Madison

This is the headline on the paperwork I received when I reported to the probation office. Well fuck the people of the state of California.

The judge told me I'd probably be referred by probation to drug classes that meet once a week and last a year. I told the probation officer I had already entered treatment, showed her the documentation in hopes that it would take time off the drug classes, but she instead said that I would continue with the kaiser program until completion. Shit. Kaiser Stockton c.d.r.p. meets three times a week for 1.5 hours and requires two NA or AA meetings a week. There is random drug testing and a required family meeting on Tuesday nights. The program also lasts a year. I shouldn't have told my goddamn probation officer anything.

Today at the kaiser program, which is now court mandated, the group counselor joked that he was going to report me as non-compliant for not meeting the required two AA meetings a week. I don't think I can keep this crazy shit up for a year (and pass all the random drug screens which even test for alcohol), and I might actually be reported non-compliant. Then I would have to go back to court and face maximum punishment... all for having a goddamn needle.

In 'the People Vs Madison Arroyo', it seems that the people have won.

I haven't slept a wink.

I looked up inpatient rehabs and it seems like I can't get into a program without paying somewhere between 20,000 and 60,000 dollars. It was disheartening to learn.

I've got court in five hours, and I should be asleep.

I've been trying to read some Guevara the past two weeks to try and pump myself up to fight the charges, but I can't stop thinking about Kafka's 'The Trial' and how this likely would end up as a doomed cause. I'm exhausted.

I was taking Chris out for sushi at sho mi. The place was packed so we decided to go to that sushi joint by Replay Records. We tried ordering one dragon roll so we could split it, but the waitress was being a bit bitchy and said we had to order more. She wouldn't budge, so we also ordered a california roll. I decided that the service was crappy enough to merit a dine and dash, and Chris agreed. I went out first to start the car but when I rolled by the entrance, he was being tailed by a very upset Japanese man. I lost them while driving around the parking lot and kept calling Chris, hoping he escaped to Long John Silver's or something, but I finally got a hold of him and he said that they had him and they were calling the cops.

I didn't have a choice, I parked a bit far and walked towards the red and blue flashing lights. I had a bunch of needles, some pills, and some heroin in a vial on me. I put the H in my sock, just in case, but I didn't think they'd search me. When I got there I had the twenty-one dollars I had in my hand and said that I just went out to get the cash. A cop immediately grabbed the money and put in my pocket where he felt a needle. He seemed shocked, and I was pretty goddamn stunned as well. The first thing I said was "I do not consent to a search." But the cop said that didn't matter because he already saw it and had probable cause.

I was handcuffed, searched, and seated on the curb outside. Chris was in the backseat of one of the three cop cars. The cop asked if all the needles had caps on them and I said yeah. He also found a bottle of klonopin, which were actually prescribed to me, but I had them in the wrong bottle so one of the asshole cops made me stomp them into the pavement. One of them looked as young as me and seemed more interested in witnessing his first narcotic shakedown than doing any of the paperwork or searching himself. The other older white cop asked for a name, place, anything that would lead to them finding a supplier. I just said I got it out of town, I wouldn't get anymore specific than that. He said that he'd consider letting me off if I gave him some real information.. but fuck that. The only thing worse than a pig is a narc. The cops would sporadically talk to Chris, ask him why he never told me to get help, and told him that I would be dead by the age of twenty-five. They might be right, but they're still assholes.

I'm lucky they didn't check my socks, but I still got charged for possession of needles, a misdemeanor. My court date is on the 23rd.

When I got home, Chris' girlfriend Katie called and asked what happened. I told her, and then my brother's girlfriend Cierra came in and said "Sonny! What the fuck? I heard everything." She then screamed her lungs out at me for about an hour, which probably isn't good for the baby, as I pleaded for her not to tell my family. It didn't work.

My brother Mike was pissed, but he calmed down by the time I talked to him.

My dad came over for the first time and we had a long chat. Basically, he said he was sorry he wasn't there for me and that he was a shitty father... it made me choke up. I have a lot more respect for the man. I still don't know if I like him, but I respect him more.

When my brother Mario found out, he was furious. He walked up to me, screamed, "Pack your shit, get the fuck out of my house!" and hit me in the head, knocking me down and leaving my ear ringing. I was shocked. I had thought that he would take the news the best. He calmed down after a while, but I still feel a bit unwelcome.

