As I said in my last post, the Junkie and I separated for two years, beginning in 2000. We reunited in 2002 and moved into another rented house in the city. The neighborhood in which we lived is well-known for having a lot of junkies, but is not at all considered a bad neighborhood. Of course, 2002 was well before he became a junkie and we reunited with the intent to make our marriage better.
The Junkie had grown up next door to a brother and sister who had fallen deep into heroin addiction. Surprisingly, they now lived across the street from us and, although they were childhood friends of his, he made it clear they were not allowed in our home. They were well-known for robbing homes when noone was home, and also for stealing from anyone who actually allowed them to come in. The Junkie occassionally allowed them to come over and use our phone, but only on the front porch.
We only lived in this rented house for a year, because we bought a house in the same neighborhood. But during our year in that rented house, a 14K gold bracelet of mine went missing. I figured I had lost it, but I never really was sure, and always thought it was possible that someone had stolen it. We forgot about it, and prepared to move to our new home.
The new home was on a much quieter street. The house had been previously owned by an elderly widow, who had since been placed in a nursing home. We found the house when we visited it during an estate sale being held there. We bought the house with all the furnishings that hadn't sold, as her relatives had no desire to clean all this out themselves. This was a bonus for us, as the house was much bigger, and we pretty much needed the extras, and many of them were bona-fide antiques. Before we could move in, there was a ton of work to be done; washing walls, carpet cleaning, painting, etc. The Junkie took care of this, while I packed. He was working nights, so all this was done during the day. I packed after work for me, in the evening.
One day, this brother and sister walked by the new house and saw the Junkie outside doing some yard work. They greeted him and waved, and went on their way. As I mentioned, our new house was in the same neighborhood as the rented one, and they had to walk past the old house to get home. Realizing that the rented house was empty, with most of our belongings still in it, they broke in. When I got home from work that evening, I commenced with more packing. It was a weekend for the Junkie, so he was home helping me. I opened a box and realized things were out of place. I had a jewelry box that I had taped shut, so the drawers and door wouldn't come open in the move. The tape was gone. I called the Junkie over and showed it to him, asking him if he opened it. He said no, and said he would have no reason to do such a thing. When I finally opened the drawers, I realized much a few pieces of the gold jewelry were gone. Immediately, we looked at each other and said, "check the night stands".
We each kept a handgun in the night stands next to our respective bedsides. His was a .38, mine was a .22. You guessed it, they were both gone. I asked him if he was sure he hadn't packed them up. He said he was pretty sure he hadn't, but we checked the one suitcase he had packed. Nothing there. He remembered seeing the brother and sister at the new house, and figured it must have been them, knowing their reputation for robbing empty houses. And seeing him at the new house, they knew the rented house would have been empty. We looked around and saw they had entered in a back window.
We contacted the Police, who came right out. They took fingerprints, and we gave statements. The Junkie kept meticulous records of our firearms. They were completely legal, and he had the serial numbers written down and kept in a safe place. We provided these to the Police and I started to worry. My biggest worry was that my handgun would be used in a crime. I had a lot of trouble dealing with that, and although my friends told me it wouldn't be my fault, I couldn't help but think that if I didn't have a handgun in the first place, it wouldn't be out on the street now. I know, it's a stretch, but that was my mindset. The fingerprints weren't helpful to the Police and the robbery went unsolved. But we knew. A few months later, the brother got arrested for robbing several businesses in our neighborhood. He was sentenced to jail for several years and, as far as I know, is still incarcerated.
Months passed and we received a letter from the Police saying they recovered the Junkie's .38. It was found in the possession of a 15 year old boy, just blocks from the house. We were relieved that it was off the street, but my handgun was never found. To this day, I still worry about it.
Of course, this all occurred before he became a junkie. He had two of his childhood friends fall into addiction, rob him (and me) blind because of it, and yet he still started using heroin, their drug of choice, a few years later. He used to say he didn't understand why they let this happen. I don't know what was the appeal of him using it in the first place, and only he can answer that question. I consider this situation fair warning of what happens when people become addicts; you become desperate to support your habit and you steal from your friends.
