July/August, 1992
……………………
Weekends scared the shit out of me. I never really knew what was gonna happen, how far I was gonna go. And there wasn’t shit was able to do about it.
Most people, most “normies,” buy into the myth that addicts and alcoholics are in “denial.” Bullshit. Almost every drunk and junkie I ever met were fully aware of who and what they were. It’s impossible to deny most that shit: the need to get that next hit, and the need to keep it going once it starts. Nothing about that life is normal, and anyone who thinks otherwise won’t last a day in the pursuit of Sweet Oblivion.
Naah, we’re in denial that it’s any of your fucking business. And that there can be any other way.
By the time August of 1992 rolled around, I had accumulate years, goddamit, of so-called sobriety. They were the most miserable years I’d ever experienced, and to be avoided at all costs. The real solution, the only one that made any sense, whatsoever, was to maintain. I’m not talking about control, not the way most people think about it. I mean maintain my shit, minimize and localize the damage. I’m talking about preparing.
Once you get a few close calls, from getting busted with a baggie or more to dodging a well-deserved DWI, one learns how to manage that shit. It’s all a matter of minimizing the risk, a form of Harm Reduction.
The first thing to control was interaction with people. Indispensable while obtaining your supply, people are a necessary evil. Keep in mind, someone is going to collect their money, their “duckits” as a former friend, Tim, once called it.
Tim was a perfect example of what I’m talking about. Great dude, mostly because of his Cockney accent and anarchist personality.
