I look like a junkie. It's almost amusing: there's a massive bruised needlemark on my elbow, and another bruise where I had a crisis peeling the bandaid off. I'm coughing and sneezing like I've been sleeping on the streets for weeks, and for some reason, one of my eyes hurts like hell and is all red.
It would actually be cute to joke about if my school wasn't s'damn full of junkies already. Anyway, it's been an uneventful day: Mike drove me to my HIV test this morning, where a large hispanic lady asked about my risk factors:
"Ever have sex with a gay or bisexual man?"
"Um... can you repeat the question?"
She gave me a look that made her look larger than she was.
"Do you use protection?"
"Um...?"
"Condoms?"
"Um...?" It was difficult. No, I haven't always used condoms. Yes I go out preaching to the world to "be safe, be smart, be tested..." and no, I don't follow the damn rules. Not always. And I know it's not good, but... there are times and places for barriers and limitations. When you're having sex with someone with whom you've never had a single mental barrier, why should you forge physical ones? I didn't feel like justifying that to The Condom Counselor Lady, though. You CAN'T justify that to Condom Counselor: she's just not going to buy it. *I* wouldn't buy it if someone told ME "we don't use condoms because we love each other..." or "we don't use condoms because it's unnatural..." or whatever. I'd tell them they're full of shit. I made a genuine effort to stare down Condom Counselor. It was like staring down a cat: you just can't do it without physically grabbing them and stabbing them in the eyes with your fingers. She won. I looked away finally, admitting defeat under Condom Lady's logic.
"So about this gay or bisexual man..."
"He's got amazing eyes...? He's got an awesome sense of humor...?"
"No, that's not what we're going to talk about..."
"He's really good in bed?"
That wasn't it either...
Finally, she let me go back to the lobby. Then a white-haired lesbian nurse stabbed me in the arm, filled her vial, and asked about my hometown, which I was all too willing to talk about while having the life-fluid drained from my body... Finally, I got to leave; Mike and I went to Java Joe's, got a couple San Pelligrino Orangina Wannabe's, and played chess until I actually won a game, which may or may not have been an act of the higher powers, and which was certainly an accident.
All in all, I wouldn't call it eventful, but it's been okay...
I guess I need a topic now... Let's go with drugs, since I'm going with the junkie motif today...
I don't do drugs. ("I don't take drugs." "Caffeine's a drug... nicotine's a drug..." "Who's the towhead? Those drugs are LEGAL!" --conversation exchanged between Agent Stanley and Irene in Fire Walk With Me.) Okay, so I drink coffee like it's going out of style and I'd still kill for a cigarette... Oh, and I have a wee drinky every now and again when it's offered to me. But hardcore DRUGS? Nope - not me. No, I'm not a goody-two-shoes who preaches the straightedge lifestyle; it's just that drugs scare the living shit out of me.
I have tried pot. I don't really know what drove me to try it. Peer pressure, maybe. Greg was going to get some and he wanted me to try it with him. I didn't really know him, but he was friends with my friends and they assured me he was an okay guy and that he wouldn't give me anything that would hurt me. So I went with him one day after school: we told his father we needed to pick up some homework from this guy, and, instead of exchanging algebra books, exchanged five bucks for a baggie of marijuana. It was one hell of a weird transaction: I could barely contain a hysterical giggle. The two of us smoked the pot in the park, laughed ourselves all the way across the street, picked up some food to satisfy our munchies, and sat outside laughing at nothing for an undefined amount of time. We managed to cross the street safely, despite the fact that I was terrified beyond belief of the cars, and made it to his house, where we listened to Republika and watched Benny and Joon. Republika was okay, but I was a little afraid of the movie.
We hadn't used up all of our stash; the "homework" guy had given us a lot extra, as we were first-time customers. One day, there was a drug-search at the high school, and Greg and I were petrified. We managed to avoid the dogs and cops all day, and smoked the evidence after school. But this time, we had to get rid of it all, and there was a LOT more than I realized. I started hallucinating while Greg was finishing the last of it. I don't mean things looked a little weird and there were some bugs on the wall. I mean, I was in another dimension, in another body, in another time. I mean, I was pretty sure I'd stepped over the pits of death to get to another world. It was all a lot like a bad fantasy novel or something.
The hallucination stopped. I was back in the real world again. The bad feelings, however, did not stop. "I'm going to die," I told Greg. "I CAN'T BREATHE!" He assured me I was not going to die.
"IT'S LIKE THAT MOVIE!" I screamed at him. "With the guy, with the face?"
"YEAH!" he said, totally stoned out of his mind. The movie I was thinking of was "The Wall," and the scene I was thinking of was the one where the guy overdoses and hallucinates that he's ripping his face off in order to get some air into his tortured nostrils. "PLEASE help me..." I begged him. Then he got worried. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"NO I AM DYING!"
I don't know how, but somehow he got me to Taco Bell. Peter worked there, and although we hadn't been speaking for at least a month, I knew I would be safe with him. Still gasping for air, I made Greg call Peter over.
"Honey, what did you take?"
"I don't know, I don't know..."
"Oh fuck..." He turned to Greg. "WHAT did she take?" he demanded.
"It was just some weed," Greg returned, cool as a cucumber, unaware that Peter was about to shake him if necessary.
I think at that point I began telling Peter about how the pot was poisoned. I don't know if the words came out of my mouth, but I know they were in my head, and I'm pretty sure that I conveyed them somehow to Peter. For one moment of clarity, I saw myself through his eyes, looking lost and scared and pathetic. He was worried and he was disgusted, and I could hear his thoughts about me just as clearly as I always can. Words were coming out of his mouth -- something about Lake Austin, some kind of apology, some kind of plea for our fight to end. But I couldn't understand the words. "I love you, Peter, but I don't remember what you're saying," I said. "I love you too, Carebear, and I don't want you to do this..."
"I thought you didn't like me and David didn't like me and I missed you a lot."
"I love you. I always love you. You're my BEST FRIEND."
Then the words drifted off again, and I had to deal with just holding his hands and looking into his eyes. All this time, Greg was staring blissfully at a ceiling fan. We left Taco Bell - I don't remember how long we were there or why we left - and went to the mall, where we stared at the entrance to the Bon-Ton for an inappropriately long period of time: I remember thinking it was the television. We saw a movie: it was "The Game," with Michael Douglas, and I don't remember any of it.
I woke up in Peter's t'shirt. In my bed, of course, but wearing Peter's t'shirt. I had no idea how it had gotten on my body or how my body had gotten to my bed. Six months later, almost to the day, I had something like a flashback of the whole ordeal: I couldn't think, I could barely function, I felt horribly sick and horribly stupid for almost a full week.
I don't do drugs. I drink, but I know my limits, and I don't lose complete control like when I tried pot -- I do think it was laced with something, by the way, because of the weird effects I experienced. People generally don't hallucinate and have major panic attacks when they smoke a little weed, at least from other accounts I've heard. I don't consider drugs a moral issue at all, just a personal choice. And I choose to accept people who do all kinds of drugs, just so long as they don't blow the smoke into my face...
Love,
Helena*
"...An' I don't need no drugs to call me..." --Pink Floyd, one of the "Another Brick In The Wall" songs.