Apparently, it wasn't enough warning for him.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Foreshadowing...
My husband, the Junkie, didn't start using heroin until 2005, and our marital problems existed way before that. In fact, back in the year 2000, after 9 years of marriage, the Junkie and I separated. He stayed in the house we had rented in the city and I found an adorable two bedroom apartment up in Bellevue boro. It wasn't a friendly split initially and I didn't tell him where I lived for quite a while. The alleged cheating that lead to the split was merely the cherry on top of a sundae chock full of abuse, control, lies and mistrust. For reasons of which I'm not very clear, we eventually started talking again, and occassionally slept together. During this time, we saw other people but it was always understood that we were working on getting back together. It was a weird combination of Limbo-Land and Uncertainville. But there we resided, for two years.
One Saturday morning in 2001, I awoke to my phone ringing. It was him, telling me that a friend of his had died. I consider this the first time heroin ever affected me.
This friend (I'll call him Joe) grew up across the street from the Junkie and was like an older brother to him. When they were kids, Joe's parents watched out for the Junkie and his brother when their mom had to work late. They bought their favorite cereals and foods because they knew my mother-in-law was raising the boys on her own with little to no help from their father. So we never turned Joe away when he'd come by the house, hungry or needing a place to crash. Heck, I liked seeing Joe. It gave me a reason to open the cupboards and start cooking. He always appreciated a home-cooked meal and I was happy to oblige him. I knew his parents, how concerned they were with his well-being, and although I was younger than him, I tried to look out for him too. Returning the favor, if you will.
I knew Joe was a junkie. He had terrible arthritis and started using heroin as a pain killer, of sorts. Of course, he became hooked and his life soon revolved around using. He was a really great guy. I've met alot of junkies and addicts since then and none of them were even remotely as cool as Joe. He was sweet, kind, gentle and, believe it or not, trustworthy. He loved the Beatles, and knew every word to every song they ever recorded. He had a truck and was always going with us to estate sales, helping us pick up furniture, etc. He even helped me move some furniture that a friend had given me for my apartment during our separation. But one day, Joe drove his truck while high and totalled it. I consider this the beginning of the end for Joe. He lost the drive to be productive and did a swan-dive into the pool of addiction.
So on that Saturday morning in 2001, Joe died of a heroin overdose. In the bathroom of the house where I had once lived. Of course, the Junkie knew that Joe was an addict as well, but I'm sure he never expected he would find him like that. Joe had always promised us that he would never use at our house, and as far as I knew, he never did until that day. Remember, we were separated at the time, so I wasn't there (thank heavens). Apparently, Joe had shown up on Friday evening and they had drank some beer and hung out. It got pretty late and they both went to sleep; the Junkie in the bedroom, and Joe on the couch. When the Junkie woke up at about 5am, Joe was in the bathroom. He waited a few minutes for him and when he never came out, he opened the door and Joe was sitting there, a needle still in his arm. There was an attempt at CPR, but Joe was gone. The paramedics and police showed up, as well as Joe's family. The Junkie took the needle out of his arm to save his parents from seeing him like that.
Four days later, I went to Joe's funeral. Although I'd had people close to me die before, it was never so senseless and I was overcome with emotion. It was your standard Catholic funeral, and I got the feeling that the priest didn't actually know Joe all that well. But when the service was over, Joe's dad approached the podium. And I will never forget his words. He was justifiably emotional and all he managed to get out was, "If you know anyone who uses drugs, do whatever you can to stop them. Just do.... whatever you can". There wasn't a dry eye in the house. Even as I write this, eight years later, I feel that man's pain and wipe away the tears.
I look back on this time and wonder how the Junkie could live through this experience... and still decide to use heroin. I guess he didn't think he'd ever become an addict. Of course he didn't. But I always wonder, "did he think he was special?" I wonder this because I know I'm not special. I know if I start using a drug like heroin, I'll become an addict. I understand the curiosity factor, but I don't understand how you can help bury your best friend and then chose to go down the same path. It's almost as if Joe died in vain. And that's what's truly the tragedy.