Then everyone, my brothers and Cierra, said it was time to tell my mom. I said it wouldn't do her any good, and it certainly wouldn't do me any good. But they insisted, so I said that I would tell her personally. She was sleeping when we got to her house, and I was hesitant to wake her, but I had to. I tried to put it as lightly as I could, but then it's hard to say that you have relapsed on heroin and got held by the police for carrying needles lightly.
She freaked out and went into crazy mexican mode. She backhanded me, hard, which evened out the pain inflicted by my brother to my whole head. She then said how fucking stupid I was, that I'm going to end up in jail or with aids, that she doesn't care about me anymore and that I'm a fucking pendejo. She also told me that she wasn't my mother anymore. She basically disowned me. Unlike the others, she didn't calm down. After about an hour and a half, I had had enough and we left. I feel like I've lost a mother.

And so now it looks like it's back to rehab.. again. And to court. And then probably to an in-patient rehab somewhere for quite some time.

I feel so goddamn lonely.

I haven't been in this new house long, but I already feel like I don't belong.

I wish I had a car. I wouldn't mind living out of it for a while. But at least I have a roof over my head for a few months. I just don't know if I like it much under this roof.

I don't feel angry, though the way I've been treated lately normally would piss me off. I don't feel sad, though after the years of struggling and loss of almost everything and everyone certainly should be depressing.
But all I can feel is.. stoicism. Maybe this is the only way I can make it, cut the extremes, stop caring.

Fuck anger.
Fuck happiness.

I always liked train rides better than roller coasters.

worst year of my life. easily.

i feel like a ghost. even i have forgotten about myself.

i'm moving soon and i don't know how i feel about it.

i haven't slept since new year's eve.
i wish i could sleep.

Here we go again. I can't believe how many times I've proven to myself to be the fuck up everybody thinks I am.

This has been a rough year.

I've been looking for a cure for years. Then I gave up on it for a while, now I don't know what to do.

Elliott Smith, Ian Curtis, Hunter S. Thompson... maybe they had the right ideas.

"Everybody cares, everybody understands....
but you fucking ought to stay the hell away from things you know nothing about."

"I've been waiting for a guide to come and take me
by the hand. Could these sensations make me feel
the pleasures of a normal man"

"I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence,
or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."

My Tia Theresa from my dad's side of the family was in the hospital for weeks before they took her off life support last week. She died about a half hour later.

My Tia Adela from my mom's side of the family suffered six heart attacks two days ago, and has been in a coma and on life support since. Today, she had another heart attack. It's not looking good.

My brother Mario and his girlfriend Cierra were expecting a baby, but she miscarried. They had already told everybody, excited about becoming parents and bringing some good news to an otherwise bad year.

My family doesn't trust me. I can't stand my family. I can tell they are always wondering if I'm high. I've grown even more detached from them, which I didn't think was possible. I need to get out of this house. I feel like a stranger to these people.

I thought I wanted to be forgotten.
Now that it's actually happening, it's turning out to be more painful than I thought.

Save for the occasional phone call from Carl or Will, I've lost connection with just about everybody I care about. Maybe it's for the best.

I'm turning 21 soon. I have no idea what I'll do. I haven't been drunk since before I went to rehab. I'm afraid getting drunk will release some powerful emotions, emotions that I may prefer to keep bottled up.

It has been a rough year.

I stopped going to chemical dependency therapy about a week and a half ago. It took a fine song and dance to convince my mom that I didn't need it anymore. Now I've been trying to convince myself that it was the right thing to do.

I was afraid that I would miss the goddamn place, and I do. I miss causing controversy whenever I responded to the topics of addiction as a disease or AA/NA. I miss some of the other patients who took to me as a sort of younger brother, giving me advice and encouraging to stay in the program. Hell, I even miss my psychologists, psychiatrist, and counselors, despite how they would nag the hell out of me for not following the rules. I grow attached too easily.

Less than two weeks out and I am already experiencing some dope sickness. The counselors said when an addict returns to their addiction, they start out where they left off, meaning that a drunk that was drinking a fifth of hard liquor a day then went clean for five years would quickly return to drinking the same amounts of alcohol after a relapse. I thought this was bullshit, and I wanted to prove these people wrong, but I'm doing a terrible job.

According to these chemical dependency counselors, not only is addiction a disease, but it is a terminal disease. The logic is this: Addictions only get worse, they are progressive, and because they are progressive, the ultimate consequence of an untreated addiction is death. This way of thinking is one of the reasons I disliked the program. I think this is not only a fallacious argument, but a harmful way of thinking. If someone who drinks or uses drugs is told that addiction is a terminal disease that requires professional counseling or therapy, and the person believes it, he is likely to unconsciously excuse his own behavior because he believes that it is not in his nature to act otherwise. The whole disease model of addiction doesn't make any fucking sense to me, except to keep people in rehab and consequently keeping these counselors and psychologists fat, and I'd love to prove it wrong.

