Brian Cronin

Nothing nothing

It's lightning outside. I'm at my desk procrastinating. I don't want to leave. The rain will be warm and nice, but my legs are aching. It's that time. Thirsty for drugs, I have to keep pulling my mind back, it's stuck on drugs like it's a piece of bubble gum. I woke up after vivid drug dreams this morning. The whole night had been trying to hook up, or not having a syringe, or never being able to be alone etc. I rang the dealer from my bed. Watched for him out the window. Was an hour late to work. It's lucky I'm their star, I keep pushing, my punctuality is not the best, but still, I get my work done, and it's good. My blisters are hurting again, without opiates. They're on my feet, from walking too far in heels, running after my bus, and missing it. Climbing the big hill home. Often, I look down and my feet are bleeding. But there's nothing I can do, I just have to shrug off the pain, and it does get better, when there's no other options. It's like drugs. When I know I can't get it, there's no possible way, then I'm okay. I can handle it. But if I have access to the money and the dealer, the thought possesses me. Negative visualization.

Um

So my goals are shit. I could tell you all the excuses that I've told myself, but they hurt. Because I know they're just that, excuses. I don't know why I'm so unfocused, so undiscplined, so weak. It's one thing to have nice goals when my body isn't aching and my fringe isn't stuck to my forehead with sweat. When all I can think of is drugs, and I have the cash throbbing in my wallet. I want to stop, I really, really want to. Why isn't that enough?

1979-2006

She thinks she loves me the most, because of how I looked at her when I was born. I had big blue eyes, bluer than they are now. And as she held me, I looked into her eyes searchingly, besotted, tranfixed. I didn't look at dad, I didn't look at the doctors and nurses, or anything else in the room but my mother. I was in love.

My brother was another story. He barely glanced at my mother, he pretty much ignored her actually. He was dazzled by everything else in the room except for her.

My mother's changed now though, we've grown apart. She's not a playful young hippy mother anymore. Now she's conservative, and buys watercolours of flowers, and boats at sea.

Knits

Knitted by Theresa Honeywell



Tank cosy by Marianne Jorgensen

Dave

Writing yesterday's post reminded me of another incident, almost a year ago. I was using heavily, but not as emotionally addicted as I am now. We would drive to the outskirts of town where we'd meet our dealer, a little old Greek man. He sold to cover his own habit and he gave us beautiful smack. He was an old softy, but pretended to be gruff. He was a bit sweet on me. It's funny how well you get to know a dealer, you see them more than anyone else, two or three times a day. This particular day was thick with clouds and grey rain. We met him on the usual street corner, by the Greek pub with a corner of slot machines and good cheap coffee. It was the three of us, me, my boyfriend and Dave. Dave is one of those people who talks about illegal things loudly in public, cheats on his girlfriend (that he loves) and lies about it and borrows money with no intention of paying it back. But somehow, despite it all, he's charming. We drove through surburbia, rushing to find an alley. My boyfriend was driving and Dave was in the back seat. He wanted to cook up as we drove, but he needed water. So, each time the car slowed down, with me yelling at him, Dave would open the door and lean out, trying to suck up water from the murky puddles on the road with his syringe. It still makes me laugh to think about it.

Apply here:

The official boyfriend application

After the rush

1. I had a fit and a spoon. I'd just met my dealer on the street corner. Now, where to shoot up? Let me explain. As soon as it's in your pocket, $30 bucks worth or $300, you're miss adrenalin. Stomach so excited you're retching. It has to be done quickly. That's why people share a fit with someone they know has hep, or worse. It's the moment that makes nothing else matter. Pizza store. I had $1.50. "Fries please.. but first, a bathroom..." The greek owner pointed out the back. I got out my spoon, I scraped in my h from its little packet. I was almost ready. I turned my head looking for water. But there wasn't a sink. The only water in the room was in the toilet cistern. I lifted off the ceramic lid, the cistern was as clean as you'd expect from a dollar pizza place. I gagged. I filled my syringe and talked to god.

