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Outlaw Anodyne is obviously a pro-drug blog, but I realise that since it’s been resurrected, I’ve not managed to balance some of my bloviations of profound and/or silly recommendations of ‘the life’ with the Other Side of the Sword.

Maybe it’s time to do that. I can sum up the following in a single sentence if you haven’t the time or urge to read on: However much bullshit the Government and Church people spew about ‘drugs’ nonspecifically, or about certain substances that have proven to so many people the lack of merit that this bullshit has, ‘they’ got the whole heroin thing right.  Everything bad you ever heard about heroin is true.  (Which makes the bullshit about other substances even more dangerous, obviously.)

So how does someone otherwise gifted with fairly good judgment – perhaps not the best, but surely not the worst – end up doing the Stupid Thing, and why? To get into heroin and henceforth become an addict, which is the fate of 99% of people who do get involved with it, is to do something that strikes me as being the expectation of every drug-fearing or ignorant blind follower of ‘the propaganda’.

I won’t lay all the blame for what happened in 1990 on the fact that obviously since the Acceptable Use Policy in ‘normal’ society for any “drug” – i.e any medicine that makes you feel good or interesting – is to avoid using it, since it is ALWAYS wrong to do so – and there’s a great deal of evidence that this policy, upon which laws leading to serious jailtime are based, is riddled with bullshit and half-truths, and sometimes so much so as to be outrightly confusing and mostly meaningless to people who “understand” (read: have used drugs themselves or know people who use them that don’t fit the evil profile).

I will point out that some of the seeds of it were there.

But the blame belongs to me, and me alone.  It was my decision, and I made the wrong one.

This “acceptable use policy” is mostly no “acceptable” period. Kids were brought up in my day – and are still brought up being taught this way – that “marijuana makes you schizophrenic” or even “addicts” a user to it. Now that a couple of generations have noticed the lies about pot, the laws and attitudes are slowly beginning to change.

But one idea persists – the “gateway drug” notion, which insists using pot or psychedelics will lead a harmless pot toker on a road inevitably leading to heroin. The fact that this happened to me is the greatest shame of my life.  But it surely didn’t happen to most pot smokers in the sixties and it’s not happening now.  I’m probably one in several thousands that it did happen to. Would it have happened had I not been lied to about weed, would it have happened if it had been legal and thus I hadn’t had to deal with dealers selling multiple substances, telling lies of their own? Just something to ponder.

The “gateway” thing exists whenever someone has a liking for a particular anti-social practice, I think – there’s a subconscious desire to take it to the top (or in this case, bottom) floor of the whole thing.  But does a child who likes playing football feel automatically drawn to participate in ‘extreme’ (dangerous, death-defying) sports? I think the gateway theory is just a way of arranging data to make all drug users look bad, but consider this: does it also in some way ‘write the script’ for their progression in advance, before they even GET into altering their consciousnesses?

I followed the script and made a shitty example of myself.  Don’t let this happen to you, because this little adventure cost me a whole, whole lot of living (it gave me hepatitis C, for starters) and it could have easily cost me far more.  I was one of the luckier ones. But the luckiest are the ones who keep to the pot and the psychedelics and leave the rest alone.  So help me, Gods.

Heroin can put you here very quickly.

Surely I knew better – especially after seeing what the small group of junkies that started forming in the co-op that cured my cibophobia (see prior post) went through when they went into withdrawals.  I never took heroin at the co-op.

I took it after the co-op was no longer where I could go on living, after graduation, after a smaller cooperative in San Francisco I went on to live in also disbanded, a few months after me and the spoiled trust-funder that owned it kicked me out since I had to pay my rent with public assistance one month after losing a job. Looking back, I was more confused than I realised I was at the time. A five year relationship more or less ended by mutual consent after a lot of dishonesty and power games on both our parts.  And I ended up being taken in by someone who, at the time, seemed to be giving me the miracle break I needed.

