#support and enthousiasm they CAN afford

[kleefkruid]

Got a ton of compliments by broke people today. And I don't mean that in a disparaging sense I had at least ten people with all sincerity go "I love your stuff! I am broke. But I do love it. a lot. "

That's what you get for making illustrations that attract only queer and artsy people and general weirdo's but I'll take this any day over having to deal with rich housewives, love you all <3

[sending-the-message]

Krokodil by Ra1n_Walker

Yeah…. I'm a drug addict. Not in the stereotypical way though. I get a high from being wasted. Not on any particular drug, I'll just indulge in whatever's available and make sure I end up wasted enough that I don't have to live every single aspect of life that challenges and bothers me. "I won't end up in the gutter being a heroin addict, I won't fall in debt because I go nuts on cocaine, nor will I ever acknowledge the fact that it's all killing me". That's what I told myself, but I do all of them, which ever one of them is at hands.

"You shouldn't. You can't…."

Well boo fucking hoo.

They all tried. Mom. Dad. Brother. Other brother. Even both of my sisters, but I just couldn't care less seeing as I had to have my daily needs met with herbs, white powder, pills or seringes.

I'll let you into my life and everything that happened as it gradually went from bad to worse. And, first of all, fuck you. This is my account and I'm sharing it for all those poor souls who haven't heard of it yet. Krokodil. If you have a problem with this, or if you think judging me is going to be a life changing matter, you're wrong. I am way too far gone and I'm mustering every piece of lucidity that's left within me to write this down and get my story out. Little heads up: if you're faint of heart, you might want to pick another story, because this one is true and so are the horrors I have lived.

I guess I have to go back a few years to get to the origin of the story of what is now my life, or what's left of it. About twelve years ago (I'm 28 now), I was a mess. Like, pushing away everyone including my family and friends and becoming more solitary every day. I wasn't the cool kid in school, rather the punching bag used by the previously mentioned. The center of mockery, the object of laughter and ridiculisation. Young, alone and desperate, I turned to narcotics, even after saying I would never ever do drugs. As a kid, it scared me and as an adolescent, I thought of it as bad and dangerous. Which it is, but it's also bliss and a guilty pleasure you should stay away from.

At 16, I'd already tried weed and mdma. I live in Belgium and our marihuana policy is a grey area, which means finding it is incredibly easy. I had my dealer, who I saw every other day to buy myself a fifty - that's 50 euros for a good 6,5 grams of pure Amnesia - aaaaand I'd smoke all of it in just over a day. Sometimes more, more often less as time progressed and my habit became so much more unhealthy. I'd tried the mdma as a recreational thing, my ganja dealer told me about it and assured me it was worth the try. So I did it, liked it, and never went back to it. Weed though... I know you can't really get physically addicted to cannabis, but I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't mind going a day without. You wonder how I got the money… no clue. I couldn't afford a lot of food or a roof over my head, but there was always a way to acquire drugs.

I couldn't handle myself sober anymore and by the time I was an adult, having reached my 18th birthday, I was used to cocaine, xtc, speed and a whole lot of psychiatrists to accompany the lifestyle that was slowly murdering me. Diagnosed bipolar, severely depressed and often tormented by suicidal tendancies, you all know what followed. I was 20 when I started injecting heroin.

I ran away from home on multiple occasions and always caused enough trouble in the meantime to make sure my parents would slowly start hating me. Don't think they were bad parents or anything, it's just that I had become a professional delinquent and the walls of prison cells were becoming a little too familiar. So one day I came back home like a mutilated reject of society and was lucky enough that mom and dad still saw me as their son. A monster with no joy in life and an insatiable desire to be wasted the fuck out of this world, but still their son. I was brought to my parent's house by two police officers who'd found me in a parking lot after someone called them over.

"There's another weirdo with seringes in front of my shop."

That's what they were told, so they responded and found me, brought me in and let me 'sleep it off' in jail. Have you ever seen someone wasted on heroin? It's not pretty. What's worse are the days after, kicking off from something that literally attacks your body, kills you a little more every second and makes you feel like death is upon you, without actually being dead. That probably doesn't even make sense, but hey, I'd be surprised if it did, coming from me.

So when I arrived home…. Let me tell you that moment is etched into my brain. I can't unsee, nor can I unhear the sound of my mom's horrified sobs or the terror in my dad's eyes. Mom fainted and dad cried as I sat down in the couch while he let out the cops, thanking them for bringing me home safely. Has anyone ever seen his dad drop to his knees and cry his lungs out, hugging you as if his and your life depended on it? That has to be the most painful memory I have.

That was also the next chapter of the book I lived. A book filled with dark pages, some empty, some nearly black with words and scribbles, others seemingy blank and just staring back at me. It marked the beginning of my recovery, or at least a well-meant attempt to achieve it, and I can honestly say that my family's help and genuine dedication to my cause was nearly enough to actually make me succeed. But I am me and fucked-up is my middle name, so this is what happened.

I was sent to a rehabilitation center. A haven for drug addicts to recover and try to find a way to re-enter society without having to do it alone. The problem is that when you kick off from heroin, you are hurting. Like hell. It's hard to describe, but as I said before, I personally feel like death. Like a breathing corpse, feeling nothing but an unbearable sensation that rips your soul and all hope from your body. If, and I say IF, you're well taken care of and get all the outside help you absolutely and desperately need, you might just pull through.

I did pull through, oh and by the way, did I mention my supportive family? My parents, brothers, sisters…?

They all tried. So hard.

I had a visitor at least every day, sometimes more than one and despite knowing I wasn't alone in this, I felt like the last man on earth. After those cops brought me home, not a single second was wasted. Clothes in the bag, parents on their way to the hospital with their half-dead, overly intoxicated excuse for a son passed out on the back seat. I spent the next days in rehab, kicking off.

