Dr. Pimple Popper

Being an Addict in the grip of active addiction is something else. I have spoken about this numerous times, how, when we were kids we would see Scruff McGruff on T.V and the guy who fries an egg and says “This is your brain on drugs, any questions?” Not to discount those efforts to thwart drug use in the then current generation, but that never did shit to make me think twice about using. In fact, when I was in High School, and they did the Red Ribbon Campaign for Valpo High; we were all asked to sign the “Red Ribbon Pledge” or some shit- that we would “Just say no!” Well, my wild ass made about 300 copies of my signed pledge, because when we turned them in to the local McDonald’s they would give us a free Cheeseburger for signing the pledge, and doing our civic duties. Welp, I would go out and get super High, Drunk, and all sorts of Loaded, and then take my Gigantic stack of Signed pledges to multiple McDonald’s and get straight stupid on free cheeseburgers. I was crafty like that.

And though, I do try to incorporate some humor into my entries there is absolutely NOTHING funny, fun, or good about drug addiction. It is the absolute most Godless, Loveless, friendless, joyless, and most disgusting and miserable life that I could ever imagine. I had to figure that out on my own I suppose, I guess I’m a hands on learner…

I already told you about my nasty MRSA/Staph. infection that I had in my foot and leg that almost cost me my Foot from the ankle down, my hearing as my fever got up to 104.9 degrees, and my life. But I don’t think that I have ever mentioned the other nasty shit that I brought about on myself as a result of being a Junkbox, nasty, unwashed street person. And this was something that went on for years, off and on.

I see a lot of shared photos, and memes, and etc of people who are using meth. And I see how their faces become sunken in, and covered in sores, from picking at the imaginary bugs or critters or some shit. I don’t know, I never really got into meth, I have tried it a few times but all it did was make me super geeked up and I ended up driving around on my buddies Golf Cart in Peach Tree city and drank and entire 30 pack of Milwaukee’s best light trying to come down from the shit. It didn’t help, and I ended up driving the golf cart for so long that it died and I had to leave it on the side of the cart path and walk like 5 miles home all weirded out. Yeah, sounds like a great time doesn’t it? Sike. I never really got into the whole speed thing. I did smoke a lot of crack though, but only when I had Heroin with me to immediately come down with. I don’t know, different strokes for different folks I guess.

But anyways, I always had the misconception that the “sores thing” was Meth exclusive. I always thought that the picking at myself and getting all scabby and nasty was only for those who used meth because it made them tweek and Picky. Turns out I was wrong, and I never really put the two and two together until after I got clean. I can say that about a lot of things.

I’m not sure when it started happening, but I can imagine that it was sometime well into my 8+ year (Second) run with Heroin as this is when things really started to get sketchy, nasty, and almost took my life on many occasions. But I noticed that every once in a while, I would get just the tiniest pimple looking thing on my arm, or on my shoulder, or neck. And I would do what most of us would do- pop it and go about my day. No big deal.

And then I would notice another, and another. Pop. Move on. No big deal. And on the occasion that I would take a shower, at a 2$ flea bag motel, I would feel a little better and some what relieved that I got a chance to clean myself and would continue on about my journey to the bottom. Another little pimple. Another Pop, on we go. No big deal.

One day I was going about my daily rituals of most likely, either pan handling, ripping someone off somehow, conning people, etc… Whatever the hell I was up to at this particular phase of my life, God only knows. I had so many stupid ass little scams to make 3$ at a time, as I was always afraid to commit any major crimes- I would always rather turn in cans, or beg for change than commit any serious crimes, although my dumb ass did end up hitting the big time later, as you all know, and I thank my Lucky stars that God intervened in my life inside Porter County Jail, or I would still be in prison today. Thank God for Grace. But anyways, I was going about my day and was either driving, or sitting, or something that required my back to have pressure against something and I noticed that there was a very large spot of discomfort on my back. And it was really hot feeling. Meh, no big deal, a nice amber colored thick ass shot-a-dope will take the pain away. And it did, for a couple days.

Eventually this spot on my back became so damn unbearable that I had no choice but to walk into a local emergency room and have it looked at. So embarrassing, having to walk my unwashed, stinking, strung out, junkie looking ass into the E.R to have something on my body that was CLEARLY a result of my chosen lifestyle looked at. I swear that I looked and felt…GREEN. Just completely nasty and utterly filthy. I felt so unhealthy and sick. But the physical pain in my back out weighed the emotional pain and the sting to my pride. I knew that this had to be addressed. And it was. And it did not feel good.

In seemingly a matter of a couple days, I had developed a giant ass boil looking and feeling thing right on the center of my spine on my back. The doctors already knew what was going on and what I was. They offered ZERO pain medication to alleviate what was about to happen. You know what I got? A bag of fucking ice. They laid a bag of ice on my spine for about ten minutes to “numb” what was about to happen.

It didn’t work.

