David Poses - The Weight of Air: A Story of the Lies about Addiction and the Truth about Recovery

Sandra Jonas Publishing

PO Box 20892

Boulder, CO 80308

sandrajonaspublishing.com

Copyright 2021 by David Poses

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used in any form whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.

Book and cover design by Sandra Jonas

Publishers Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Poses, David, author.

Title: The Weight of Air: A Story of the Lies about Addiction and the Truth about Recovery / David Poses.

Description: Boulder, CO : Sandra Jonas Publishing, 2021. |

Identifiers: LCCN 2021933178 | ISBN 9781954861992 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781954861978 (paperback) | ISBN 9781954861923 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Poses, David. | Depressed personsBiography. | Recovering addictsBiography. | LCGFT: Autobiographies. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Social Activists.

Classification: LCC HV5805 .P6747 | DDC 362.293092 dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2021933178

v2.1

This is for you

author's note

I recreated the scenes and dialogue in this book from memory and journal entries. Some of the names and details were changed by request. Im not a doctor, and the information presented should not be used for diagnosis or treatment or as a substitute for professional care. Please accept my apologies for the stigmatizing language. I dont condone the use of such offensive words and phrases, but it would have been dishonest to exclude them.

part one

1995

one

R ob was right. My plan is a fucking disaster.

It made perfect sense yesterday. Id kick here at Moms house while she was in Florida. No distractions. No one around. Rob would have my car so I couldnt leave. This would be different, not like the other times I tried. And in just a few days, the whole mess would be behind me.

But that was before the last hit of heroin raced out of every pore, before the puking, before my legs started twitchingbefore all the bones in my body felt like they were disintegrating.

And I know itll only get worse.

Rob warned me. When youre shooting this much dope, he said between urgent puffs on a crack pipe, you dont just decide to quit. Ill take you to the methadone clinic. Or you can do a slow taper. Or get on buprenorphine.

No, I told him. I needed to do it my way.

Now all I want is relief.

The volume on the stereo is cranked. Johnny Rotten screams about blood, and bile and bodies. I wipe vomit off my face with one of Moms soft fancy towels and stumble out of the bathroom and down the hall, past dozens of photographs in uniform frameless frames. Most are of me and my brother, Daniel. Our mother is in some. Our father is in none. I stop at a picture taken at a beach when I was eleven and Daniel was eight. Hes smiling maniacally. I look blank, my lips pressed into a thin line.

Before he left, Rob put six blue Klonopin on the kitchen counter. When you cant stand it another second, take one, he said.

I toss all six into my mouth and swallow. One comes up in a puddle of yellow and brown phlegm. It stays down when I chase it with ginger ale.

I wait. Nothing happens. How long before I feel something?

Outside, snow is falling. Seconds take hours to pass. Doubled over, one arm wrapped around my stomach, I call the apartment Rob and I have shared since December. The phone rings and rings and rings. I try his beeper. Were sorry. This number is no longer in service.

I slide down to the floor and light a cigarette. Squinting and swatting at tendrils of smoke, I remember the empty bags Rob threw in the trash after we shot up. On a heap of paper towels and coffee grinds, I spot two glassine envelopes with archaic Hotstepper stampsthe closest youll get to quality assurance on a ten-dollar bag of heroin.

Grabbing a steak knife, I split the bags and use the dull edge to scrape the creases. With the flat end of a syringe, I mix the powder and water in a spoon, and then I suck the concoction into the chamber. No lighter. No cooking. No cotton. My stomach clenches with anticipation.

I tighten a belt around my upper arm and hold it in my teeth and make a fist. When the vein pops, I stab it with the needle and release the medicine into my bloodstream. Tension disappears from my body in less than a second. My insides begin to warm. My legs stop twitching. I can breathe againfor the moment.

The countdown to withdrawal resets. Ill try again when this wears off. I can do this. For fucks sakes, if I cant get through the day without a tiny speck of powder, I dont deserve to live. Next month, Ill be nineteen or Ill be nothing.

I turn off the stereo and collapse on the couch. On TV, a kid hits a baseball over a fence in a Little League game, and his proud father charges onto the field. Cut to the inside of a McDonalds, where he tousles his sons hair and they enjoy a celebratory Happy Meal together.

I close my eyes.

Is this a dream? My father never randomly shows up here. I hear him say Moms name. He speaks with the authority of a switchblade.

Robin, wake up and smell the coffee, his voice booms from the kitchen. Your sons a dope fiend.

Im lying on my stomach on the couch. Everything hurts. When I sit up, I start to cough uncontrollably. Its dark outside. The clock on the VCR says 6:05a.m. or p.m.?

A guy Ive never seen before lumbers into the living room. His doughy paunch jiggles behind a New York Mets jersey. Number sixteen. Bob, he calls over his shoulder, the dope fiend is up.

My father pokes his head into the room, the cordless phone cradled in his neck, and gives me a long, narrow-eyed once-over. His hair is more salt and less pepper than it was a year ago, the last time we saw and spoke to each other.

Bob, waddaya want me to do?

I dont know, Howie. Maybe sit on him so he doesnt do something stupid again? Hes too whacked out to know were trying to help him.

Howie grabs my arm and the back of my head and forces me to the floor. This is tough love, brother, he says.

The carpet scrapes against my cheek like sandpaper. I squirm and wriggle under his weight, and he shifts forward, planting his giant ass into the base of my spine. I laugh nervously.

Something funny, dope fiend?

Your breath smells like Doritos and coffee.

And you look like a friggin clown with that orange hair.

I think Im gonna puke.

Youre out of your gourd if you think Im falling for that again.

I cough up bile, and my nose starts to bleed. Howie yanks me to my feet and points to the floor. Im sure your mom wants to come home to this friggin mess.

A trail of blood stretches from the kitchen to the front door, where a broken glass jar sits next to a pile of loose change.

How much dope did you think youd score with that?

What happened last night?

Dad joins us, squeezing the bridge of his nose as if he has a headache.

I take it the ex-wife wasnt too thrilled?

She cant help it, Dad says. Its hard not to sound crazy when youre crazy.

Im not a violent person, but I want to punch him in the face.

My self-proclaimed saviors carry me out of the house in a T-shirt and boxers and load me into the back of Dads BMW like a cheap rug. He squeals out of the driveway. The Pointer Sisters Neutron Dance comes on the stereo, and he pumps up the volume. Bobbing his head, he sings along with made-up lyrics involving rutabagas and watermelons.

Splayed across the back seat, I curl into the fetal position and watch the streetlights blur by. Where are we going? I manage to yell above the music.