kicking things on purpose BY knina strichartz
II don’t want to. I'm out of money.
I am in the elevator. Our offices are on the 31st floor.
I could call my dad, tell him just about any story from my repertoire, and money would appear. I don’t want to call my dad.
I reach ground level. I’m dancing in place waiting for the elevator doors to open. I don’t have much time. It’s a six block walk to the subway. There’s maybe 7 minutes of momentum left in my body. I am hauling myself on an Six minutes early, I escape into the single unisex bathroom invisible rope down 32nd street. I take a direct route at work. My six minute shield. Being early to work is not a straight through the crowd. People stop and stare at me, I reflection of my character. Within the past five years my stare straight ahead. I cannot engage. I cannot afford to mind has been retrained to believe that I am barely capable lose the focus I have left. A few people cross the street to of handling anything which requires me to take self avoid passing me, My nose is beginning to drip mucus.I responsibility. My substance abuse is tacked on as one butt bump down the subway stairs. My legs have totally more failure. Just another character flaw in the eyes of my given up. I’m trying to formulate a dignified way I can crawl parents, and yet if I had cancer instead the moral failing onto the train car. they felt I projected would be nonexistent. Although I was a heavy user with no intention of quitting and all my I don’t actually end up crawling. I do start sneezing, research had suggested methadone as my best option, I making loud unpleasant noises. I’m lucky to have gotten a was denied my request. In the interest of outward seat. After two stops I have three seats to myself and I’m appearances my parents decided to go with a able to lie down. More people become uncomfortable buprenorphine prescription, and knew enough people, and switching cars during stops, until finally, I have the entire paid enough money to find a clinic which gave me one of subway car to myself for the rest of the trip . I perform the the first prescriptions for Subutex. walk from my subway stop to the clinic in a black out state. I don’t bother locking the door. I crush three of the white pills.I use the lid of my prescription bottle as a ratchet excuse for a cooker. I add faucet water, creating pill powder paste. 100 cc of murky white liquid mixes with a flash of red and then disappears into my wrist.I’m fucked. I know I’m in precipitated withdrawal within the first ten seconds. I can feel what had been mild anxiety turning to full blown panic. I stumble forward out of the bathroom. “I have to go to the doctor,” I say. I’m not sure who I say it to. I have only been at work for ten minutes. No one questions the fact that I’m sick, they had seen me almost fall leaving the bathroom. I look sick. I look awful. I was sick. I feel awful. Fucking awful. I grab my jacket and my purse. I can hear people asking me questions.. “What doctor are you going to?” “Where is your doctor's office?” I can’t answer. I choose not to answer. No one had explained precipitated withdrawal to me when I’d been given my prescription of Subutex. I had concluded based on the name it was simply “a withdrawal that came early”.No one told me it was hell.No one told me I would feel like I was about to die.I feel like I am about to die.
I must have lost one of my shoes at some point because I’m standing at a strange tilt. I yank off the remaining 4 inch Marc Jacobs platform, a gift from my dad, and throw it over an iron fence into a small park. It’s only the beginning of March, cold in New York, but I already can’t feel my feet. I’m at the door to the clinic. I don’t remember walking the rest of the way. My mind is fuzzy. My phone is in my hand and I’ve called and texted my dealer sending both the clinic address and my order. I don’t remember calling or texting my dealer. I have no money to pay for any half of anything.
