Guest blog: Thank you to our guest blogger this month, who has given us, incredibly in just under 600 words, an engaging, intimate yet candid reveal of over 38 years of a life entwined with heroin. A small yet perfectly formed piece of literature, complete and ready for the drug user’s historical book of insight and prose. Now there’s a book in the making friends: Page 1…
Written by Anon: or rather A Mature User – AKA Muser.
Sister Morphine, Mother Methadone
After that first snort – that was it – I thought ‘my life was sorted’. I just felt like, I was at peace. I had confidence. It got rid of the fear of intimacy, I enjoyed sex. It really was a eureka moment. I didn’t wake up with a hangover (little did I know) and it just seemed like you didn’t have to pay the piper. I thought, ‘You and I can get on well together, Sister Morphine’.
I shoulda known it couldn’t last.
Even as a very young kid, when someone used to put their arm around me and say ‘everything is going to be ok’, I never believed them. Never. But heroin, then, made me believe that all was good with the world, for a while anyway. The ritual, the scoring, bringing it home – it was like a present, unwrapping it, it was exciting. It takes away that angst. Until it becomes all about where that next hit is coming from.
I sometimes think I’ll probably never give it up. Because over the years it became more than just about the drug, it became a habit – it became everyone, and touched everything, I knew. It’s not exciting anymore. I think now, ‘why the fuck am I still doing this?’. Sister morphine has become mother methadone, and the thought of withdrawals terrify me. I have to say methadone is the most boring fucking drug…Its just so BORING!
What have I got from 38 years with heroin, apart from ageing and hepatitis C?! ….. Well, I’ve met so many ‘interesting” people, the good, the bad and the ugly and all sorts in between; worked with some wonderful people and I’ve ducked, dived and taken some mind-blowing gambles that I’d never have considered taking without the need for smack pushing me on. I was never gonna make it as a suburban housewife anyway. I think the older users’ voice needs to be heard. There is this old people’s home up the road from me and when I pass it I look in the window and I just think I couldn’t do it. The patients, people, and none of them would be users, I mean what would they do with people like me; how would we get treated? Older junkies with attitude …..Crash, bang, pow!!
But Then Again…
But…I dunno. I often wonder what I would of done if I didn’t take heroin. I think I would
have been an alcoholic. Coz I’ve always needed a little something between me the world. Wordsworth said in some poem, ‘“The world is too much with us”’* I often think that’s one of the truest sayings ever, it could be my motto. For me and I’m sure for many others, we just need a filter between us and reality. Wait, that’s a bit strong…It’s like, when you’re walking across the road and there’s bright lights and cars and horns blaring, it’s like an assault; Heroin is the filter that helps make things a bit more bearable.
I do think tho that, people have such low expectations of drug users, yet the people I’ve met, seriously, are so amazing, different, sensitive and…yeah, it really saddens me when I talk to people and how they think drug users are. Because it’s not just about the publics’ attitude to us; it’s about how powerfully that can impact our view of ourselves. So, what to do? An older woman .with Hep, C , on a methadone script, using on top with hepatitis C with other aches and pains?…beam be up Scotty!! A Mature User AKA Muser.
* The World Is Too Much with Us
By William Wordsworth, 1806
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. –Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.