The Dopelicitous Dance

As the plume of blood filled the aqueous solution he was overcome by the onslaught of every retched emotion that exists in the hamster wheel of the human experience. The most prominent of which was perhaps a total and complete indifference to life itself, and the hollow, numb, emptiness that wholly diluted any possibility of the despair, hate, or anguish to potentially give any meaning to his pathetic existence. It wasn't always like this you know, this hopeless path of desolation was ironically rooted in an immeasurable lust for life, reckless as it was.

Attempting to define the tipping point where experimentation had become a grotesque incessant need for the next fix was an utter act in futility. These conjectures or attempts to unearth some sense of purpose or direction that could ultimately be reverse engineered and set course to the age of innocence was for the PhD having onlookers that had never lived so boldly. It's quite a remarkable concept for a doper to give credence to anything spewed forth from the orifice of a doctor that's been trained to do no harm. What in the hell could they know about harm reduction from such a lofty scholastic position of abstaining from the wicked. Still yet, on rare occasions where the circumstances are conducive it might be prudent to tell a professional what they long to hear.

Not so that they can later on in the evening tuck into a juicy filet and with a half chewed bit of fat gushing about tell the wife how much they believe they have helped patient x in the last few sessions. But, only to steer both parties to the path of least resistance. This is the onus of the damaged participant and the unexamined white coat is oblivious to this nuanced art of persuasion.

The doctor and patient breakthrough is a synchronized event coming from purely antithetical places. The precise location of this abstraction for the patient is when they realise that they have hit cruise control and successfully fooled this smug flat character into their charade in displaying a willingness or desire to be cured. For the addiction specialist this signifies the groundbreaking moment when the foundation of a proper remission can be laid upon the precarious sands of an addicts predispositions..Of course I'm speaking to the psychological vein, or maybe vain is a more appropriate moniker for this branch of modern medicine and not its big brother general medicine.

Casting these fundamental differences aside it seems plausible to believe the junky and the good doctor do indeed share a fertile bed of common ground that is formed by an arrogance few others are capable of owning and reining in. And of course it shall be noted that no mortal is impervious to the atrocities of addiction and it can be concluded that the most efficacious physicians have likely been fighting their own battles with substance abuse. Even the uninitiated do gooders are intrigued by the dichotomy of a doctor that walks the fine line of a functioning addict. Truth be told any addict that hasn't lost their will to live is usually highly functioning and nearly impossible for the outsider to diagnosis.

Being bent over the knee of any substance besides perhaps alcohol will for a lengthy amount of time produce and unparalleled subservience to order and a strict adherence to the ticking clock of the next dose and it's most responsible titration. This slavery to said substance allows no wiggle room or leisure in its desire to conquer it's host and dispense a complete dominance over it's subject. For this reason alone the addict will put on the most glorious acts of deception to both self and society, in order to keep the beast fed.

There was a knock upon the rotting unkempt threshold that served as the buffer between the fraudulent spectacle he put on for others and the shitshow of a flop house dope den he called home. Startled he gasped and drew in a full breath and for the first time in God knows how long his lungs filled to capacity. The banging continued and he mumbled softly under his breath "I'm coming" as he slid the needle out of his track marked wrist and untied the tourniquet that had turned his arm greenish blue. He squeezed his bony hand together into a fist a few times and then gave himself one tight slap across his sunken cheek. "who is it"? he yelled this time, as the frustration of being disturbed from the nothingness mixed with the preliminary and familiar feelings of dopesickness sank in..

From behind the door and in cadence with the rapping a raspy voice replied "it's Reggie motherfucker, open the god damn door" ! Instantly a wave of calm coursed through the drug addled emaciated body of the dungeon dweller and he strided to greet Reggie his relief man.

Reggie and Iggy, short for Ignatius a fine Irish catholic name, were partners in crime and both shared the same affliction. Reggie was younger and had not yet left the honeymoon phase of doping and Iggy did his best to mask the reality that he was an expert at bouncing back from cringe worthy and soul sucking rock bottoms. In maintaining the facade that life was grand with a gram in hand, Iggy had duped the naive and still in his formative years Reggie into the glamorized yet fictitious notion that dope habits could be managed, and also provided a shortcut to the mastery the greats like Coltrane, Miles, and "Bird" had claimed.

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