[IMGL=white]https://drugs-forum.com/forum/blog_attachment.php?attachmentid=174&stc=1&d=1473706879[/IMGL]I'm oh-so-smart--so much wiser than my parents. They're too old and too busy to be following me around. And I’m fourteen and I want a Life of my own. So I go down to the pizzeria to hang out with my friends and see what's on the menu for tonight. We all jump in the car of a buddy who has a license, and off we go cruising the strip, for kicks.
The old people have gone home and the streets are ours and night is falling, stars are gathering; it’s our time to shine and we ache for it. We find Hippo, 'ya know, that ex-marine guy who likes kids, and he asks two of us girls into his souped-up Chevy. We go. Hey, it's something to do. We all talk. After a while, he pulls out this bag.
"Hey, ladies, would you like to partake in some lovely dope? It's the best-of-the-best, really it is," says he.
Like bobbling heads on car dashboards, we sit quietly, our heads bobbling north and south, as we watch him fill the needle, tie-off and pop in. He then gets our full attention, something he'd never gotten from us before. Before we had only shared B.S. and great weed with him, and the price for the high was always the same: we listened intently to his repetitive Vietnam War stories of horror and gore. But this new experience was like rubbernecking an exciting accident that was happening right in the front seat of his car, and he had us captured as if we were physically tied down. Neither of us could speak or pull our naive eyes away.
The needle went in, the liquid made its mark, and his bearded head rolled back and forth till it found its resting spot, mid-point. His eyes were those of a doll's, looking dead, but still so intrigued.
"Oh, this is so fine, ladies--so damn fine. I would love you to be with me here in Wonderland."
He drew blood into the needle and pumped it back in again. Another orgasmic moan rose from his open mouth. Eyes closed, he opened his driver's door and puke, wiped the remnants on his sleeve, then smiled full-toothed and drooling into our shiny teen faces.
"So, who's next? I've got plenty for us all," he said.
We two grinned and switched our bobble-head compasses to a safe east and west direction.
"No, thank you. See, we were hoping you had some Good Weed, but we really have to go home now," we replied in unison.
He smiled even bigger, and slowly checked his watch and slicked back his long black hair. He stared back at us pensively and started the car’s engine.
"Okay. Maybe I'll catch you on the rebound," he laughed. He watched us like a snake as we shuffled away from his car of dreams and nightmares.
Years later when we were Drug Pros, we laughingly assured each other. Neither of us would ever—never ever—wind up like Hippo. Hey, we know how to party, we assured each other. One day we'd drop acid and go to high school to peak all throughout history class; the next day, maybe we'd get an ounce and some beers. Weekends were a grab bag of anything any of us could confiscate from Mommy and Daddy’s medicine cabinets. We were good with drugs. Drugs weren't doing us; we were doing them, we told ourselves.
Decades later the two friends had very different lives than they once had in suburban bliss. One of us was on her second rehab from opiates. The other drinking heavy, smoking weed and two packs of cigarettes daily, all while cruising for gorgeous guys.
Now, both of us are older and wiser and sober. Sadly, many of our friends are in graveyards. Those of us remaining wear our battle scars proudly. No, we no longer smoke weed, do hallucinogenics, take pills for highs or smoke cigarettes or drink. But life is complex and sometimes you NEED drugs for real issues you face. So are all of your past efforts to get sober in vain?
Accidents, injuries and stress of life take their toll on the Boomer Generation, and we must all re-face drug options at some point once more. But this time, like the battle weary veterans we now are, we know where the enemy is most likely to hide.
No, that doesn't mean that there are no snipers hidden in wait. Snipers are just part of life, just like Teenage Wasteland (The Who). We can just hope that when the snipers (sometimes friends, sometimes well-meaning physicians) do come that our rifles are ready and our convictions are still strong and our gun-powder remains dry.
“Life (Love) is a Battlefield”—Pat Benetar.
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Growing In and Out of Addictions