The Hole Within

CHAPTER 44

I am not sure where Mom met Sabrina. She was a pretty woman with brown hair cut into a bob. At some point, she had moved into her house and into Mom's room. Sabrina was quiet and preferred books to conversation. In my drug-induced haze I had missed my mom's sexual transformation from men to women. At the time, I was not even aware enough to be surprised. I was not home much, or at least I was not there when they were. I would watch Scott during the day while they worked and then I would go over to Tyler's when they got home. Of course, I was gone all weekend. 

They had begun to talk about leaving Utah. Despite everything I felt tied to my mom, I could not imagine not being with her. Though our relationship was strained I loved her fiercely. The child inside of me still yearned for her love. This was compounded by my mom's detachment. Since the last overdose, she had become more distant. She had to remove herself from my life, it was too hard for her to watch me self-destruct. They told me that they were moving to Phoenix and I could stay or go with them. I had conflicting emotions. I had nothing to hold told me in Utah except for the drugs. Everyone I had loved was absent in my life. But the drugs. There was no reason for me to stay. The impending move got closer and I had to make a decision. I think I knew deep down that if I stayed behind with Tyler my life would disintegrate into that of a junkie.

The last few weeks before we left went by in a blur. Knowing that I was leaving, Tyler and I shot up daily. Tyler was buying bigger quantities on the weekend to get us through the week. We would get up in the morning, snort some coke to get us going then we would do whatever we had to do that day before getting high. Tyler usually fixed breakfast but I did not eat. A low persistent hum of anxiety filled me. Waiting to get high is like waiting to see a long-lost love. The physical reaction is much the same. Your heart pounds, your stomach does flip-flops and you get that tingly sensation all over. I watched Tyler eat and waited. My leg jiggled up and down and I waited. My hands would clasp and unclasp and I waited. I felt like I was coming out of my skin as I waited. He would finally get done, rinse his dishes in the sink and put them on the rack to dry. I looked at him with anticipation. He would give me that half sideways smile and motion me to follow him to the bedroom. I was right behind him as he walked over to the nightstand. He pulled open the drawer and removed our works. 

I always made sure that we had fresh needles every third or fourth time we shot up. I still insisted on sanitizing with alcohol prep pads. Never mind the dirty spoon Tyler cooked up in. Never mind that we shared the same needle again and again. My blood mixed with his blood in the syringe and got shot back into our bodies. My anxiety would reach new highs watching him cook. Just when I thought it could not get worse, it would pinnacle as he tied me off. There was always the underlying element of fear. Would this dose be too strong? Would I go to sleep and not wake? Then he would find my vein and I would watch as the flower of blood bloomed in the syringe and he slowly pushed the plunger down. The rush was always shock-like in its power and monstrosity. Trying to remember that feeling was far different than actually experiencing it. The memory was just a shadow left by the bright white high. My breath would suck in and I would gasp, "Oh my God!" as the wave took me. There was no purer love than this. I slumped back on the bed, closed my eyes and just felt. After a while I would raise myself up and light a cigarette, as if in post coital glow. Tyler would always be passed out on the bed. He usually did not mix coke with his, preferring the pure effect of the heroin. I was content to turn on some music, sit against his head board and smoke. There was nothing to think about, all my cares were gone. Hours passed as I rode the waves of the high. Then we would come down.

Tyler would divide up the heroin carefully so that we would have enough for the week. He had every intention of rationing it so we would not run out. Best laid plans would have us driving to Salt Lake City to make another buy mid-week. Coming down sucked. As the peace and contentment bled out of my body I was once again laid bare, a raw nerve. We would rationalize to ourselves that we would just take one more hit. Yeah, we would be short later in the week but we would worry about that then. It was the right now that mattered. The sheets that were too dirty, the lights that were too yellow, the noises that were too loud and the reality that was too real. I was leaving after all. We needed to celebrate? Grieve? Did it matter? Soon Tyler would be cooking again and my anxiety would return with a vengeance as I watched him, and I would wait.

So, our days went like that. There was no talking about our relationship or feelings. No grieving our pending separation. No tender moments of quiet tears and soft kisses, no frantic love-making. It was about getting high and staying high as long as we could. I visited home infrequently, barely noticing the bustle of activity as mom and Sabrina packed. I would go for a change of clothes, having worn the same outfit for days at a time. In the grip of the drug binge, I seldom ate and bathed. I had sallow skin and hallowed eyes. My long hair had lost its luster. At last the day came and I hastily packed my things and drove to Phoenix with them. I was a shadow of my former self.