I'd love to disprove the disease model of addiction and prove that the 12 steps are full of shit, but the problem is that I currently don't want to stop using. Plenty of addicts constantly tell themselves and others that they want to stop using, I'm certainly guilty of this, and they tell others that they just can't do it. As you've probably learned in psychology, most of the time, when people use the word 'can't', it can be substituted for 'don't want to'. I think most of these people don't really want to, it took plenty of introspection for me to conclude that I don't. I'll admit that this might just be a complicated way of giving myself excuse to continue using, but not as complicated as accepting the disease model of addiction-and it's more convincing. Ambivalence is inherent in addiction, and someone going through recovery is in a vulnerable position and is likely to accept whatever their counselor or psychologist recites.

I hated how the program required attendance of at least two AA or NA meetings a week. I only attended one, but this is because I am strongly opposed to the philosophies of AA and because I don't think that patients in a 'secular' rehabilitation should be required to attend what is essentially a religious institution. I got a lot of flack for speaking out against AA, surprisingly from other patients mostly. They said that I don't have to follow everything they said, and they told me to replace all the references to god in the 12 steps to whatever I wanted. The counselors told me that it is not a religious program but a 'spiritual' one, but I have trouble discerning the difference. We debated a bit on this, but it seems that both sides were just arguing semantics. According to most rehabilitation therapies, there are three aspects of recovery: intellectual, emotional, and spiritual. I could do without the last one. The counselors resorted to saying that I don't have to listen to or follow any of the steps, but that since I was required to go to these meetings, I could at least go for the support. I agree with this at least, support is helpful, and I dramatically need some support from understanding people. But I can't get over the cult-like mentality of AA, and if I never hear 'the serenity prayer' again, it will be too soon.

I don't think the all or nothing attitude of AA/NA and counseling is helpful. The theory is that an addict must practice complete abstinence from drugs and alcohol or they face returning to their addiction at its worst. I guess it's understandable in a sense, but for example, I was not practicing abstinence while in the program, by my use was dramatically reduced. I think that using less is progress, but that is not how it was treated.

I hope I did the right thing. I was tired of people telling me "you need this", or that recovery is almost impossible without professional help. Nobody can talk somebody out of using. Placing someone who isn't ready to stop using in rehab can be counterproductive. Rehab might be useful to some-when they are ready to quit-but it is not the only way to recovery. The success rate for rehabilitation therapies is around 5%. The success rate for 12 step groups is about 5%. The rate of spontaneous remission (people just quitting on their own) is about 5%. These statistics suggest that whether someone is attending NA, is enrolled in a rehabilitation program, or is attending neither, they have about the same likeliness of success. I think that people that successfully shake their habit while enrolled in rehab or AA incorrectly attribute the cause of their success to their counselors or 'higher powers' when they themselves should take the credit.

I'll admit that I'm unsure of whether I made the right decision, and I do miss people, many of whom I grew fond of. But I'm young (compared to everyone else in the program) and stubborn, and I thought I could do it without rehab. I wanted to find a reason, a reason to stop destroying myself, a reason to keep living. But I've realized that I've lost basically all of my friends and a big part of myself. I might not have done the right thing by quitting rehab, but I was still using while enrolled. I would have kept using regardless. With virtually no support and a misunderstanding family, I think my chances are slim.

I didn't know they drug tested. Whoops.

When I was handed the little clear plastic cup with my name on it, it may as well have been a bullet with my name on it.

I got anxious, and I drank water till it hurt. Then I drank some more. Then I drank a little orange juice to add some color to my piss. I started to get bad chills and couldn't stop trembling. I felt like throwing up. Yet I still don't think it was enough.

I already said, "I'm Madison. My drug of choice was opiates [I refuse to say addiction because I'm not currently dependent]. I have been sober for nine days." Yeah right.

I've been having such horrible stomach pains and facing so many versions of 'you disappointed me' that I've restarted the day-count yet again. And it felt good. As good as it ever felt. I realize that my days in Manteca may be numbered, but I'm going to try and keep my cool. I've been doing this for all the wrong reasons anyway.

I do not believe that addiction is a disease. Addiction is a choice. I fucked up. It was my choice. I can choose to stay fucked up, or I can choose to get better.

