Cocaine Addiction

I could hear the deafening noise of people arguing bitterly. Loud heated conversations were more than my ears could handle. People whose voices were awfully familiar made shouts of unutterable words. Banging on walls and surrounding metallic clutter added to the noise. It was a situation I was glad I didn’t have to handle. Then suddenly, a heavy blow went landing with a deafening bang on the only warming place we knew. General chaos and commotion ensued as people ran in all directions. The adjacent cartoned and newspaper houses caught fire. More chaos as some tried to put out the fire. The air became dense with smoke and the natural daily stench of our neighborhood did not make things any better.

Then, out of nowhere, a brain-shuttering wail of sirens was more than audible. That was the last thing this closely knit fraternity would desire. The sound of heavy-engine vehicles could be heard approaching. Now the activities changed from putting off the fire to running for dear life. Law enforcers had been the fraternity’s dangerous enemy and even the little ones had been taught that. People were bumping on each other as they ran to find a safe hide out. Others were being trampled on after tripping on the clutter.

I could hear the sound of someone shouting instructions. I edged over and saw a huge, heavily dressed man dragging a heavy dark hose. The yellow flames were getting closer and closer and it was getting warmer and warmer. Then suddenly I realized that there was no more noise and everyone seemed to have disappeared. Then the hushed voices behind alerted me of the presence of intruders in my hideout. I quickly moved away from them and found myself another haven.

I saw it, neatly packaged in a clear plastic bag. I could hardly believe my luck. He must have dropped it accidentally while freeing. I carefully opened the wrapping and gave myself a generous helping. The feeling was comparable to no other. The heat was becoming more and more unbearable. I had to move. I tried to crawl but my foot was stuck. As I bent over to free it, something heavy knocked my head. Gradual darkness fell over me.

I woke up in a funny smelling brightly lit room. My head hurt so badly.  I could feel the ache in my whole body as my eyes followed the visible parts of my body, all covered in bandages. I could hear a concerned voice talking about me. I was only thirteen, having been hooked on cocaine for as long as I can remember.

I had not known of any other world other than my street family. The kind nurse offered to help me clean up, go to school and make something of myself. I now have an opportunity to dream, where do I start? How do I help my street family?

Tick tick tick tick tick… Plastic credit card against hard surface – up the nose… All smiles.

Snorting cocaine’s a bit like shooting yourself in the head, with a much smaller barrel and your own breath providing the momentum. The shot goes straight to the brain, literally, but unlike a bullet it makes you feel amazing.

My nose burns the way I like it. The three powder-lines left on the bathroom granite call my name but I know I’d better not. Keli snorts the next line and her head quivers the way it always does; a quick, almost imperceptible jolt that most people wouldn’t see, the bullet striking home.

Sandra takes the next one and her eyes glaze for a few seconds as she stares at her reflection in the mirror, her hand rubbing softly at her nose. “Just rub it in circles,” says Keli. She knows that a persons’ first time can be a bit uncomfortable. I’m surprised she remembers her first time with it being so long ago.

Keli and Sandra look at each other: “Fuck them all!” they shriek in unison. The three of us jauntily take our leave of the now stifling bathroom, each grinning like the village idiot. With cocaine playing its wonderful game on our dopamine receptors, it’s going to be very difficult to put us down tonight.

We head to the dance floor, and Keli has spotted something she likes. I lose sight of her roundabout approach towards mister whoever because I’ve seen something I like too. At the centre of the dance floor is a girl and we lock eyes. She’s blonde and very pretty and her smile is inviting. We do that awkward dance floor shuffle, maneuvering through the swaying crowd, tripping over feet and bumping into legs whilst trying to maintain an element of finesse. Next we’re dancing together, my hands on her hips and hers round my neck. It’s like living in TiVo, the same story again and again. I chase the same notion of love every night, almost always succeeding in finding someone to pretend to have something in common with and take home, to distract myself from the fact that my relationships are as emotional as the inside of an empty operating theatre, and that I chase after anything I can that’ll help me forget that fact.

I find out her name is Nicola, and the night continues with drinks at my place. A few covert trips to the bathroom to top up and we’re on our way – same old same old.

