i don’t like the drugs
but the drugs like me
I’ve been sober for over a decade now. Congratulations to me and all that.
Drugs are terrible, it’s true. Except when they’re not.
More than ten years later, my body has kept the score. There are still Friday mornings I reach for my iPhone- not the old cracked one of my youth, no, but the grown up iPhone with the chic nude case and Vanilla Sky background- to look up my dealers number.
Of course that contact, along with that chapter of my life, has purposely been filed away somewhere I can never find it. Old Sudana did a lot of things wrong but when she permanently deleted that number…
That much she did right.
What they don’t tell you the first time you get loaded is this- quite literally, it’s all downhill from there. No high, runners or otherwise, will ever feel half as good as your cursed first. And that’s not just me romanticizing drug use. It’s science. Something about cocaine taking over your dopamine receptors with repeated use. Every white line chips away at your ability to feel as good as you did the day before and the day before that and the day before that. And. The. Day. Before. That.
no contact found
With no drug deals left to make, I wash my face instead. I am going to take care of myself. I bought the expensive retinol to look my best but the expensive retinol dried out my skin so I bought the expensive moisturizer to get it back to what it looked like before I’d started using the expensive retinol.
I have five pounds I’ve been losing since April to look my best so I bought a scale to measure my food but the scale looks like the one my dealer used to measure my eighth with but instead of happiness I’m weighing oatmeal and I miss the drugs all over again.
I walk to the gym after reading some poetry to feel my best but it’s raining and I have to run with wet sneakers. I still need to look my best but somewhere in between miles two and three when I feel no runners high I wonder if this whole wellness thing isn’t just a pyramid scheme. At least the drugs kept their word. They’re honest that way.
I rush home to take a rushed shower. Rushed showers are all busy, well-adjusted people know. All there is any time for. If you’re good, you can take a bath on Sundays. But only on Sundays.
There is poetry to read and miles to run and hair to wash before 8am EST so I am not late for the chance to earn the paycheck that I am supposed to buy more wellness, certainly not drugs, with.
I make it to the office on time. My boss smiles and my co-worker compliments my red nails and asks, gosh how are you so put-together? I thank her and laugh but I feel nothing. Certainly not thankful. Certainly not put-together. “TGIF!” they shout, over stale donuts and weak coffee.
“Thank god it’s Friday!”
Yeah. Only if you know where to get drugs.
Drugs are really bad, but so good, but in a good bad way, but mostly bad except for the fantastic part which is also bad.
I know exactly, precisely what you mean.
When I read the title, my first thought was "Uh-oh." But then I kept reading and thought, oh good, she stuck to her guns! The suspense was epic, let me tell you. This is my new favorite from you.