2. We were poor, really really poor. I needed my methadone badly. I paid in 3 rolls of pennies (that's right 300 of them) and nickels and dimes and quarters. It takes two hours to work, so I slumped home to wait in bed to feel better. Ten minutes later I ran to the kitchen covering my mouth. Pulled a pot from the shelf and puked into it. I hadn't eaten in hours. I could taste the methadone mixed with bile as it came out. I sat there and cried. My boyfriend called the pharmacy. They offered me two tylenol with codeine. What a joke. I strained the bright yellow vomit. I poured it into a wine glass, and I drank it.

Me who?

Serious & REALISTIC goals

1. Live alone, just me and the puss (in 1 1/2 months max)

2. There are two paths ahead of me. One is loveliness on top and destructive and depressing underneath. The other is cold and hard on the top with loveliness inside. I have to grit my teeth and go for the loveliness inside. (No more heroin from today, methadone only)

3. Meditate when I'm craving

4. Make art again (starting today!!)

5. Start yoga (in 1 month max)

6. Promotion and 10k payrise (Feb 2007)

7. Debt-free (by March 2007)

8. This time next year be way off methadone. Not even think about drugs (May 2007) yeah yeah!!!!

9. Be off anti-depressants (May 2007)

10. Be holding a baby and be deliciously pure and happy. Be completely independent whether I have a lover or not. (by 2010)


Now I have someone (well, all of you) to do it for, to prove myself to, I can do it. Wait and see. (Fuck number 1 and 2 are scary) But I know inside I can do it.

Knock knock

knock knock knock. My boyfriend woke me up. I got up on my elbows and looked at the clock, it was 12.30am. "Don't answer it," I said. "It's late." Knock knock knock, harder now, threatening. Then we heard a key being tried in the keyhole. Then another. And another. Angrily, someone was systematically trying every key on his key ring. And it was a damn big keyring.

That feeling, being naked in bed, with someone about to walk in on you, it's in your stomach and chest and throat. I was scared. "Go!" I whispered to my boyfriend, "deal with it." He put on a towel and opened the door. It was the landlord. He started screaming. He'd been waiting all day for my boyfriend's call. What did we think he was? A fucking fool? He was sick of being fucked around by my boyfriend. He was going to go down to my work on Monday and talk to my employers.

My heart shrank inside. My boyfriend had pretended to go and call the landlord several hours ago. I had given him a quarter and the number. He was reluctant, but I said it was important, just to let him know what was going on.

Now he wants to go to my fucking work. I have a professional, amazing job. Untouched by crap. My safe place. And now this man is planning to turn up, frothing at the mouth and demanding me to pay. I would if I had the money, in a second, just to wipe away this mess. But I really don't want to, I want my boyfriend to fix this problem. I also don't have money again for 10 days, when I get paid.

My boyfriend is supposed to meet the landlord today, by this time. And pay him the full amount and call me, so I can stop worrying. Stop listening for an angry man opening my office door.
I want freedom, from all of this. God how I want to be free.

Open your fucking eyes

I thought I'd paid my rent. I thought my money card was lost.

I found out yesterday my boyfriend had stolen my card and took out the rent money he knew I had carefully saved so the cheque wouldn't bounce. To make matters worse- it was two months rent. Yesterday he took an additional 200 bucks out because I just got paid. I have a new card now. With a new pin.

All this makes me sick to my stomach. I feel betrayed. I had my methadone meeting today. I met my new nurse. She is a butch lesbian and very strict, she makes dumb jokes and laughs heartily at them. She also repeats herself a lot. But she was spot on about him.

She told me to get him out and change the locks. I told her that he breaks in anyway sometimes. If he forgets the keys or something, even though it's on the second story, he climbs up the wall and onto the balcony, where I have a door he can jimmy open. She said to call the police if he breaks in.

It's just so damn hard. His excuses, his eyes. But I'm used to it now, and I know it won't get better. It's definately getting worse. He is jeopardising my apartment intentionally, because he wants me to move in with him. He fucked my account balance again, even though he heard me budgeting carefully down to the last dollar. He knows how my debt is on a tightrope right now. I'm barely keeping my head above water. I can't cover two months rent right now, I just can't.

Sorry, I'll stop complaining. I've complained for too long and done nothing. Now it's my own fault.
In better news, my presentation at work went great. I dread weekends. I'd never leave this place if had the choice. I'm so safe here, from all the shit in my life. But it's 4:12pm Friday. So I'm going to leave and get high. And I'll feel okay about all of this. In fact, I'll feel just fine.

