Heroin Dream / Subconscious Analogy

So this is a bit personal share but also one of the craziest things I've experienced in a while and I thought it might offer an interesting perspective into the life of a recovering drug addict, especially for any of you out there who are still thinking that the opiate use won't eventually catch up to you.

It will. It will be beautiful, and sweet, and you'll feel amazing the whole time. Then you'll wake up one day and you'll realize that you've been lied to and that you're not only paying the financial price for your dope, you're paying with your fucking life blood.

Last night I had the most ridiculously vivid and insane dream about heroin addiction. For me this has been a fascinating and somewhat terrifying metaphor/analogy for the struggle of addiction. I figured I would share it in case anyone's ever wondered why addiction is so hard to push through - or if anyone just wants to hear a crazy story that my subconscious decided to unleash on me last night.

I awoke in the dream being led through a beautiful traveler's hostel. Guiding me through the hostel's property, the figure showed me incredible things: the yard was aflutter with luminous butterflies, glow-in-the-dark purple flowers blossomed across the pathways and the fireflies danced around the yard and beckoned me as I followed the smiling chaperone into his abode. The air was crisp but warm, the grass plush under my feet, and all seemed right in the world.

It wasn't long after being guided to my room that I became suspicious. The room did not match the beauty of the yard. It was dingy, run-down, and the paint on the cracked wooden walls had peeled off and collected on the floor. I'd paid for my room upon arrival after being flabbergasted by the beauty of the yard, but it was only now that I realized I'd made a mistake.

The chaperone, a man who had worn a charming smile and a shining top hat upon introducing himself, peered around the decrepit doorway to my room. A void had consumed the sparkle in his eyes and his arms, which were now gowned in torn purple patchwork, had no fingers. Where each digit would have been was a syringe filled with green liquid.

He slammed the door and beckoned me towards him, reaching out towards me with his slender syringe fingers. I had nowhere to go.

"Stay a while," he laughed, stabbing the air in front of me with his needlework fingers as he advanced. I backed away and found myself crawling out the third-story window of my room. I slipped and fell, managing to catch myself on the edge of the windowsill. I found myself hanging from the balcony while he leered down from me, extending his hand to me.

"All you need to do is grab on," he hissed, extending five needle-sharp digits. "I'll help you, man. Just hold on tight." Ten shining syringe tips glistened mere inches from my eyes. I chose, instead, to let go.

I hit the ground, but it wasn't a moment later that the same purple-clad figure stomped out the hostel's front door, spitting, cursing, and hobbling across the path as he jabbed his needle-hands towards me.

"You had a choice," the figure snarled, leaning into a limping pursuit as I ran towards the backfields. The luminescent butterflies had fallen to the ground and shriveled; the wondrous plants had wilted and lay dying on the ground. "You had a CHOICE," he hissed again, "but now I'll have to force-feed you your medicine."

This was my moment. I had to face my demon. Instead of fleeing, I turned to face the purple-coated monster. I was going to tell him that I was done. He had no control over me. I still had a choice. I always did.

I did not see the purple-coated man upon turning. Instead, I saw a jovial crew of smiling fellows, all leaned up against a convoy of parked cars, playing musical instruments and smoking blunts. Bass thumped from the back seats of the cars wherein a brightly clad crew of 20-somethings laughed and clapped each other on the shoulders.

"Come join us," they shouted, waving me towards them. "There's nothing to hurt you here!"

It can't be any worse than that creepy purple man, I thought to myself, and headed over to the group. I reached for a blunt, shared some laughs, and blacked out.

When I came to, I was lying on the ground. Above me stood a monstrous sumo wrestler of a man wearing the same colours as the crew who had, moments before, waved me over to their joyous convoy. He had on a skintight cap with a massive H on it and he was feeding violent kicks to my ribs. Each time I had a moment to suck in a breath of air before his sun-coloured boots blasted back into my side.

They had deceived me. There was no fun to be had here, it was a facade, a farce, an alluring mental contraption designed to drag the vulnerable back into their grip. These people WERE the Purple Man, they WERE the lie. They had just dressed themselves up, decorated themselves with bright colours and rose-colored glasses so that I might not recognize them for what they were.

I tore myself out from beneath the hulking beast him and began to run. Soon I found myself hopping fence after fence, trying to pull myself further from the hostel and always arriving in the same downtrodden yard.

I risked a glance behind me. No longer was I pursued by the fat man in the yellow suit, the sick amalgamation of the light-hearted group who had lured me in with promises of music and magic. Instead, a huge anaconda tore towards me, fangs slicing the air. From its mouth darted a massive syringe and each time it hissed, the rusty-tipped needle jabbed into my neck and it laughed.

"Why are you running?" the snake hissed between stabs while I fumbled to climb over the next fenceposts. Blood from my neck splattered on the wooden planks that I'd jumped a half-dozen times. "We used to feel great together. We played music, remember? We laughed. We felt warm, we were happy, we were content. It was just us, remember?"

A guttural growl pushed its way through the reptile. "We. Used. To. Have. FUN!"

I tumbled over the fence and looked up again into the face of the fat man with his skintight, yellow cap with the H on it. His boots connected with my ribs again and again and I began to scream.

"It's okay," he bellowed between rib-shattering kicks. "This is what you asked for."

I managed to escape into my hostel room and slammed the door, but within loomed the purple-suited man with his needle fingers. He glared at me as he proceeded to inject a viscous, green substance into the few possessions I'd brought into my room. Each item of clothing, each photograph, each ring on my keychain became a sentiment of the substances that he represented. I watched, helplessly, as he danced his macabre dance, spinning around the room and injecting himself into the memory of everything that I owned.

Like a hologram, I began to see the tip of his purple needle reflected in every aspect of my life. He no longer needed to appear, he was just THERE. No matter where I turned I could see the rusty needle point reflecting off of every surface; no matter how loud my music blasted, I could hear his growling in the bass. No matter how many friends I reached out to, the only hands that ever reached back had needles for fingers and promised to cure all my pain if I would JUST. HOLD. ON. TIGHT.

With tears streaming down my eyes, I strengthened my resolve and looked up again. The jovial fellows were back, smoking blunts, waving at me with open arms and big smiles.

"Not this time," I shouted, turning away - but no matter how far I turned, and no matter where I looked, they would materialize in front of me again. Their smiles were so soft, their eyes twinkled with such joy.

"Come on, man. We just want you to feel comfortable. There's nothing to worry about here."

Of course not! How could I have been so foolish? These were my real friends. With their subs blasting, cracking jokes between blunt smoke, I remembered why I came to these guys in the first place. These were the people I could rely on. They always made me feel the same: like I was safe. Like I was accepted. Like the world was my oyster, and that if they were at my back, I could take it on with ease.

I accepted their offer, returned into their warm embrace, and found myself locked in the back seat of their car staring up at the snake with its needle-tip tongue. It wrapped itself around my throat, hissing as it constricted and cut off my airways, breathing into my ear.

"I just want to play," it hissed. "I NEED you to play. I need you to feed. I NEED YOU to FEED."

I gasped for breath, trying to pull the snake away from me. "It'll just be you and me," it whispered as it slipped the syringe into my neck. "I'm all you'll ever need."