Aspen, Colorado - March, 2007. [excerpt from new chapter in 'Soul Cancer']
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| Kills more people than heroin, cocaine, marijuana, prescription painkillers combined. |
Shit, I'm still shaking. I must somehow force the remainder of my dwindling bottle of 1-litre solution (90% vodka, 10% Gatorade) down my esophagus, into my stomach where it will be absorbed into my bloodstream......and hopefully stop the shaking. I'm not in any shape to leave the house like this, so I've got to stop the shaking. I notice I have a few pills left of Xanax in my 'last resort' pill bottle, meaning it's the only thing left in my house that might get rid of the shakes. So I down the vodka/solution, vomit a little bit, but manage to keep most of it down, and then I swallow the 4 or 5 Xanax pills I have left in the last-resort bottle. All this in an attempt to appear presentable enough to 'drive' to one of the local liquor stores to procure some more 'solution,' which will then allow me to repeat this hellish process over again, because my brain is telling my body that I have no choice -- it must be done. The fact that I was contemplating driving my car in such a state was a non-issue -- I had to do what was necessary to stay alive, and to me, at the point, staying alive meant consuming more booze and drugs.
The combo of the vodka solution and Xanax makes me a bit too woozy to focus. After all, I haven't eaten in days, so the booze and pills are absorbed much more quickly into my bloodstream than they would have if I had some food in my stomach. But I didn't, and I start to wane and wobble. Thank god I still have about an 1/8 of an ounce of pure-grade powder cocaine lined up on my bedside table for just such an emergency. I cut it up and snort the entire 1/8 ounce in two big rails (lines) with due haste. Whooooo! Now I'm alert. And the shakes are gone. I look like shit, but it's ski season here in Aspen, so I cover up my appearance with a big snow jacket, a hat, sunglasses and a hood. I now look like any other yuppie ski bum headed for the slopes. Only I'm merely headed for my favourite liquor store at the bottom of Ajax Mountain in the village of Aspen. Somehow, I manage to make it out the door, drive my car smoothly and slowly all the way to the liquor store where my daily schedule really begins.
I walk into the store. All the guys there know me, just like they know the other alcoholics who show up around opening time mid-week to purchase large bottles of straight liquor. I'm way passed any feelings of shame or embarrassment by this point. These guys see me several times a week. After all, Aspen is a small town, so there are only three liquor stores within driving distance, so they all know me. I don't care anymore. My body's need for alcohol far supersedes any hesitation or reluctance on my part to get what I need. And what I need for the day is a gallon-and-a-half of straight Absolut vodka, plus a few bottles of Gatorade to temper my palate. Without the Gatorade, I wouldn't be able to keep the booze down.
I buy my booze, get back in the car and drive back home. Relief. I now have enough booze to last me through the day and hopefully the night too. There's just one problem -- I consumed my remaining cocaine supply before I left the house. This is not good. I need to order some more, ASAP. My brain requires it, just as it requires air to breath and water to drink -- it's a primitive survival mechanism buried deep in the animal part of my brain -- at least, that's what the doctors tell me.
Fortunately, my cocaine dealer delivers. I call him up and tell him I need a 'full carton of cigarettes' -- this is code for an ounce of cocaine. He says it'll be the usual price ($850) and that he'll be over in an hour. I said fine, the sooner the better. In the meantime I start drinking b/c the shakes are coming back. 45 minutes later, my dealer arrives, and he asks me if he wants him to cook it up for me -- 'rock' it up. This means cook into rock form, aka crack cocaine. This is an offer I cannot refuse, b/c the stuff is pure, and the pure rock is ecstacy.
I hate powder cocaine. I can't stand it. But it allows me to stay up longer so that I can drink more booze. This will make absolutely no sense to a normal human being, but it is perfectly logical for an addict. Now, crack cocaine, on the other hand, is a whole different story. Good rock cocaine can get a person about as high as anything else in this world. And I need to feel that high, the escape, the oblivion. I need to numb myself so badly so I can forget my miserable existence....at least for a little while.
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| One Day Supply of Rock |
So Reggie, my dealer, cooks up the ounce of cocaine into beautiful crystalline rock cocaine. I share some of it with him -- his reward for being a master cook. And then eventually he leaves, and I spend the next 24 hours getting high as a kite in the sky, using the vodka as a way to even myself out once my heart rate starts pounding so fast that I feel like I'm about to have a heart attack. You see, it's a constant balancing act. The crack skyrockets me into space, and the booze brings me back down somewhere close to earth. The cocaine makes me paranoid as hell, so I spend hours at a time peeking through my curtains to make sure there's not a SWAT team trying to break into my house or hiding in the trees or anything. My own private reality.
This scenario I just described above went on for about three months. Straight. The entire ski season in Aspen, from December to late March passes me by as I hide in my house, shuddered away from the terrifying reality of the normal world outside. I only leave the house to go to the liquor store, and my only visitors are my drug dealer Reggie and the occasional 'girl(s)' who will do anything for the drugs I may or may not want to share, depending on my mood.
I was totally psychotic, delusional, paranoid, malnourished and dancing with death for those months hidden away in my mountain cabin in Aspen. Refusing to answer my phone. Cutting myself off from reality. Slipping further and further into the darkness. What a life. I remember writing out a few different codicils to my will, in the event I overdosed and died. It was a very morbid existence to say the least. I hid in my closet, in my shower, anywhere I thought I'd be safe from the imaginary police officers I thought would break in at any moment.
Eventually, an old friend of mine came and found me in my house and convinced me to go back to rehab. I think he really saved my life. His name is Jay C, and I'm forever indebted to him. I was no longer a human being at that point. Simply an automaton with a radar for cocaine and alcohol. I had no control over my decisions. The monster -- the addict inside me -- had completely consumed me at that point, and no amount of willpower, strength or logic could help me help myself. I needed to be rescued, and luckily I was.
It's hard to believe I could fall further from a morality standpoint than I did during that lost winter in Aspen, but I did. I really did. (more to come).
Peace/Warm Regards:
Jude Blues