I know how many times a person can say, "This is it, this is the last time," to themselves, so I'm not going to say it. I'm going to get the fuck out of therapy, and try to clear my head for myself.

And one more thing: Fuck 'higher powers'.

Detox was surreal. I was trapped in my room withdrawing cold turkey for two restless nights before I was admitted to St. Joseph's Behavioral center. The staff at Manteca didn't want to send me to a Stockton facility because 'it would be too easy to relapse', but the Oakland detox center didn't have an opening for three days, and I could not wait much longer. I needed some help.

After the traffic jam of paperwork in Manteca and then at St. Joseph's, beginning at around ten in the morning, I was finally admitted at about four in the afternoon. There was a cavalcade of questions, many not relevant to my condition, like religion and sexual orientation.

I was finally led into the unit and had to figure things out for myself. I was the youngest person in the unit by at least twenty years, with the exception of one twenty-two year old frat boy type (there for cocaine I believe), and I believe I was the only person there detoxing from drugs. Everybody else was just either detached from reality or completely shell shocked from some sort of psychotic episode. There were about twelve to fifteen people in the unit.

We were soon led to the cafeteria for dinner. The cafeteria was about the size of an average living room, and the first meal of my stay in the nut house was a chili dog. I was still in acute withdrawal so I only had a bite of horrid meal. There was a nurse in the cafeteria keeping a log of what everyone ate. The more you ate, the more likely you were to be discharged. There was a smoke break after the meal for those who smoked, but the cigarettes were kept by the nurse, and you had to have brought your own into the hospital. Luckily, I bummed one off somebody. It helped.

I hadn't talked much to anybody, and somebody finally asked my name. I answered and got a reply, "Well, we're all crazy here, so the sooner you get used to it, the better you'll be off."

My impression of the group was soured during the break when they went on a conservative tangent including some gay bashing, when talking about gay marriage, saying "all those faggots got their own place. It's called Castro street." I hated it, but I was in no state to get into a political argument.

(i'm tired.. to be continued.)

2/14 continued.

My first night was horrible. I asked my fifty-ish Hell's Angel looking roommate, "So what are you in for?" and he replied "Suicidal tendencies with homicidal idealization."

Great, I thought to myself.

Anyway, I got some good meds bud had a tough detox. I was moved to a new unit on the second day which was much cooler. There were only about four other people, and two were cool as hell.

My new roommate was a fifty to sixty year old guy named Bruce, there because he, "wanted to get to it before it got bad again."

'It' was alcoholism. He was one of the smartest, most down to earth guys I've met.

Then there was Lena. She was an eighteen year old there for cocaine 'addiction'. We talked, played a lot of poker, and exchanged numbers. I should have stayed an extra day to kick it with her. She asked me to, and I wanted to, but I had an appointment in Manteca the next day. I think I'll regret that decision for a long time.

I was sick the whole time, but the other patients made it easier, as did the methadone. I watched the superbowl, which is rare, and even rarer, I enjoyed it.

When I got out, I was still sick. I could do a better detox if I had their supplies. Goddamn gatekeepers. Anyway, it was now time to go to Manteca for therapy.

I lost a few days to xanax, and when I began to regain consciousness, my mom was telling me that she wanted to drug test me. I could usually talk my way out of a situation like this, but I was still fucked up from my benzo-opiate-alcohol binge. I responded by saying that I'd rather live in the streets than be accused of this all the time. It was a dumb move.

Soon after, my family had a makeshift conference and my brother Nando and his girlfriend Cierra came over and asked me what I was on. I was too fucked up to feign sobriety, but I didn't want to admit to iv opiate use, so i just said xanax. My brother yelled at me. Cierra yelled at him. I couldn't do anything but try to close my eyes and pretend this wasn't happening. They stated that they were getting me into rehab.

My memory is distorted, I have only small, vague, cloudy stretches of recollections from the past few weeks. I believe a day after finding out that my brother and his girlfriend were determined to send me to rehab, I woke up not realizing what day it was. I turned on my computer to find out that it was Monday. I thought it was wrong. What happened to Saturday and Sunday? I only had about an hour till my newswriting class. I asked my mom to drive me to school because I was too hungover to walk. I walked into Mr. Davis' office and told him I'd be missing school that day because I was having problems with substance abuse.

He was understanding and compassionate, he always was when I had him previous semesters and came to school hungover or withdrawing. He said something along the lines of there being a program on the campus to help people in my situation, but I can't remember any details. I thanked him and left.