I will call her Susan. It wasn’t the name she went by.  I have looked all over the net for her since we last saw one another in 1991.  I looked for her at least seven years.  This year, on New Years’ Day, I discovered she died of an overdose only two months earlier.

She was a person who could be your best friend one minute and in a flash turn on you so fast you were left bewildered and asking senseless questions which she’d never let you finish because it was HER apartment.  It was HER domain.  And it was HER friendship with me that led me to become an escort, which we all know is a fancy sort of expensive prostitute, for the spring and summer of 1990.

It was she who gave me my second taste of heroin.  My first had been in 1989, smoking it on a piece of foil, swearing to myself to never tell a soul.  I did it because I’d been fired from a job I loved.  I did it because I had gone to get some pot but lacking a connection, I made the fatal error of running into a ‘street hook’, someone who is paid in dope by a heroin dealer to find fresh meat for his or her business.  But I never went back there.  Frankly, I had not found it very interesting high – my thing being drugs that opened horizons, not drugs that narrowed them.

But Susan could be really, really persuasive.  She’d been grooming me to be a girl who would take over calls she couldn’t get to, in exchange for a cut of what I made.  I ought to have been smart enough to see that.

But it’s hard to be smart when you’re on opiates and making your living independently by simply lying there letting men project their fantasies onto the blank screen of your face and body.  You could get to feeling idiotic superiority to the working stiffs who would take half a year to make what you made in a week.  In addition, she had a deal going with her connect and she’d send me out to pick up dope, for SEVENTY DOLLARS a quarter, which silly newbie-junkie me thought was the going price for ‘opium’.

I didn’t seem to have any way of being aware that this was not a job I could do for the rest of my life, that in only a few years I’d be too old to pull in clients, and by the time I was addicted enough to be ill without my dope – a TERRIFYING experience which in every way matches the dumbass health-class filmstrips–Susan had a new angle in her life, no longer needed me, and discarded me like old news.  After two completely useless attempts to clean up via inpatient rehabs, spending thousands of dollars of my dear family’s money, I decided to get on methadone.

I’m still on it.

Susan never got on methadone, for the usual reasons – not wanting to surrender to a lifetime of medication, and a government-stored record of addiction.

She did evil things to me, but my own foibles caused me to not resist them. I had just as many good times with her – she had a side of herself that was beautiful, and to her credit, she did manage to stay off opiates for 12 years, apparently, something I have not done.

But she is dead and I am still alive, and though my mom, who supported my decision is now gone leaving my remaining family only my younger brother who quite assiduously does not – I realised this year I made the right choice.  Some people have stronger roots than I – and whether my malnutritive childhood, some accident of genetics, or parents who had me late in life and lacked the energy to resist me when I wouldn’t accept their guidance (I refer to my younger childhood here rather than my adolescence, though the same was true of those times, it would have been too little too late) I just knew I would fall into the heroin sink hole again unless I plugged those blasted opiate receptors with the methadone that has saved more than just this one life.

In some future post I’ll go into all the chemical and other differences that make it an entirely different creature than heroin, not merely a legal fix but a DRUG THAT PREVENTS THE BODY FROM CRAVING THE OPIATE LASSITUDE.

For now, though, this is my message to the next generation of druggonauts.  Believe me, the bloody propaganda got it right on this substance, even if it has lied so much about other ones, and those lies don’t make this truth any less true.

Be a better credit to your subculture than I was, and be the person who says ‘no, thanks’ when they should, and thus a far better spokesperson for drug legalisation than I will ever be.  Please do this for me so I can die some day not having completely failed at certain missions.

And if you are shooting heroin – or smoking it – and have been doing so for more than a couple of years, run, don’t walk, to the nearest methadone clinic.
If you’ve only been using for a year or less, I’d recommend suboxone, from everything I’ve heard and seen, though have not got the personal experience to relate.

Blotter Barn

I am so there…what a great museum trip would be…figuratively or literally…

Blotter Barn.

