In the beginning, I loved everything about doing coke. I loved when my dealer showed up. I loved the secrecy of slipping bills into his hand and getting that baggie in return. Something I wanted more than anything. My anxiety would dissipate as soon as I wrapped my fingers around that beautiful little baggie. I would head for the nearest bathroom. I didn’t care about anything else. I loved crushing it up with the back of my credit card. I loved pouring a pile of that shiny white powder onto the toilet tank, and the ritual of cutting up lines, making them perfect. I loved rolling up that bill and devouring the line, snorting it into my nose with one controlled motion. I loved the way it smelled—like gasoline and decaying bugs. I loved the way it dripped down the back of my throat, prompting my tongue to tingle and go numb.
The first few lines were what I lived for. I’d apply a fresh coat of lipstick, hitch my skirt up a little higher, and undo an extra button on my shirt. When I emerged from the bathroom, I was myself again. Confident. Sexy. High. It was how I wanted people to see me. It was who I wanted to be. I was quicker with my wit, sharper with my comebacks. Mostly, I loved coke because I knew who I was when I was doing it. I knew everything about that girl. She was sure of herself. Everyone loved her. Men and women wanted her. And she always got what she wanted.
But after those first few lines, the want became need. I was no longer in control of myself. I didn’t know what I was saying, where I was going. I was shaky, spilling all my secrets, talking simply because it felt good. I just wanted that next bump. It was all that mattered. I had to maintain the feeling. I didn’t want it to ever go away. Fiending, wild-eyed, scanning the room. Who has coke? Do you have any coke? Where can I get more coke?
I became sloppier. The ritual was no longer important. I just needed it. Now. I didn’t even try to conceal it. Snorting key bumps under my coat. White powder caked in my nose. I didn’t care about anything. I just needed it now.
I would pace around the room as the sun came up. Some guy passed out nearby. I wanted out of my skin, out of my body. Out. Out. Out. It wasn’t fun anymore. This isn’t fun anymore. Cutting up lines not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t stop. The self-loathing would come. When the coke ran out, the self-loathing would come. Lying in bed, crying and praying to God to please let me sleep. Please kill me. Please God, just let me die. Let me die tonight so this will be over. I can’t take it anymore. Please. Let me die. Please.
That part I didn’t love so much.