One Saturday morning in 2001, I awoke to my phone ringing. It was him, telling me that a friend of his had died. I consider this the first time heroin ever affected me.
This friend (I'll call him Joe) grew up across the street from the Junkie and was like an older brother to him. When they were kids, Joe's parents watched out for the Junkie and his brother when their mom had to work late. They bought their favorite cereals and foods because they knew my mother-in-law was raising the boys on her own with little to no help from their father. So we never turned Joe away when he'd come by the house, hungry or needing a place to crash. Heck, I liked seeing Joe. It gave me a reason to open the cupboards and start cooking. He always appreciated a home-cooked meal and I was happy to oblige him. I knew his parents, how concerned they were with his well-being, and although I was younger than him, I tried to look out for him too. Returning the favor, if you will.
I knew Joe was a junkie. He had terrible arthritis and started using heroin as a pain killer, of sorts. Of course, he became hooked and his life soon revolved around using. He was a really great guy. I've met alot of junkies and addicts since then and none of them were even remotely as cool as Joe. He was sweet, kind, gentle and, believe it or not, trustworthy. He loved the Beatles, and knew every word to every song they ever recorded. He had a truck and was always going with us to estate sales, helping us pick up furniture, etc. He even helped me move some furniture that a friend had given me for my apartment during our separation. But one day, Joe drove his truck while high and totalled it. I consider this the beginning of the end for Joe. He lost the drive to be productive and did a swan-dive into the pool of addiction.
So on that Saturday morning in 2001, Joe died of a heroin overdose. In the bathroom of the house where I had once lived. Of course, the Junkie knew that Joe was an addict as well, but I'm sure he never expected he would find him like that. Joe had always promised us that he would never use at our house, and as far as I knew, he never did until that day. Remember, we were separated at the time, so I wasn't there (thank heavens). Apparently, Joe had shown up on Friday evening and they had drank some beer and hung out. It got pretty late and they both went to sleep; the Junkie in the bedroom, and Joe on the couch. When the Junkie woke up at about 5am, Joe was in the bathroom. He waited a few minutes for him and when he never came out, he opened the door and Joe was sitting there, a needle still in his arm. There was an attempt at CPR, but Joe was gone. The paramedics and police showed up, as well as Joe's family. The Junkie took the needle out of his arm to save his parents from seeing him like that.
Four days later, I went to Joe's funeral. Although I'd had people close to me die before, it was never so senseless and I was overcome with emotion. It was your standard Catholic funeral, and I got the feeling that the priest didn't actually know Joe all that well. But when the service was over, Joe's dad approached the podium. And I will never forget his words. He was justifiably emotional and all he managed to get out was, "If you know anyone who uses drugs, do whatever you can to stop them. Just do.... whatever you can". There wasn't a dry eye in the house. Even as I write this, eight years later, I feel that man's pain and wipe away the tears.
I look back on this time and wonder how the Junkie could live through this experience... and still decide to use heroin. I guess he didn't think he'd ever become an addict. Of course he didn't. But I always wonder, "did he think he was special?" I wonder this because I know I'm not special. I know if I start using a drug like heroin, I'll become an addict. I understand the curiosity factor, but I don't understand how you can help bury your best friend and then chose to go down the same path. It's almost as if Joe died in vain. And that's what's truly the tragedy.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Introduction
Hello folks. Welcome to my brand spankin', shiny, new blog. I'm not sure how this is all going to go. Blogging isn't new to me. But openly talking about this part of my life, well, this is new to me. Let me start by telling you a little about myself...