I started to remember the ordeal with my mom and rehab, and I only had a couple of xanax and maybe one dilaudid left, so I went to get what I intended to be my final score. I got fifteeen 4mg pills of dilaudid, with two vicodin and a klonopin thrown in and consumed immediately. The most dilaudid I had used in a day was probably forty milligrams, so I thought sixty milligrams at once with a bit of alcohol should do the trick. It was hard to get more than two pills into a syringe at a time, so it took me a few hours to go through all the pills. It became harder and harder to prep the pills and mainline as my focus became more and more hazy. During the process, I think I started talking to RJ on AIM. I wanted to talk to somebody before dying. I can't quite remember what I typed, and I'm too embarrassed to look at the saved file. But it must have been stupid enough for news to quickly spread to my brother's girlfriend.

I finished all the drugs, and while I was twisted and confused, I could tell that I wasn't going to die. I began to panic. I could tell something bad was about to happen, so I grabbed a rusty old razor and cut my wrists a little bit. Not too deep, just enough to make it look like a suicide attempt. I think my drug soaked mind thought that I'd be taken to a hospital and given pain killers and mind numbing drugs. This wasn't so.

After an embarrassing night in suicide watch at general hospital, I was kept in my room for two days without  as much as a goddamn aspirin. The hospital didn't give me anything. They just pumped me full of fluids and made me piss in a cup to find out that I had opiates and benzos in my system, and that I had piss poor nutrition and minor liver damage. Hell, I could have told them that.

I'm headed to detox in Manteca in a few minutes and I've never been more afraid. I miss Carl, I miss Will, Courtney, Rachel, Danny, Briana, RJ, and John. I miss everybody. I must have done some stupid shit to get into this goddamn mess, but hopefully you guys can forgive me. I got a bunch of addresses, but most were scrawled drunkenly on the paper and are illegible, so I probably wont be able to write anybody. I don't want this to be happening right now. More than anything in the world, I wish things were the same as they were a couple of weeks ago, even though I was lonely and depressed and fucked up. Now it's time to go through the system again, a roller coaster of paper work, phony goddamn lectures, and a lot of disapproving faces.

I'll try to stomach it all, and maybe I'll get better. And hopefully I haven't screwed up all of my friendships beyond repair.

I'm going to try and start being honest with myself.

I haven't slept a night before school this semester yet. I haven't gone to school without drugs flowing through my veins. I've only had one sober (opiate free) day this month, and I spent it drinking and crying to myself while listening to Joy Division. I tried to go sober for another day, but the withdrawals got to be too much. I slept for 16 hours the other day, and I probably would've slept longer but my back began to hurt and I began to sneeze uncontrollably from dope sickness; I had to get up and get well. I don't know how I fucked up so badly after I dried out in Europe. I thought that I would have a better handle on myself, that I wouldn't let it get this bad again.

I've been considering rehab. Dan gave me this book, A Million Little Pieces, about this guy who goes through the rehab process after a few years of cocaine, alcohol, some hallucinogens, and glue. It's an interesting book, but I think a cocaine addict has a different struggle from an opiate addict. I'm not even sure I would use the term "cocaine addict". I had my fair share of coke and meth back in high school, and it wasn't hard to walk away from. I have shot up coke a few times this month, but that was only when it was around. I wouldn't go out looking for the stuff anymore. Anyway, I think that rehab is a bad idea. Part of me does want to clean up, but part of me stubbornly doesn't want to give up the security blanket that opiates provide, and that part is stronger willed. Rehab would be a waste.

Living this way is hard. Every waking moment of every day is filled with thoughts of dope. How long has it been since my last shot? How long will my stash last? How am I going to scrounge up cash for my next hit? It's exhausting, and it's getting to the point where I can't remember how it used to be different.

Lately, my poison of choice has been dilaudid. I've been getting a steady supply of 4mg pills for 4 dollars a piece and shooting up at least five times a day, almost every day, for close to a year now. There have been times when the guy couldn't get any or when he wouldn't pick up his phone, and then I had to seek out oxycontin, heroin, or whatever. The other day, my dealer told me that soon he would stop getting them for good. The news hurt to hear. Things are going to get worse without a cheap, steady supply. Maintaining on dilaudid was five times cheaper than maintaining on oxycontin. I can try and clean up, or I can try and find a source for h. Neither idea sounds appealing.

I'd write a bit more but I have to go to school.

Edit: On the way out of Delta, I thought I saw Kendra Brown walking in the parking lot. I strayed from the walkway that leads to my designated crosswalk to try to catch up with her, but I didn't want to run and seem creepy. She got in her car, and I wasn't able to see her face.