Death probably feels nicer.

But I pulled through.

Once an addict, always an addict. Yeah, you've heard that before, right? Well fuck me if that isn't true. I should be ashamed to say it, but I couldn't care less, because I'd forgot what caring means. I faked my way out of there with no problems at all, I was even told they had rarely seen someone recover to the extent of actually being in the state I was. I looked healthy, skinny and pale, but a joyful look on my face, bright eyes and a voice that screamed enthousiasm.

There's always one person, though. One individual that sees through you and the lies you use as a safety net. Despite me being better and seemingly healthy, one specific docter seemed to be aware of what was going on. Of course I was better. Hard to not be when you've spent months being clean and pushed to be happy by people who apparently feel like they have the power to decide that. I had a hard time, but I got better and I was almost out. On the last day, just before I left through the front door, the doc approached me and took me aside, a serious look on her face. Her name was Lea Forester.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course", I said, my voice a perfect imitation of a guy that lived to enjoy every second of every day.

Me: "What's up?

Lea: "How are you really?"

I was going to open my mouth to ask her what she meant, but she interrupted me instantly and kept talking. This is what she told me, word for word:

"A life is something we have and take for granted, you feel like your life is something that was imposed on you and you have no idea how to see clearer. I see your eyes and I KNOW you are trying hard to give the right impression, but there's an invisible wall between you and the people around you. You act honest and genuine, but I can feel your fear and doubt. Would you consider to stay a little longer? Please stay..."

I have to say I was a bit baffled. Not because of what she said, but HOW she said it. There was compassion, empathy and even worrying in her voice and the look she gave me, the eyes she was watching me with… those were so sad. She knew what I was planning. She knew me better than I did and she knew there was nothing she could do. The decision to let me go was one made by the board and she couldn't make me stay, but she did have me doubting.

I'd been clean for months, but I never once stopped wishing I was high, stoned, drunk or wasted on whatever substance that would carry me upwards again. I was tired of being nice, looking happy, healed and strong.

I gave the doc a look and felt tears rise when I told her I had to do this.

"I appreciate you being nice to me." I said. And then I turned around and left, never to come back. I think now I can skip some parts because it would just be repeating what I said before. I found myself some coke the day I got out and I was back into heroin on the second. But then I heard of Krokodil.

A guy I used to see when fixing my dope talked to me one day about a new thing he'd started dealing. Krokodil supposedly was a drug comparable to heroin, with a few differences that actually made it sound better and I was feeling adrenaline pumping through my veins as I thought of it.

It was cheaper. A lot. The rush lasted around two hours. The effects of kicking off were less bad and the high it gave you was something I had never felt before. That's what he said, and that's when I injected my first dose of Krokodil. It was fucking amazing, guys. Please never do drugs. Read this as a recollection of my past, but do not get the impression that I am recommending you to do drugs. DON'T!

But yes, it was incredible. Until it was over. I have never felt pain like I was feeling then. I have never panicked and felt like dying like that before and I would've never guessed all of that was acceptable just because of how fucking amazing the rush was. So I did it again and again and again until my brain was only a fraction of what I had left and my body started protesting against the immense pressure I was submitting it to. I needed my fix, I needed money and fast.

See, Krokodil is a drug alright, but nothing kills you like that. Remember I said that heroin attacks your body? After my second injection of that new devil in my life, my arm started itching, which then switched to feeling uncomfortable and then eventually turned to hurting like hell. I thought I was dreaming at first, but it started turning blue and purple and I started losing sensation in my hand. It was horrible and I can't even begin to wonder what that shit was made of. But once an addict, always an addict. I'd jam a seringe in that wound and get wasted, even if my life depended on it.

So this is what happened. I was walking around town without a sense of time and looking like a zombie with my dirty clothes, deep black eye sockets and a skin as pale as the moon. People would back away or cross the street when they saw me and I wouldn't have noticed if my primary goal wasn't to get one of them to give me money. My fix, you know…. And then shit got worse.

After a while, could've been ten minutes or ten hours, I came up to a shop with big windows and saw a woman staring at it while holding her phone up to her ear. She was clearly talking with a friend and laughing, having a good time. I don't know what it was, why it happened or what it means, but my gut told me her phone was worth money and the purse she was holding probably contained some as well. I lunged towards her and used all of the strength I had left to swing my fist at the back of her head. I smacked her so hard she went flying face first into the window glass and perforated her eyes with thousands of shards. I could've ignored it and never give a single fuck ever, had it not been Lea's face I saw lying on the floor, jabbed open to make her almost unrecognizable.

Guys, I cried then and there, and that was one of the first times I did so. Not thinking clearly, or not at all, I took her phone and ran away. I came here, this calm neighbourhood to write this down and decide what my future will be. From what I can feel now, I suspect it might not be too long. My arm has been eaten away by a drug that wears its name well. The damage it causes gives your skin a leather, green/black look, making you look like a reptile. My arm is nothing more than a gaping wound and I believe I've done enough to mess everything up.

Mom, dad, if you're reading this, I want you to know that it helped. YOU helped. I know you loved me and I would like to say that I did too. But I am me, and fucked-up is my middle name.

Guys, boys, girls, good people… please don't do drugs, any, ever. They sound cool and make you feel like you can fit in, escape from reality, but they really destroy every chance of being genuinly happy and satisfied with the world.

If you should one day be confronted with this, do whatever suits you best. But I beg you to think of me and my story when you make the decision. For even though I have spent my life being high and living on clouds, I have never loved anyone or anything.