I know the morning’s going to be bad because of the light. It cuts into my psyche like a surgeons’ scalpel through flesh, and that’s just the light. The inside of my fragile mind feels broken, and the world looks terrifying threatening. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with Nicole.

Thankfully she’s one of those ones; pragmatic. She’s picked up her stuff and is nowhere to be seen. Probably woke up next to my scrawny frame and decided to scram. Fucking slut, but at least I don’t have to deal with her today.

And so it goes. I’ll have a few glasses of water and get through the day. At least I don’t have to chug three espressos and get to work, thank god for the holidays. Tonight will likely be the same as last, and tomorrow the same as today, just a little gloomier.

But for a few hours tonight it’ll all be great again, just wish someone would draw that fucking curtain closed.

The addict is my boyfriend, well technically fiance but I really don’t think we’ll be getting married. We’ve been together for five years come this December, but we’ve been living together for three years. We just had our first baby, she’s two months and looks exactly like him. When we first began dating I had no clue he was an addict. He didn’t actually tell me until our relationship was pretty involved.

At first I didn’t think it was too bad, he was normal. He has a good job, in a hospital, he was in school and he had goals in life. It wasn’t until we started living together that I noticed how bad he was. I’ve never known anyone with a cocaine addiction and I had never tried it. He wanted me to try it with him, to see what it was like. I am not into drugs, I’ve tried smoking pot, do to peer pressure and didn’t like it but he wanted me to try just a little coke. I tried it with him, I didn’t like it, and I regret ever trying it.

He continued using and when he’d come he’d feel guilty the next day. He’d show me his little baggy with the white powder in it and say he wasn’t going to do that anymore, that he’d stay home with me next time. He’d be super nice with me for a week and the cycle would start again. I tried telling his mom and try to get her to intervene, to talk to him. She never really did, it’s like she thinks I make this up. She doesn’t really see a problem, she says he pays his bills, but he started missing work and that’s when she noticed. He’s gotten worse and since I’m the one living with him, I see the worst of it. He’s tried strangling me, pushing me, slapped me while he’s coked out. The next day he doesn’t apologize and tries to be all nice to me and expects me to hug and kiss him as if nothing ever happened. He lies to himself about using, he lies to me about where’s he’s at and who’s he with. I wouldn’t doubt if he has cheated on me too.

His personality has changed a whole lot, he no longer has any goals, he is not in school and he is working for a drug dealer too. I think the drug dealer is making his addiction worse. On my birthday party he even offered my dad some coke! He didn’t come home to sleep for the first time. It seems like no one cares but me. Well I won’t let this go on any further, I’ve had enough! I am getting out of here, for my baby and my own good. He has lied to me for the last time, hurt me for the last time, and I refuse to cry over him… for the last time it’s over. He won’t stop…he won’t…

-someone

Submit your own cocaine addiction story.

Just like “someone” did.

So I found this site by searching cocaine stories.

Because I wonder what people go through and how there lives are affected. Personally I think the stories are deep. Hard to finish reading and knowing what’s going to happen. But only way to know is to keep going. I do cocaine quit often and I’m always thinking of doing some drug or getting it. I’m a quite calm person but I’m not slopy. I can control myself easily. But except when I’m doing cocaine. Like once I do it I keep doing it. But when it’s all gone I start thinking. And I go into a mood where I’m saying I’m going to straightin up but I keep making the wrong decisions. Really hard to explain. But maybe someone will understand.

I made a bad decision letting my friend try it and he’s keep saying “Dude I’m think I’m going to do this every day now. I love it.” I’m just sitting there just thinking what a mess I am.

-jesse7832

Submit your own cocaine addiction story.

Just like jesse7832 did.

I sat hugging my knees on the steps of the library. That stupid sandwich truck was late again. I probably should complain, they came by every night and they gave for free but that night I was starving. I’d been coked up for 2 days and now it was wearing off. I was hungry, cold and getting into a terrible mood. For a moment, I let my thoughts wander and I wondered about my kids.