I met the proprieter, incidentally, in a long gone age…

I know pot is ‘medicinal’ since it saved me from having to spend my adult life continuing to live with a rare condition nothing else even touched, and that was my childhood aversion to swallowing solid food, which persisted into adulthood.

Marijuana cured me of a weird, rare eating disorder, cibophobia, which I was apparently born with. It’s not at all like anorexia since it’s not weight-issue related at all, but the effects on the body are about as dangerous to one’s health. It just makes no sense: swallowing food just felt horrid, tasting it, feeling its textures–all were so horrendous, you can’t imagine it unless you had it. My case seems to have been fairly bad, compared to others I now have read about. In the 1960s, no one in the medical community knew of this disorder.  It is still a huge mystery, being neither hereditary nor microbially caused, and though it has psychological symptoms, the problem was really centered in my throat and tongue, not my brain – or at least it felt that way. As a result of years of cibophobia, malnutrition caused me to grow up quasi-autistic, and I never fully developed my knee joints. My face, in childhood, looked terrible–and in late middle age, the traces it left on my visage still show a little.

Cibophobics seem to choose a few foods, usually of no caloric value, and eat those.  I loathed swallowing, especially soft foods or vegetables, fruit or meat except for the skin of KFC. I only could eat popcorn, crackers, pancakes, french fries or the chicken skin – period! All I would drink was orange juice, and thankfully it probably saved me from rickets, or worse.

As babies cibophobics are merely assumed to be being finicky, but when your 9th birthday comes and you’re still like this, your parents start gettting terrified and exhausted by the failure to rid you of it. My brother never had it at all. But my parents had to force me to eat dinner each night, sitting there watching to insure I didn’t hide it or throw it away until I’d eaten the following:
– a tiny sliver of carrot
– a quarter-sized hamburger meat mini-pattie
– two leaves of lettuce.

I had to wash each tiny bite down with orange juice in order to stand it, hardly taking the time to chew, and crying like crazy.  Swallowing and tasting food just felt horrid – unless it was crunchy, salty junk food, which I chewed into dust and swallowed normally.  At about age 5 or so, Mom tried to force the food monster out of me by depriving me of all those things, but after 5 days of eating no food at all, the doctors finally told Mom to relent, and let me have my Ritz cracker box.  I dug into it like mad while a TV commercial for denture cream bleated “Finally, NOW, you CAN eat all the foods you LIKE!” — which made me laugh and laugh and laugh and I stood there watching Mom, and not understanding why she wouldn’t even smile.  It seemed so funny to me and it was the first incident in my life I remember experiencing humour.

I had to eat to keep me from passing out, and they loaded the OJ with vitamins. Every night on my plate were those exact same 3 things.  Trying a new thing was even more traumatic.  My dad tried to force a piece of cucumber down my throat and I think he may have chipped a tooth without meaning to: after that he gave up on me completely.

THIS was my entire food intake for fourteen of my most important years for my body and mind to become strong and well.   I shunned all people.  I did somehow manage to become really good with reading and writing, and my grades got me into Berkeley.  I told no one at all my sole motive to go to the university was to fulfill a desire I had since I was four and saw a news program about Woodstock: I went there to become a drug user, as if it was a career choice…and to me, it felt like it was.  I secretly yearned for hallucinating, and for the company of these adult people who actually looked happy and played like children instead of looking like sad, tired, used up adults…

When I entered college – with the express intent of finding the counterculture and using drugs, I found the student co-op and its communal house with four floors of hippie painted walls and dancing swirling lovely girls and boys…but when they noticed my eating habits they were terrified for me.

The night in September when a girl with a tie-dyed shirt on and another boyish-looking girl friend of hers sat by me in the dining hall they said hello to me right away instead of looking at me with askance, sideways glances of disgust, like I’d gotten all my life. One of them gave me a joint of pot which I smoked explaining I had been ‘waiting for it since 1969′.