Shrigley

Secrets

It's like a spell, a magic spell. So seductive and enticing, liquid gold. The lushest, juiciest, richest, deepest, highest. The moments you can't explain. The dream world that's reached into reality. It's been looking for you, and unless you hide really, really well, it will always find you.

I used to be an expert hider. If I was in my room reading, my parents would haul me out and make me do housework, so I'd take a book and find a nice quiet spot at the top of a tree, or in a cluster of bushes in the back garden. Often even then I would hear their voices, building up to the yell "...Tooooui...TOOOOOOUIIII...." And then I'd have to come out, and put my book away. So I started to go further, out of ear shot.

I'd take my book and walk up the hill, to the craggy cliff that overlooked the ocean. The view stretched for miles and I could lie in the wild grasses, hidden from view by shrubs and things, the sun on my face. For a while I would go to the barn near the milking shed, it was filled with hay bales, not round Canadian style, but proper rectangular blocks that were perfect for building forts. My best friend would come with me, I needed support because of the rats.

That's where our sex games started I think, our young bodies rubbing together, playacting sex. We'd take turns at stuffing socks or something in our panties, cock-like, but touching our clitoris. That person would play 'The Man' (usually based on one of our father's) and rub their sock-cock against the other one's pussy. In the game the father would always teach the daughter's best friend the ways of sex. This continued for several months. Then, out of the blue my friend said she wanted to stop playing the game. She said it was "yucky" and "against the bible." I agreed fervently, not wanting to seem like a weirdo, but inside I remember feeling disappointed. My fascination with the game had been based on the secrecy of it. The illicitness, the forbidden. I feel the same way when I do drugs. Disgusted at myself, but seduced by the darkness.

Mundane rituals

I shaved my legs this morning sitting on the bed. The bathroom smells too kitty litterish. I clean it constantly, but it's so small you can barely turn around in it anyway, so the litter takes up all the floor space. The kitten kept trying to lick the shaving cream off my legs, or sneakily run up, touch my leg with his paw, run off and lick it. Madness. I felt like I was hungover. So groggy. Last night the dealer had run out. We were panicking in a way, in an aching, lethargic way. Eyes crying and feeling generally shitty. When they finally had something we had to crawl to their end of town, their car had broken down. We ran up the four flights as if it was one step. In and out fast. Then the same old ritual, buy the cheapest thing at the closest café- a can of root beer, so we could use the bathroom. Grab the key. Go in together. Me with the lid down, sitting on the toilet trying to tighten my purse strap as a tourniquet, boyfriend on the tiled floor cooking it. Then the whispery drops of rain felt good on our faces and in our hair, and we were home in no time, sparkling and joyous. Curled up to watch the last silly 15minutes of some medical drama finale, and clunk... that's all I can remember.

pow!

Trouble

I'm wearing one of my favourite dresses today, black and floaty-ish, with a bit of lace at the bosom, not that I have much of one, and sleeves to the crooks of my arms. All sleeves have to reach this minimum, which makes it hard in the heat of summer, when all I want is a strapless something or tank top. Even these sleeves have to be watched, they ride up constantly. I have to monitor each gesture, keep my arms quiet. The scars are thick purple stripes. I didn't even notice them forming.

I was wearing a strapless little dress at home yesterday, doing the dishes, stereo on. Alone. It felt really good. Then I heard my boyfriend's voice coming up the stairs, there were other male voices with him. The dealer? That was the only other person to come up the stairs. Excited, I threw open the door. The police were there, with my boyfriend in handcuffs. He has gotten very (too much in my opinion) daring with his shoplifting, bringing home whole frozen pizzas and 2L cartons of milk etc. big stuff. That was the first thing I thought. the second was my bare arms, I slunk into my room for a shirt to pull on, and while in there I tried to hide all the spoons and fits and empty papers. I started to shake. I do this at bad times. I always look guilty when I'm not necessarily guilty of anything.

It was the same police who had broken up the fight between my boyfriend and the guy who stole my laptop. They didn't believe my boyfriend had given them his real name (which he had). They wanted proof. He had his wallet stollen so he has no photo ID. They wouldn't believe the receipts, bills, personal letters, hospital cards etc. that he had at home. They wanted to take him to the station. It was all very pathetic. The police looked the same age as us. Young and cute. I couldn't believe I was in this situation with them looking down on me, like some piece of trash.

