I first smoked weed (the wrong way) when I was fourteen. But then a few months after that I did it the right way.
Even the first time I must have gotten at least a little high, because I remember banging on the wax drums at the candle shop and giggling at everything.
Getting stoned wasn’t really that great of a thing to me. I went through a brief phase when I was around fifteen or sixteen when I smoked a lot, but I never really liked it. I got paranoid, sure, but more paranoid that I wet myself than anything else. I don’t know why but I continuously had this feeling of peeing myself. I never did, but it always felt like I did. That’s not fun, let me tell you. I had to run to the bathroom every few minutes just to make sure nothing had leaked out.
But I did get the munchies and the giggles, so I guess that was worth it. No, no it wasn’t. Being high really wasn’t much fun. Kids, take note.
Then one night I realized I must be allergic to it or something.
I never took more than a few hits, because that was all I needed. But one night I smoked more than that and got really sick. I turned white as a ghost and started throwing up and got the chills. I was supposed to go out that night, undoubtedly to party, but I was instead stuck in bed for the rest of the night while my friend watched over me. It sucked.
After that night I’d like to say that I never smoked again, but that would be a lie. I still went through phases and more would come during which I would smoke every day. But all I did was eat and giggle and feel like I peed myself, and I didn’t see much fun in that so the phases never lasted long.
I sold weed for a while, though, and that was much more fun.
The first time I did coke I was sixteen. I don’t remember my first time or how I felt, which is weird for an addict because we’re supposed to always be chasing our first high, but I simply don’t. I remember other times, and how it made me feel on top of the world. This chapter is probably going to be rife with clichés because that’s what drugs do to you. And that’s how they feel – like clichés. Everything is wonderful until somebody get smashed in the head with a large rock.
I don’t know the whole story. I wasn’t there. But supposedly my friend Duble had stolen a lot of cocaine from our dealer-friend, who turned straight dealer on us when that happened. Duble, another friend and I were walking down an alley in Ocean City on our way to WaWa one day when Kyle, the dealer, ran up behind Duble and starting smashing his head in with a giant rock. I stood there shocked. It’s not like there was anything I could do anyway, but I still feel bad for not doing it.
Don’t steal drugs, kids. It gets you, at least, a trip to the emergency room. And probably stitches, if you stick around long enough for them to tell you what’s actually wrong with the gash on your head, which Duble didn’t do.
My coke days were glorious, though. I had energy and did stuff and loved everyone. Coming down was a bitch and a half, however, and I fell into an incredibly deep depression every time I ran out.
I started cutting myself to numb the pain of being drugless. Which became a whole other addiction in itself.
Cutting yourself becomes a high. How deep can you go, how many times can you do it, every time seeking that first time feeling of release.