“Apparently!’ they laughed, thinking it an exaggeration, but when I explained all my life I’d been waiting to ‘become a hippie when I grew up’ they thought this was amazing, because no one did that.  People ended up using drugs sort of by accidental exposure, and I was thanking them like they were my best friends for finally giving me this magical stuff people loved and hated so passionately.

The tie-dyed girl , viewing my plate and anorexic looking body, quipped “Either you are morbidly unobese and eating astronaut food pills or you really did need this all your life…”

I think the next hour was one of the sweetest I ever knew.  The pot I tried – mistakenly – in high school never worked but this did, and not only did I feel happiness for the first time in my life – in my reduced condition ‘happy’ had just meant ‘not horribly miserable’ despite my perfect family raising me and giving me anything I ever asked for…This was a “happy’ my body felt.

Fleeting memories exist of my first few weeks at the place…of one of the girls holding my head against her arm while the other helped me slowly swallow three bites of rice, lentils and zucchini that she cooked. I tasted the food and it was homey and nice and I loved it.  The orange juice in front of me sat there and I didn’t even reach for it.

After a week of this, my cibophobia was about 90 percent cured and a year removed almost all traces of it.  Marijuana pretty much saved my life – I’d have died of something far too soon, had I not begun to eat real food regularly…my concentration improved despite the pot use, and I did wonderful in my first year at Berkeley.

Enjoyed the heck outa the Hip Forums.  Definitely will spend a bunch more time THERE if I can squeeze some out of a day.  A fellow named PB Smith posted this entertaining, even if somewhat disturbing, list there a few years back…I reran it with a few small grammatical changes and added some responses.   (Italicised commentary from me follows each list item.)

1 Don’t even bother trying to explain to the nice police officer why you were driving into oncoming traffic. With your lights off. And no, holding a flashlight out the window does not count as headlights. (Why would headlights even matter once you’re in “driving to the opposite direction the street is flowing its traffic towards” territory? More importantly, what the fuck are you doing in a car behind its wheel while on a road in the first place if you have a head full of LSD? My hard, absolute rule is ‘do not drive on drugs’ – ESPECIALLY psychedelics, even if you have somehow managed to develop an adeptness for keeping the ‘hallucinarea’ away from the car and road in spatial reality, and out of the temporal zone representing the time it takes to drive where you’re going.  Besides the obvious fact that not everyone can do this as well as they might think, there is ALSO FAR too much NORMAL SHIT involving cars, cops and things going wrong with them that can screw up your trip at best and kill you and/or other persons at worst — with a whole spectrum of prison flavoured badness inbetween.  Use your head and plan your trip so that driving motor vehicles is not involved, or you will be a poor example to persons who distrust drugs and all persons who use them. Driving on hallucinogens is STUPID, no matter how good a driver OR  a tripper you are.  Got it? I chose to never even get a license or ever own a car, as a responsibility ethic.)

2 Don’t try to pick that zit on your face. It probably isn’t real. (And if it IS real, you’ll turn it into a major staph magnet.  Ugh.  It’ll look like a hallucination from hell when you are not on anything, and plus be dangerous to your health since most staph is antibiotic resistant now.)

3. Don’t go to the store to buy some of the new drink, Swill, that you just saw advertised on Saturday Night Live. (Never heard of it.  I would stick to drinks you are familiar with.  The last trip I ever got to take with a partner was over a decade ago; we were both reading the Dune books by Frank Herbert, and decided to make a fluid representing melange to drink after we dosed…made from cinnamon mixed with coffee and powdered chocolate.  This was because the Spice was supposed to taste cinnamonish.  This coffee might have been good at another time, but in a tiny espresso sized cup.  We drank a HUGE glass of it and got all barfy.  Thankfully we didn’t lose our blots before they had us lost in them. )   ///…maudlin nostalgia pseudo-flashback for about 15 seconds…///

4. Don’t try to light your farts–especially if you have a really hairy ass. (Oh come on, don’t do this, no matter how hairy the ass and/or how hairy the acid. It’s puerile.)

