crack laid the semi-automatic handgun. These were my spoils. Was I the victor? These two things so closely related to death, they went well together. One guaranteed a slow ends to the means (hopefully); the other an explosive exit out of his madness.
One thing I knew for sure
I needed help.
*He later bragged (thru his broken jaw) to his friends that he repelled an attempted robbery by many individuals. Since he was so insulting to all that came to buy, he was at a lost to identify who could have attacked him.
**I say “that moment” because there will be “other times”, which I will disclose in future postings.
