Sam Paul - Why I Committed Suicide

We’re generation-fucking-X and what do we believe in except the shallowness we observe? Addiction is flesh without life, it’s as if the instincts that spawning salmon follow to justify their death have been initiated in us, we’ve activated a switch in our heads that somehow makes it ok to follow this path of self destruction.

No more. Jen and I are getting the hell out of here. Sleep is good, but sleeping while we’re awake is just blindness.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

We’ve tried everything to stop. Jenifer even told her mom what was going on and she brought us over bananas and bread so we could eat while trying to kick, trying to kick is the worst a person can ever feel. Her mom found out when we took Jenifer to Charter rehab hospital for treatment, but after being there a few hours, she threw a fit and signed herself out of there. I got the call to pick her up. I didn’t ask too much about it and I was sad she failed because what does that say for me? I don’t even have insurance to pay for something like that if I wanted to go. I need help.

The body stops producing the endorphins that regulate pain in everyday life. So with the Heroin gone and the endorphins on vacation, everything in my body hurts. I can feel every bit of pain that’s caused by the hair follicles pushing their way through my skin everyday and that’s just one nuisance; I won’t even get into trying to use the bathroom or the pain in my intestines. AHHHH.

My stomach can’t hold anything at all, I hardly even sip water and my tummy produces green acidic bile as if it’s digesting itself. My throat feels like hydrochloric acid. My eyes forget how to adjust to the light. My body rebels against me in every fashion imaginable—clear and strong expression of its displeasure. I’m burning up with chills, sweats, diarrhea. Thus, I would rob my own mother at this point to get dope. There is no sleeping, only fit full nightmares and more of the same. It feels worse than being dead. It’s hell. It’s been about three days now. I’m told these first three days are the worst, and, if you can make it through, you’ll feel yourself getting better and by that point a little better is something.

Getting my hands on some Tylenol with codeine or something could be a lifer saver; even a couple valiums would ease this torture. That’s the only way I know how to try and make it through the detox from smack. Honestly, it’s the only way I’ve made it lately. The voices in my head kick in strong now, I am fighting myself every second of every minute of every day.

Some people can get on a methadone program, and Ive heard that shit works, but I’ve also heard it’s more addictive and takes longer to get off of the need-to-be-high kick. Odd. Most people I know on methadone also go out and score, using the methadone to give their buzz a little kick. Fuck that. That’s another problem I don’t need in my life—methadone, shit.

And then there’s Jenifer and she’s in as much pain as I am and it breaks my heart. I can distract myself into doing something, but for her, there’s nothing to do except ride it out or get more dope. If I could tolerate sounds, I would listen to Morrissey, hole up here and just feel sorry for myself…but I can’t ignore Jenifer or her pain. Everything is real and strong and powerful. It hurts to have somebody lying in the same bed; even the scratch of blankets against my skin whenever she moves hurts like somebody’s putting pins in my body.

WE’VE almost made it through a few times all the way, almost back to functional adults. And then to celebrate, we’ve gone to get us a little—knowing that with our tolerance down, getting just a little bit will really fuck our shit up. When your brain and body work together to trick you into something they both want, it’s similar to being possessed. Ah this sucks, suck sucks.

Evident, but worthy of stating: the new apartment isn’t helping much. It’s shinier and nicer but we keep falling into the same habits. I have this new job lined up with Kroger’s; I took the “honesty test” that they give new employees and found out that I passed the other day. The test was a joke though, “Is it right to give friends money out of the cash register even if they say they’ll bring it right back?” I was more worried that the shoplifting arrest on my record might screw it up for me, but it looks like I’m good to go. I realized the other day that I’ve held a steady job of some sort or another since I was about thirteen, maybe earlier, and this will likely be another shitty addition to my resume, but it’ll help pay the bills and that’s all that matters right now.

There are still more and more people around us shooting dope. Our apartment is all the way across campus now and the rent is more expensive but it’s also more isolated and easier to hide out in. Plus I feel better about having neighbors that can see if anyone tries to break into our place. Every scrap of money we can beg borrow or steal goes towards our habit now. We drive down to Dallas every day just to hook up with our Mexican “friends”. I’ve never written about the drama that goes along with doing a street level dope deal and I don’t feel like rehashing the obvious. We are totally at their mercy as far as scheduling goes. Half of our time is spent waiting for a return call by a shitty payphone in the worst parts of town. There’s an army of white people that will cater to anything these guys want. I imagine the money and power is addicting but I see the wear and tear in the dealers’ lives too. One guy we score from is called “Negro” (pronounced “Nay-grow”) even though he’s Mexican. I’ve seen some of the older junkies like Donut trade him boxes of formula and diapers for his baby in exchange for dope. Weird shit.

I think we’re going to beat this shit for good. We’ve got a possible trip to New Orleans lined up in the next week or so and we’re driving down there, balls to the wall, without any dope on us. That means when we get there we’ll be going through serious withdrawals and we’ll be a solid day away from anybody we know that can help. It’s a crappy plan, but around here I know where I can go out and score and there is no way my body will let me stop shooting smack. I can’t explain it, I’ve never been powerless like this before and I have to step up.

New Orleans—We shouldn’t have driven down here. We’ve been staying with Sam Escobar, one of my old frat brothers who moved down here a while back, and his semi-girlfriend Michele, who Jen and I have partied with several times. The little bit of smack we brought to sustain us on our trip is starting to wear off now and I’m realizing the full extent of my mistake.

Yesterday Sam took us out to these wonderful white sand beaches, in Alabama of all places. It was a pretty long drive to get there and back in one day because we had to drive all the way across a chunk of Mississippi, but the scenery was fantastic and we enjoyed ourselves for a brief while. By the time we got there, Jenifer started feeling the sickness again and its fever is raging full on inside of her right now. I feel it again too, but it’s not bad enough to immobilize me yet.

This was a fucking stupid, stupid, stupid plan. Now we are in an unfamiliar town and staying with people who really don’t want to put up with us puking around their house sick for a week. As the decision maker, I’m looking at two options now. We can drive about 20 hours to Mexico and try and get some pills to take the edge off this shit and finish kicking or we can rush back to Dallas and try and score to get some of this pain taken care of. We don’t have any money but Jen has been begging me to use the emergency credit card her parents gave her for traveling to get some cash and score. You would think in New Orleans we would be able to find somebody what could hook us up but it’s nobody knows anybody and it’s too much effort to hit the streets blind. Our bodies are taxed and worthless tired from just being alive now. The insane part is I’m willing to drive the 12 hours back home just to score one more time and feel better and then be miserable in my own apartment.