I have 2 kids. I have a little girl 5, and a boy, 3. When my habit got bad I left them with my mom. At least they would be fed and taken care of which is more than I can give them on the streets. All I’d have to do is show up and tell my mom that I’m ready to do rehab. Where the hell is that sandwich truck? I saw someone I knew (and suspected may know how to get some coke) and ran down to meet them. No luck finding any. It was not going to be a good night. I could tell already.

I saw people starting to gather near the street and I fell in line. Dinner must be rolling up. I guess it was nice of these people to do this but by then I was in such a bad mood I pretty much barked out an order.

“Two sandwiches, hot chocolate” I said tensely. “Oh, and do you have any blankets?”

Lucky me, they did so I got my food, drink and my warmth for the night. I didn’t eat that food, I inhaled it. In fact, I wished I had more. It was time to stake my claim for some real estate for the night.

I found a fairly secluded spot and wrapped up in the blanket. My head hurt and I knew it was going to get worse. I began mumbling to myself and I knew that the sweating would begin soon. At that moment, all I wanted was to shoot up. All I wanted was enough to give me a buzz for a few minutes. It was always “just one more” with me. I started trembling and I suspected it was more from lack of drugs than the cold.  How many times would I detox myself only to go right back to shooting up? Then I heard a familiar voice saying “Hey there, sweetie.  Looks like you could use a little help.” One more…just one more…

I’ve got to figure out a way to get out of here.   They may think they can keep me from leaving this house, even nailing shut my windows, but I will find a way out.  They can’t watch me all the time; after all, they do have to sleep.

At least I have the Internet and Facebook, even though they took my cell phone. I’m so angry that I want to scream.  I’ve got to get out of this prison they call home.

They are doing it for my own good.  How many times have I heard that?  Yeah right, all they are trying to do is control my life – keep me from having fun with my friends.   So what if I tend to miss curfew and so what that they found the little plastic bag hidden in the back of my sock drawer, its only cocaine.  My grades are decent, I don’t miss school, and so what’s the big deal?  It isn’t like I have a problem.

What were they doing snooping through my stuff anyway?  I’ll have to ask that the next time the prison warden allow me access to the rest of the prison – probably at dinnertime.

I’ve got to get out of this place, and when I do, I’m not coming back.  They are going too far with this madness.  I don’t have a problem; obviously they have the problem, locking me up like a common criminal, saying they are going to get me help.

I need a line and I need it NOW!! I’ve noticed my hands are shaking, and I’m starting to feel a little anxious.  This is what happens when you’re treated like a criminal by your parents, it makes you freak out.  A line would calm me down.  I know it would, it always does.  And they say it’s dangerous, addictive – HA!  If they only knew how much it had helped me through finals, preps for the SAT’s, and those endless college applications to get into one of the Ivy league schools that they were so intent on me going to, they would probably change their tune, but listening is something they won’t do.

I have an idea – I’ll message James, he’ll know what to do, how to break me out of these four walls that were once my bedroom, but have become my own personal prison.  He has the answer to everything, not to mention he’s always there when I need him.

Just as I knew he would, James comes through again.  He’s going to hide some coke beside the swing-set in the back yard, which means all I need to do is convince the prison guard that calls herself my mother that I need to get some fresh air.  Even if she sits beside me and observes every move I make, which I know she will, I know I can pick it up without her noticing.

I’ll message James and tell him to make sure he puts it in the grass at the base of the left swing leg, facing towards the back door, that way I won’t have to look for it, and I can drop something on the ground, and when I pick it up, grab the tiny bag to.  Mom will be none the wiser.

I’ll make sure he sends me enough to get me through this prison sentence, all while being the perfect son, and before you know it, I’ll be back in business.   I’m going to owe James big for this, but I don’t mind.

I feel better already, knowing that in less than an hour my little piece of heaven will be waiting below.   Now if I can get the parents to stop crying all the time and telling me that I have a problem, life will once again be good.

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My seven-year-old son came up the stairs around 8am, he saw my door was closed, but slowly opened it.  The light broke the darkness of the room and shined in my worn out face, just giving enough light to realize the morning had come.  Before I had a chance to say anything the door was pushed all the way open and a tiny figure entered.

