[Disclaimer: I am fine. I’m just dramatic. I also know nothing about heroin abuse. The text in italics is fiction based off a speech I held in the same dream.]
Do you know how people die from heroin? It’s not pretty.
In my dream, I find it strange that I don’t remember this part. I’m attending my own birthday party, both as myself as as someone else in that way that only makes sense in dreams or on high amounts of psychadelics. The music has stopped, and there’s a lot of happy people. They seem to be looking for me. In horror I notice myself, very drunk, at a distance, step into a light and get on the microphone. I ramble. It’s embarrassing.
The first time they try it, they’re sceptical, and immediately get proven wrong. They think it won’t be that great. They think they’re more in control than others. They think it’s just once.
While the crowd is confused by my drunken rantings about quantum immortality and other nonsense I spew when I want to appear not terrified of death, I go back to looking for Her. She’s here somewhere, I saw her before. She is the dream version of the combination of all women I’ve ever been interested in. The perfect one. She’s another consciousness to help fight the loneliness and inevitability for a while longer. We could be each other’s blankets. For a while.
It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world. Nothing will ever be this good, and they know it. The next time they do it, it’s still good, but not really. There’s no way to regain the innocence needed for it to be perfect again, but that’s ok. Maybe if they do a little bit more.
Eventually I find her sitting where I saw her last, making light conversation to the people around her. She lights up when she sees me, almost as if she had wanted me to come back. I’m afraid to get hurt again, so I don’t trust this feeling. She’s probably just being polite since this is my party. Then I tell myself no, I’ve been single too long, I miss being with someone too much, so I push on. Maybe she’s the one. Maybe this time I will be forever happy.
As the body builds a higher and higher resistance to the drug, the amount they inject keeps getting bigger and bigger, until they finally admit it will never be the same, and that they have a problem. They quit. It’s hard. Their family helps them and accepts them and everything is back to before. Except now they know.
I wake up from the dream, and realize what I’m doing. I’m justifying things. I want to be allowed to pretend again. I want to run away. I want to run away. Just you and I. I know I’ve been hurt, and I know I’ve hurt others, and I know I’ve told myself over and over that it isn’t worth it. But everyone else is doing it, and I feel like I’m missing out.
Years later, with their lives back on the road, something minor or something major happens, and they think they deserve to feel like that again. They inject the same dose as they did before, but their resistance has gone way down. The dose that would’ve killed a healthy human being before, now does, and nobody saw it coming.
I reach over to the phone and send a clever and funny message to a person I really hope doesn’t read this blog.