The strange thing is, the police did a similar thing to me last year, bursting into my house in the middle of the night, shining a flashlight in my face and accusing me of stealing my car! They were doing 'random checks' and it was parked outside my house. What made them suspicious was my screwed up ignition that was hanging out, half-fixed looking, but working. It was a beautiful 80s mercedes, and it was definately not stolen. Two months or so later they called me to say I could have it back, but I had to come and get it from the middle of nowhere, of course I didn't have any transport to get it, and I had cancelled my insurance and everything, thinking I'd never see it again. I ended up selling it to a guy who worked at the pound where they'd taken it. It just seemed easier at the time.

superfantabulastic!

I am typing this on my laptop -yes the very same one that was stolen almost 2 weeks ago- !! No thanks to the police, or the pawn shop. The pawn shop refused to give a statement to the police. They told me they'd lie about what happened because they didn't want to be closed down for buying stolen shit. But they hadn't bought it, so it all made no sense. They said the police would seize their computers etc...

So my boyfriend did his own police-work. He met some guy who worked opposite- he'd heard that someone he worked with had bought an amazing laptop off the street for $100. It seemed like long shot to me, but my boyfriend offered a reward, and the guy said he'd find out about it. To cut a long story short, this morning my boyfriend met the guy who'd bought my laptop. He bought it back with a 'reward' of $200. The minimum this guy would take. So I guess he was half asshole, half nice. He could have made a grand on it, but at the same time... it WAS stolen property.

And as for the guy who stole it, I should update a bit about that. My boyfriend got into a bit of a scuffle with him, kicking him mainly, with steel toes. There wasn't much blood, just his lip and then the police arrived. My boyfriend was scratch-free, and quite proud of himself for getting even, or something. It didn't give me any satisfaction, I didn't want the guy in pain, I just wanted my laptop. I also know there's a lot more pain in store for him, as he ripped off the gang he was dealing for. He has some very violent people looking for him.

Even now, I can't quite believe it's back on my lap!! I was sure I'd never see it again. Sometimes there are hapy endings.

A long time ago

My mother missed her flight out of New Foundland. The blizzard had closed the airport, her plane was snowed in. A man (later known as my father) had offered her a ride to the airport. When she couldn't board the plane, they drove somewhere together. He seduced her. Or maybe she seduced him. She flew out a couple of days later. She was glad to get away. My dad was clingy, even then.

Three months later she was in Panama, 27 years old, long blond hair, wearing homemade bikinis and painting boats, getting ready to set sail and go adventuring. My father was far from her head. She was nauseus all the time, even when on land. That's when she realized I was inside her. She always says what happened next was the biggest mistake of her life. I don't like it the way she says that.

She called my dad and told him. He loved the news and convinced my mother to return to New Foundland where they would marry and have the baby. Too scared to arrive home pregnant and unwed, my mother agreed. After several months of my dad controlling everything my mother ate, who she saw and where she went, I was born. Or tried to be, at least.

I came half out, the doctors pulled and pulled, dislocating my hips. Finally they cut my poor mother's smooth stomach to look inside. A tumour at least half the size of me was attached to my spine. My mother blames the toxic paint she was around before she realized she was pregnant. But to this day no one can be sure why or how it grew that big inside her, killing my twin sister. No one, in this small rural hospital had seen anything like it. In fact, the only maternity doctor was still drunk from a party he'd been called away from. Somehow they got me out. Sewed my mother up. And put me in an incubator, where I was closely watched. They thought I was going to die then.

By the time I was strong enough to travel, my mother had seen another side of my father's personality. Throughout the pregnancy he had become increasingly controlling and aggressive, and once I was born, he grew even nastier. She fled in secret one night, taking me back to New Zealand, her homeland.

A month or so later my mother got a phone call from her lawyer. A man had broken into the lawyer's office and gone through her files, he was looking for my mother's address, and he'd found it. My father was in the country.

Over the years, she has left him many times. I remember vividly hiding with her at friend's houses, skipping school so he couldn't find us, watching his face outside the window, locked out and pleading. They celebrated 25 years of marriage last year.