Oh well, I thought, it probably wasn't her. I kept walking and a car stopped on my right as the driver lowered her window. It was her. She called me over and we hugged, and because I was smoking, she asked me if I had a lighter. She lit a cigarette and we both said that is was crazy how long it's been since we've talked. She looks exactly the same. Perfect, fair skin, and silky brown hair. At least I think it's brown, I'm not sure. She asked for my number, I forgot to ask for hers. Oh well. Maybe she'll call. Maybe not. It was nice seeing her either way.

She reminded me of a better time. Senior year of Lincoln was actually a fun year. My life didn't revolve around dope; getting loaded was still just a recreational activity. I barely went to class, did a lot of blow and some meth, though not nearly as much as junior year. I was always trying to find acid and heroin. The final two frontiers, I thought. After conquering those two, I'd have seen just about all I cared to in the drug world. It was innocent experimentation, and I did try to toy around with the idea of expanding my consciousness in those days.

I remember a casual conversation during Accounting one day close to graduation. Some guy sitting in a desk close to ours was asking me questions about various drugs, like what was the price of a gram of cocaine, how much does heroin cost, and some other annoying questions. Then he got to asking me about what I had done, and the answer to most everything was yes except for acid, heroin, and ketamine. Then he asked if I would ever try heroin. I said I would.  After class was over, Kendra and I walked to our sixth period classes and talked shit on our teacher as we always did.

She suddenly stopped and said, "Promise me that you won't try heroin." I was surprised by the sudden change of tone. She said that I could keep doing coke and all that stuff but that she wanted me to not do heroin. I broke that promise within a month of graduating.

I doubt I'm dying, but I'm in an awful amount of pain. Lately, my stomach has been hurting after every meal, after every time I drink, and sometimes just out of the blue. At best, it is an uncomfortable nuisance, and at worst, it is an unreasonable pain that leaves me curled in the fetal position, unable to get out of my couch. At first I thought it was just some dopesickness, but the pain continued even after a dose of narcotics. Then I got the results of a blood test I took about a month ago in the mail. The doctor wrote that everything seemed normal except my liver which he wanted to check again in a couple of months. Apparently I had high levels of AST, ALT, and Alkaline Phosphate in my blood. Of course, I have no idea what the fuck this means. After some google research, I learned that high levels of these chemicals don't necessarily mean anything is wrong, but they could be signs of liver damage due to alcohol or drug use, or hepatitis.

I haven't told my family about my stomach pains because I'm leaving for Europe in a week, and I'm not going to be stuck with my goddamn brothers for two weeks if they're not going to let me drink. The way things are going now, I'm setting my self up to be forced to withdraw on a 12 hour flight to Italy. The thought of going through that while trapped on a plane is horrifying. I didn't even want to go.

It's about 90 degrees in this house, yet I have goosebumps.
I'm not going to delta this semester. I don't know if I'll go back.

I can barely lift my arms. I can't focus on anything. I'm trying to get drunk, but I'm having trouble getting the beer down.
This is going to be a shitty couple of days.

bitch bitch bitch
fuck i'm going crazy.

I went with my brothers to Rock the Bells in San Francisco yesterday. I thought I would easily be able to handle a day without opiates, but that wasn't so. I took a dilaudid before I left Stockton with my brother Mike at around 8 in the morning. This kept my well until about 1 when I started getting the telltale pains in my joints and back. I tried to ignore them but they continued to get worse. After a few hours more, I could barely stand up. I spent a lot of time sitting or laying on the filthy ground. This was the first time I had no drugs in my system in a long time and consequentially, I had to run to a portable toilet as I was no longer constipated. The toilet I picked happened to be the worst smelling porta-potty I've ever been in, but I didn't want to get out and wait in line for another. The stench was unbearable, and I threw up.

I couldn't stay on my feet for more than a few minutes at a time before the pain in my knees and my back forced me to sit down. My brothers got angry at me and said that I should have gotten some proper rest before coming. I felt bad for somewhat spoiling their fun, but I couldn't mask my pain no matter how hard I tried. I seriously felt like collapsing or going to the first aid tent. Eventually I got a second wind and was able to somewhat stay on my feet. After the last performance, Rage Against the Machine, we walked for a half an hour to the Bart station. I was so happy to be leaving, to be on the way home.

This was some of the worst dope sickness I've ever experienced. I was a fool to think that I would be able to handle the day on my feet. When I finally got home at around 1 in the morning, I had a nice, unbelievably relieving shot, and I was finally able to get some sleep. Overall, the day was shitty, but hey, I got to touch Flavor Flave.