5. Don’t try to make a “lemon chocolate milkshake” by mixing lemon juice, milk, and chocolate ice cream in a blender. Lemon juice makes milk curdle. (Didn’t know that.  File under “nothing I’d think to try no matter what I was on” – but it’s interesting.)

6. Don’t forget to put the lid on the blender when you try to make a lemon chocolate milkshake. (Or if you are making popcorn, remember that without the lid, you have Mount Vesuvius in your kitchen, and while the eruption will be fun to see, the popcorn won’t be edibly clean, and you’ll have to sweep it up the next morning after.  There are better paths to acidic volcanic events… speaking of which comes the next item…)

7. Don’t keep laughing while having sex with someone who isn’t on acid. (I could write for years about sex on acid because I am better at it than anyone in the entire world – this is no joke – and it was my absolute favourite thing to do in life, ever. It still would be if I had acid, and someone to have sex with. Time does what Time does, tho’… I’m an old lady now, so I need not elabourate on what THAT means sexwise…and since acid’s only available if you’re in Europe or Russia now,  I dun’ think I’ll ever get to ‘Do My Thing’ again. But I did it enough in my youth for seven lives…and the memories did not get old nor can the DEA take them away…so I still get LOADS of joy on a daily basis from each and every sex trip I took…and there were lots! But it is a communication breakdown waiting to happen if you try to do it with someone who ain’t There if you are There yourself!!!unless you are REALLY close to your partner and s/he REALLY ‘gets’ the acid-sex experience, but just doesn’t happen to be doing it at the same time you are.  Otherwise, either both do it, or go solo – deep out/down/up/into the Xenodimensional Realms…but don’t masturbate.  Just lie flat and don’t move, then sway back and forth slowly for a while and then I guarantee, if you trust in the Powers That Be, both in You and in the Drug, you WILL make love to the Gods, angels, demons, fairies, aliens, fantastic perfect lords, princesses, or other Beautiful Uber-personas – or your own Self.  Sometimes all at once…)

8. Don’t try filling a glass water bottle with butane, and then blowing into it when it doesn’t look like it is lit. The blue flame can be almost invisible. Eyebrows grow back slowly. (This is the sort of activity made for glue sniffers.  You are better than that….right?  Skip it.)

9. Don’t think you can jump over your friend’s Ford Pinto, even if he is only going 20 mph. It’s LSD, not Superman Juice. (See #1.)

10. Don’t try to make homemade fireworks by pouring 1 1/2 pounds of black gunpowder into a coffee can and lighting it on the 4th of July. Sure, it makes an awesome tower of flame that is higher than a two storey house, but the police show up soon afterwards. (This seems like something that a meth-lab monkey cooking speed in a moving vehicle, in the back of a van, would do. Not an ‘enlightenable’ tripper who can see/feel/hear their own mind learning how to do a thing while it is being learned…for one of a zillion examples.  What tripper would need to make explosions in a coffee can? Answer: one who is not on LSD, obviously.)

via Top Ten Things To NEVER Do While Tripping – Hip Forums.

Snails On Speed

What a contradictory image that strikes me as being.

Apparently, experiments have suggested snails given methamphetamine have better memory.  But, your Spokesnut here wonders, what ends up happening to their pseudopods…given that any tweaker knows speed louses up the production of mucusy stuff, saliva and so on? A tweaking snail must ‘think’ fast, but move much more slowly than usual, if this is also the case with them, too.

Now, I know less than nothing about sports, but it would appear that former San Diego Padres pitcher Dock Ellis pitched a no-hitter on a weekend when he’d had quite a few more than no ‘hits’ himself – but rather than the steroids that baseball players usually opt for if they are interested in chemical additives, he was in the midst of a quite powerful and protracted LSD trip.

I can’t imagine being able to do this myself…but then again, I suck at sports. For a pro ball player, it’s probably a lot more doable. (Animated by New York artists No Mas.)

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