I'm your typical female. I'm normal. Grew up with both parents, a couple brothers and a sister. We all get along great. I grew up in one of those phenomenal homes wherein our parents never fought. And when I say never, I mean NEVER. That's not an exaggeration in the least. The first time I ever knew my parents to have fought was when I was well over the age of 30. Pretty surprising, huh? I have your typical 9-5 job. A few times a month, I work a late shift. But other than that, I get up at 5:30am, shower, apply a fresh coat of war paint, drive to the park and ride and make the daily commute via Port Authority to downtown Pittsburgh. It's a pretty simple, routine life. In the evenings and on weekends, I have some great friends that I hang out with. Some weekends, I make a trek out to Fayette County to hang with some more friends I have out that way.
About 18 years ago, I met and married a man. We met and got married all within 3 months. I bet you're thinking, "that's just crazy talk", aren't ya? It's true! We thought we were in love, and it just seemed like the right thing to do. He was a military man, and he dragged me all the way from Los Angeles to Pittsburgh when he got out. We were married for 15 years, alot of it volatile, before he began his love affair with heroin. If I thought it might have been volatile before, this was when the real roller coaster ride began.
Don't get me wrong idea peoople, I'm no shrinking violet. I'm a damn good judge of character. I'm street smart (after all, I'm from L.A.). I'm intelligent to boot. But this man took me for the ride of my life. I ended up in situations I'd never dreamed of before. If you told me the night I married him what would end up happening, I'd call you a liar to your face. I'm not going to go into it all in my first blog. Suffice it to say you'll read post after post after post of the trials and tribulations of being married to a junkie.
We're still married, although we're amicably separated now. There's been talk of divorce, which is inevitable. But there'll be more of that discussion in the future. I won't tell you his, or my, name. I'll tell you all about what was once my life, but I believe in anonymity for the two of us.
If you've ever known a junkie, had a junkie in your life, or even been a junkie, well this blog is for you. If none of the above apply to you, I suggest you read on anyway. You'll probably learn a whole lot, and you won't even have to learn it like I did, the HARD way! Feel free to leave comments, mock me, tell me I'm full of shit, whatever you like. But I promise you here and now, every word I write will be true.
I'm your typical female. I'm normal. Grew up with both parents, a couple brothers and a sister. We all get along great. I grew up in one of those phenomenal homes wherein our parents never fought. And when I say never, I mean NEVER. That's not an exaggeration in the least. The first time I ever knew my parents to have fought was when I was well over the age of 30. Pretty surprising, huh? I have your typical 9-5 job. A few times a month, I work a late shift. But other than that, I get up at 5:30am, shower, apply a fresh coat of war paint, drive to the park and ride and make the daily commute via Port Authority to downtown Pittsburgh. It's a pretty simple, routine life. In the evenings and on weekends, I have some great friends that I hang out with. Some weekends, I make a trek out to Fayette County to hang with some more friends I have out that way.
About 18 years ago, I met and married a man. We met and got married all within 3 months. I bet you're thinking, "that's just crazy talk", aren't ya? It's true! We thought we were in love, and it just seemed like the right thing to do. He was a military man, and he dragged me all the way from Los Angeles to Pittsburgh when he got out. We were married for 15 years, alot of it volatile, before he began his love affair with heroin. If I thought it might have been volatile before, this was when the real roller coaster ride began.
Don't get me wrong idea peoople, I'm no shrinking violet. I'm a damn good judge of character. I'm street smart (after all, I'm from L.A.). I'm intelligent to boot. But this man took me for the ride of my life. I ended up in situations I'd never dreamed of before. If you told me the night I married him what would end up happening, I'd call you a liar to your face. I'm not going to go into it all in my first blog. Suffice it to say you'll read post after post after post of the trials and tribulations of being married to a junkie.
We're still married, although we're amicably separated now. There's been talk of divorce, which is inevitable. But there'll be more of that discussion in the future. I won't tell you his, or my, name. I'll tell you all about what was once my life, but I believe in anonymity for the two of us.
If you've ever known a junkie, had a junkie in your life, or even been a junkie, well this blog is for you. If none of the above apply to you, I suggest you read on anyway. You'll probably learn a whole lot, and you won't even have to learn it like I did, the HARD way! Feel free to leave comments, mock me, tell me I'm full of shit, whatever you like. But I promise you here and now, every word I write will be true.
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