This summer has been nothing like last year's. Last year I had probably the best summer of my life, even though I'm having a tough time remembering it right now. All I've done this year is sit around my room and get high, shooting up around five times a day. Some days I make up my mind to dry out for at least a few days, but then I keep holding it off day after day until I've forgotten about it. I've done some lousy things for money and dope, and I've continued to grow further apart from everyone, becoming more and more isolated. I guess that's the price to pay for the cessation of pain, physical and otherwise.

It's me again. How are you? I hope you're doing well. I'm doing alright, but I think Patti Mayonaise is fucking Roger Klotz, and I'm pretty bummed out about it. I was thinking the other day as I watched Judi Dench write to her journal in "Notes on a Scandal" that it's strange to directly write to your journal like you would write to an actual person. Characters in movies and on television seem to always write to their journals rather than simply in their journals. Maybe this is how the screenwriters and telewriters keep their journals, and maybe this is the way to go.

But fuck all that, Doug Funnie was a pansy, and nobody writes to their journal like that. I know I don't, not in my real journal. I don't consider this a real journal. It's not physical, and it's purpose is to be read by others. That doesn't fit my definition for a journal.

Stupid insomniatic ramblings aside, things have been strange lately. This guy Kyle has told me over a dozen times that I remind him of his best friend back in Montana. I've heard a great deal about this guy over the past six months and how we're apparently so similar. I hear this kind of thing a lot. I guess I'm a common breed. Anway, Kyle told me that his friend died of a methadone and klonopin overdose. He was buried a couple of days ago. I don't know how I feel about all of this.

I collectively owe a couple of people over a hundred dollars, and I don't have any way to pay them in a reasonable amount of time. I'm getting over a long fever, but I still feel disassociated and delirious. I can't (don't want to, whatever) stop thinking about the same old shit and how cyclical everything is. But everything is going to be fine, even if it is a bit fucked up. I watched "The Secret of NIMH" the other day. I wish I had it. Elizabeth Hartman (Mrs. Brisby) has one of the most beautiful voices I've ever heard. Listening to her soft speech lulls me into a comfortable sleep, something I don't get much of these days,

I'm watching "A Scanner Darkly." I remember seeing it last summer in San Francisco with Will. It had me emotional as all hell. It was the perfect movie for me at that period. That was the strangest summer of my twenty years in this strange world. It was full of drinking, illicit and licit substances, and the strengthening of some much needed friendships, as well as some bad craziness that was almost all self inflicted. It feels like the summer never ended... the confusion has remained, maybe it has worsened, and I'm still stumbling through the path of self discovery.

I'm leaving to Las Vegas for a few days with my dad, his wife, and my brothers. I haven't been getting along with any of them lately so the trip might be awkward.

The last time I went to Vegas was about two years ago. I brought some oxycontin in a pen tube and chewed it up, wandering the strip in doped up amazement. I saw people lose big in the casinos. Their faces showed signs of family men losing children's tuition, rent money, or just digging themselves further into debt. The streets are bursting with hookers and men handing out flyers for call girls. An 11 or 12 year old african american boy was handed a card with a half naked escort in an alluring position, and his father quickly grabbed the card and tossed it in the nearest garbage.

"You little pervert," said the father to the young boy.

I walked from Treasure Island all the way to the end of the strip, the Luxor. I sat and watched the powerful pyramid's beam and wondered if it was really visible from space. I could see some hookers finding some business. On my way back to our hotel, I was approached two or three times by prostitutes and once by some cat trying to sell some ecstasy. I might have tried to see if he had any coke, but I was broke anyway.

I stopped in front of the Bellagio to watch the soothing water display. I checked out the classic volcano in front of the Mirage. I listened to the screams of riders of the New York, New York rollercoaster, saw the replica Eiffel Tower at the Paris hotel, and wandered through Caeser's Palace feeling like warm and confident. With the dope in my blood, I would have been content staring at a rock for six hours, but being exposed to the neon spectacle of Las Vegas was almost perfect.

Tomorrow I return to the city of sin, but I'm anxious about the trip. When I took the oxycontin to Vegas two years ago, I didn't have a considerable habit; at least I never experienced any considerable withdrawals. Now I have the choice of not taking any opiates and being sick throughout the trip, or I can sneak in some oxycontin (which is nerve wracking) and try to replicate my previous experience. I had some h the other day for the first time in a very long while, and I thought about saving it for this trip, but I decided against it, probably for the best. I'm definitely not ballsy enough to try to sneak a syringe through security. Sneaking the oc is idiotic enough.

