My friend Trisha started shooting up at 15 years old. She's 25 today and still shooting up, yet her looks never failed, and she's never looked strung-out.
I met Trisha in high school, and watching her get high in the girls' bathroom, after gym, was a common occurrence. We'd go into the wide stall and she'd pull out her little red bag, tie off her arm (or she'd shoot in her feet) and pump the amber-colored liquid into a vein in her arm, all while discussing her history report. She never nodded off or fell to the ground in euphoric bliss; she just shot up and didn't change. When she was finished, she'd light a cigarette and rinse her face with cold water.
She was 16.
Trisha still gets high. We've gone our separate ways, but she and Viv still talk. Viv tells me Trisha is married with a daughter now. She still shoots up.
"It's like her medicine. She's sick," Viv says.
I no longer accept this anymore. I'm not judging, but it saddens me that Trisha can't stop getting high for her daughter's sake. I wonder if her husband is an addict as well.
Trisha's on my mind today.