Chapter Three
You swear you’re not going to be like your mother and then you go and be like her. They call it self-medicating these days. That’s the latest term I got from the last psyche I went to. She said I was self-medicating. I think it’s true. Most of the users I’ve known have just been trying to reach normal. The first time I let someone give me a fix, was the first time I felt good. I felt a kind of peace. A hard knot in my stomach was gone and everything seemed okay. The people around me were so kind. They asked me if I felt sick. I said no. And I didn’t. I’ve thrown up plenty of times after shooting up, but not that first time. I spent years reaching back for that first beautiful dream.
I don’t remember thinking that this was what Mama felt. I didn’t even try to identify with her. I was using by the time she died. If I didn’t want to be like her before, I really didn’t want to be like her after she kicked it.
My imaginary friend wasn’t a user. She didn’t ever show up when I was high and after awhile she just disappeared altogether. Sometimes, I thought she was watching me. But most of the time I couldn’t see her and I couldn’t hear her. It was alright because I had all these other great friends. I wasn’t exactly a lonely little kid anymore.
One thing I didn’t do was screw for money. Well, if you don’t count the boyfriends I had who let me stay with them and bought me food. After Mama died, though, I had my own money. I got her death certificate from the county to prove that she was dead and the men at the bank finally agreed I was who I said I was. They had me sign the account records and the Safe Deposit box cards, then one of them led me into the vault and pointed to one of the boxes.
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