I don't have enough to last me the whole trip. I'm probably going to get sick. Oh well. I can handle it. Vegas is a dirty, horrible, fake place full of greedy businessmen, unfortunate losers, and a lot of fancy spectacle. It's terrible, but it's America. This is America at its most honest. It might be disgusting, but damn is it fascinating to watch. If I'm going to be sick, at least I can keep myself occupied in the city that bleeds neon.

Today has been my first day without opiates in a long while, and I'm beginning to feel the effects of withrdrawal: aching back, restless legs, hot/cold flashes, headache, stomach pains, etc. I don't know how many times I've been through this nonsense, I've lost count.

I always tell myself, "This is it. It's fucking stupid. This time it's going to stick." But I've continued to fall back into bad habits, always babbling to anybody that would listen about how "This is it, this is the last time." I'm a goddamned broken record. I think I just need to say it because if I don't, I'd feel like I've completely lost hope, which is all I really have.

I'm not choosing to be sick right now--it's not as noble as that--I just have no money and no access to opiates. I would much rather be doped up right now, sad as that sounds. I should probably quit talking about quitting until I've actually accomplished it. I'm sure nobody wants to hear that shit anyway. I'm not sure if I even want to quit; opiates seem to be one of the few things that provide me with any type of satisfaction anymore, even if it is admittedly artificial. I've been going back and forth on myself like this for a long time. I guess it comes with the territory.

My mom still has some vicodin left, probably about ten pills. It's unlikely that she hasn't noticed how her pills have been vanishing by the dozens for as long as she's been getting them. This is her last refill so it looks like the party's over. I'm debating on whether or not it's even worth it to take them. They probably wouldn't do anything other than keep me from being sick.

Fuck it. Everybody needs struggle, right? I can't imagine how unsatisfying being happy must be.

As bad as going to a strip club with Jason, Shawn, and Clifford sounded last night, I decided to go anyway because I didn't feel like being alone. I forget what the place was called, but it wasn't Centerfolds, even though that's what Clifford and Jason thought it was.

The whole strip club scene can make me feel uncomfortable, so I went loaded on oxycontin and vicodin, which I was planning on taking anyway. As soon as we got there, I began to regret agreeing to tag along. It was a small building full of perverted faces, and I think I spent more time watching the creepy middle aged men than the actual strippers. It looked like it was going to turn out to be a bad night.

I had nine dollars left after the ten dollar cover charge, enough to sit at the stage for nine songs. I sat at the stage a few times with Jason and Shawn even though I didn't really want to. A few hours went by and I was feeling anxious and ready to leave, but Clifford seemed to be enjoying several lap dances and definitely didn't want to leave any time soon.

Later on in the night, Jason and them went to the main stage which had gained a large audience, and I went to the second smaller stage as a Mexican girl danced to empty seats. I only had one dollar left, and I let her know. I laid my last dollar on the stage, but she didn't strip or anything; she sat down and we talked for the duration of a few songs. She seemed to dig my Dead Kennedys shirt. She apologized for being a "lazy stripper," but I said that it was alright and that I wasn't into all that anyway, I'd rather just talk. When it was time for her to leave the stage, she thanked me for choosing to sit at her stage. I told her that it was not a problem. She smiled and said her name was Theresa. I went back to the general area and sat next to Jason.

After some more time passed, she came by and sat next to me. She seemed exhausted. She was only twenty years old, younger than most of the other strippers. This was her third night working there and it didn't seem to fit her. We talked for the rest of the night about all sorts of things: music, family, drugs, school... she said she was going to college in Galt, studying to become an aesthetician. I told her that was good, and that she didn't need to be working at a strip joint if she didn't want to. Anyway, she seemed very cool, and she helped pass the time, since Clifford did not want to leave until the place closed at five o'clock.

Closing time approached, and the girl expressed her relief that she was going to be able to change out of her revealing outfit and crazy stripper heels back into some normal clothes. Before we left, she thanked me for keeping her company, and I thanked her for doing the same, then she hugged me. It was nice, and it felt more satisfying and genuine than paying cash to be assaulted by fake tits. Cliff obviously felt otherwise; he ended up spending over a hundred dollars throughout the night.

On the ride back to Stockton, Clifford was complaining about nobody giving him gas money. I didn't have any money to give, so I told him I'd just walk home from his house. It was cold but nice, and the moon was bright and beautiful. I smoked my last parliament as I walked home, thankful that the night didn't turn out bad after all.