“Daddy, I’m hungry,” said my son softly. I could only imagine the smells my son was getting from the room, drugs, sex, and alcohol.  All night partying and snorting coke, drinking until my body said stop.  I can only hope the woman I brought home saw herself out that night, as I never noticed nor cared.  I managed to pull myself out of bed, but the aftermath of the party soon kicked in and I immediately felt sick and crawled to the bathroom.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see my son looking at me with such an innocent look, not really knowing what his daddy was doing.  It sometimes surprised me though that he never asked what was wrong, or maybe I was just ignorant enough to not pay any attention to it.  After throwing up the entire nights stomach contents, I pulled myself to look in the mirror.  An absolute monster is all I saw, my eyes were blood shot and face was swollen.  Around my nose was red and dry, with some crusty blood still hanging on.  I had not shaved in a few days, and really looked as if I had spent a month in a refugee camp.  Is this what my son saw; was this the image I was projecting to him?  I tried my best to clean myself up, but it seemed to be no use, this would have to do.

Walking down the stairs was a challenge, my son had went ahead of me; yet, my depth perception was completely off, what was actually one step seemed to be three.  When I came into the kitchen he was already sitting at the table.  I couldn’t quite make out what he was playing with, but when I got in for a closer look I knew exactly what it was.  When I had come in that night, I left my wallet, keys, and few grams of cocaine on the kitchen table.  I tried to focus and actually believe what I was seeing; my son had opened the cocaine and had spread it all over the table.  He was looking at me with a playful face, pure innocence, and had the empty bag in one hand and a straw in the other.  He looked right at me and said,

“Look, I’m just like daddy,” If I had a gun, I would have put it to my head and pulled the trigger to wake from this nightmare, but it wasn’t a nightmare.  Two nights before, I was having a poker night, and we were all doing lines while playing poker and my son had walked in as I was snorting a line.  I never saw him staring at me until I looked up and screamed at him to leave the room.

I now realized my son had seen a true cocaine monster and was no longer afraid.  He stared at me from that table with no fear, and without any words clearly told me I was a worthless cocaine addict and this was the son I was raising into a man.

I’m walking up the steps to the second floor of a seedy motel located in one of the darker parts of town.  You are almost certain of the clientele whom are staying in the rooms of this motel.  Not much lighting surrounds me and there is a grungy smell in the humid air; it has been a hot summer and I am sure this place has seen good business. The motel clerk asks no questions, as you can rent rooms by the hour, and for him this is a regular occurrence seeing a broke down man trailed by a strung out whore.

I opened the door to the room and was pushed back by the smell of body odor, knowing that the room as not seen a thorough cleaning and was likely rented multiple times today.  The prostitute followed behind me keeping a safe distance, but she knew I had the cash and the drugs to get us through the weekend, so instinctively she would follow me in.  This girl was no different, she needed to support her drug habit and her regular ‘johns’ would be guys like me; family men with money and jobs, no longer caring what happens to me.  I hadn’t seen my wife and kids in over a week and I was barley running my business, or what was left of it.

There was nothing to the room, one twin bed up against the wall, a broken television, and one lamp on a small table with a chair next to it.  Fortunately in this room the air conditioner was working, but that wouldn’t take care of the smell lingering in the room.  Everything in the room was a dark brown color, mainly due from all the cigarette smoke, which masked a lot of the smells coming from the carpet and the bed. The hooker took a seat on the bed and started fiddling in her purse.  She made it look like she was looking for smokes, but was giving herself reassurance the mace was within reaching distance.

I made my way into the bathroom, there was no shower curtain, and that bathroom had not been cleaned since the last occupants, there were used condoms floating in the toilette, along with cigarette butts.  No syringes, tinfoil, brillo, or drug residues anywhere; the room was likely used by a man getting his lunchtime fix with one of the local hookers in the area.  These girls had their regulars and this would be the spot to meet, as it was temporary place to disappear that ironically enough everybody knew about.  I lit up my first hit of crack in the bathroom and I could hear the woman prepping lines on the table.  I got the rush I needed and then prepped my next hit and walked back into the other room.  The hooker was sucking back lines on the table, and I knew at this rate, I would be making another call to my dealer before the night was out.