Stop everything

The right way up?

Last night

I pushed the door open, the heat hit me in a wave. It was muggy last night, my hair plastered to my forehead, sticky at my neck. I had just received a call from my landlord. The rent cheque had bounced again. This time it was for two months rent. That meant there was money in my account, when I thought it was at zero. Not enough to pay two months rent maybe, but enough for a nice hit. Somehow, it was 8pm already, the day at the office had been longer than usual but finally there I was, in the fresh air with a full bank card in my pocket. Silly me, I had a new(ish) fit with me, but no spoon. If only I had remembered then, I could have grabbed one from work and the night would have turned out differently.

I walked as fast as I could, my white heels shredding my feet. I didn't care. The subway seemed to take forever, the man seated opposite winked and smiled at me, trying to flirt. He was in his fifties maybe, messy grey hair and a dishevaled outfit with a bursting briefcase. Not attractive. I looked at my hands, feeling the bumps in the track as the subway brought me closer. A dealer's house is near my subway stop, usually I would never ring his buzzer without calling first, but I didn't have his number with me and I was prepared to risk being yelled at, for a yes. Just outside though, there was Claude. One of the dealer's friends. He didn't recognize me at first, but once I said my name his eyes flickered. He called the dealer and asked him to send his girl down with something. Claude asked me if I had somewhere to do it. I said no, and what I really needed was a spoon. All the cafés near by only use stirring sticks and the deps don't sell cutlery. He told me to come with him.

His house was three blocks over. He led me down a narrow corridor with flowery green carpet. The walls were crooked with stained white paint. Everything was crooked. His place was a bed, a tv and a couch pushed up against the bed. there wasn't even a bathroom. He must share with the other tenants. Usually I'm quite shy about shooting up in front of others. I know it must seem ugly to non-users. I didn't want him to see my blood and the way my eyes relax when I have my hit. It's private. But he said to do it in front of him, he didn't mind. And there was no where else to do it anyway, so I didn't have a choice. I told him to give me a spoon he didn't want back, the needle I was about to use wasn't exactly brand new. He turned on some soft music and adjusted the lighting. I felt clumsy and shaky with the spoon, it was awkward and large, and I'm used to being spoilt with user-friendly pharmaceutical spoons.

I was on his bed, he was on the couch. Then he was on the bed too. Too close. Stroking me softly. Playing with my hair. Gazing into my eyes. He asked me if I'd come here because I thought he wanted something. I said no. He asked me what I'd say if he did. I reminded him of my boyfriend (the times he is good for something!). He whispered sweet nothings. My mind is too cynical for sweet nothings, it just translates them into what I know he's really thinking. Men are so easy to read it's pathetic. I extricated myself and had the shot I was saving for my boyfriend. Then I said I wanted to leave. He walked me to the door, breath on my neck. By the time I was back in the warm evening air my high was gone.

-

I woke up last night, and cried. I feel sick with sadness. You know when absolutely everything that can go wrong, does? Like you pay $20 to catch a cab to be on time, but you're two minutes late and they leave without you? Or, the bus just drives right past your stop on the day that you're running so late your heart is in your mouth. That's been my week. Everything that can go wrong has. I found out my boyfriend has secretly been working, he's been buying drugs for himself and has even bought himself a laptop, which he didn't even bother to mention when he got mine stolen. Obviously he hasn't brought it home, so I wouldn't find out. Meanwhile I have been supporting him in everyway, from rent to drugs to food to cigarettes, because he supposedly had no money and no work. From supporting him I'm super in debt. Drowning in bills. Fuck I feel sick. I honestly just feel like crying and crying until there's no emotion left. But here I am at work, trying to smile. I wish I could disappear.

My beautiful laptop

Goodbye.
I let a guy I know stay the night for the past two nights because he had no where else to stay. I told my boyfriend "whatever you do, don't leave him alone at our house." He has a drug problem, so I can't trust him completely. Since he has nowhere to stay, it's probably because he fucked someone over. Of course my boyfriend left him alone. He says he hid my laptop under the mattress. It's gone. The pawn shop said they refused to buy it because he had no ID. They saw him sell it to someone on the street outside. I paid 1400 for that. The person on the street got a good deal. I feel sick.