The doctor moved the bag of ice and “on the count of three” Lanced this giant, hot, smelly ass boil on my spine wide open and I could feel the metal tearing the flesh on my back, and then the relief of the pressure releasing, and then the smell. It literally smelled like rotting corpse was leaking out of my back. And then they stuffed it full with some kind of absorbent gauze, sent me home with some more gauze and told me to have a nice day. If only hospitals had people on stand by to catch those struggling at their bottoms when they come into a hospital? Trust me I’m working on that as we speak, I have authored three Bill Proposals that have been accepted into legislature in Indy for the 2021 year. Things are gonna change on our protocols in this state if it’s the last thing I do. Well, anyways, I did not have a nice day. All of my days fucking sucked.

Imagine this: Imagine being so mentally, emotionally, spiritually and psychologically drained, tired, and exhausted with life. Imagine being so traumatized, at your own hand. Imagine hating who you saw in the mirror so you spit at your own reflection every time you saw it. Imagine feeling like God and the World actually hated you. Then couple that with feeling so God awfully and horribly Dope sick and in constant physical pain and trying to go about your day so horribly sick with withdrawl, fear, anxiety, panic, and paranoia. All of these feelings compounded by the very thing that you crave more than anything, because its the only thing that will take the pain that it causes away; that, or finally jumping off an overpass above the Dan Ryan hoping the fall itself would kill you, and if not, maybe you could time it well enough to land in front of a Brink’s Truck but you’re too Chicken Shit to ever actually kill yourself, so again you feel like a failure because you’re too much of a wimp to take your own life and – welcome to Heroin addiction. And Now, Imagine all of this unfolding CONSTANTLY between your ears, inside your poisoned mind while you grime your way through life and have to steal and pan handle and beg and eek your way just to get a bag of the thing that’s killing you. And its causing your body to have physical reactions and symptoms. And now I have crossed a point where these little “Pimples” are happening more and more.

More trips to the E.R.

More Ice bags.

More Lancing of the boils. On my arms. On my legs. On my back and neck.

Once, I had one hit me just under my eye brow. And at the time, I was somewhat thankful, because it was just the tiniest little one. Smaller than the average pimple. Just a teeny tiny looking little dot. And I squeezed it, and it popped, and everything was fine. Until I woke up the next day and my eye was completely swollen shut. And it stayed swollen shut for almost 2 weeks.

These were not Pimples. This was Cellulitis from living like such a fucking dirtball that my skin and body was actually starting to rot and break down. And all of this, no doubt is what finally gave way to my MRSA/Staph infection that had me in Saint Mary’s in Hobart for 11 days.

I didn’t care anymore. I was on a suicide run. I just wanted more dope, more crack. And I was determined to get as much as I could and hopefully one of these shots would be enough to finally do the trick and do me in. And I could finally nod off into the big sleep and Overdose and my pain would finally end for good. I was done living this miserable fucking life. And I was done going into the hospitals to get these boils lanced and removed. They were just reappearing elsewhere anyways so what’s the point? And all of these visits damn near put me in bankruptcy once I got clean, which I knew if I ever did get clean I was gonna be on the hook for, so fuck it. I’m Just not going in there anymore. (Which by the way, I am STILL paying off old medical bills from my using days, almost 6 years later. To the tune of almost 20,000$. And these are the unspoken, unknown prices that we pay to play the game.) Addiction took me further than I wanted to go, Kept me longer than I wanted to stay, and cost me a helluva lot more than I wanted to Pay.

But I was done going in and out of these hospitals to be looked at, judged, and be humiliated. So I said fuck it. And the pimples, abscesses, and boils kept coming. And they kept coming on more and more severely. To the point where I started noticing that they were actually developing little green, grey, and yellow phlegmy looking cores in them. And they wouldn’t pop. I would squeeze and squeeze and they would ooze and bleed. Gushing, foul smelling ooze, puss, and phlegms of infection would run out of my arms, my legs, my shoulders, and eventually, right in the middle of my forehead. A Giant nob had formed smack dab in the middle of my forehead and face. And this one scared me to death, because of its proximity to my brain and eyes. So I didn’t mess with it too much. I would shoot some heroin to numb the throb of the infection, mash down on it, and try to catch the ooze before it got into my eyes. I would wipe the blood and puss away from my face put a bandanna on to somewhat disguise the giant sore and go about my day.

But finally it got to the point where It was just to much to bear.

No shot of dope would kill the pain.

No bandanna would hide the giant sore.

And I didn’t want to go back to the hospital.

So I did what I had to do.

I shot a massive amount of brown liquid into my left arm, I found myself some needled nose pliers. And I walked into the Speedway Gas Station on Swanson and Highway 6 in Portage Indiana. I locked the door behind me, took a big blast of crack, shot some more dope, smashed all of the liquid out of the wound as I possibly could, dug the pliers down into my stinking infected flesh on my forehead, and dug that dime sized, green, black, and yellow mucous plug out of my face.

I thought I was going to bleed to death right there in the bathroom, but thank God I was able to get the Crimson Gush under control. I’m sure the entire bathroom smelled like a corpse. But I actually did it. I actually got it out. And there was so much morbid and disgusting relief that came along with this little victory of mine. I instantly felt physically better. I stuffed some paper towels in behind my bandanna to absorb any blood leaking, cleaned up the operating room, stuck the pliers in my pocket, and went about my day.

And as luck would have it, I found a fifty dollar bill on the floor of the gas station on my way out. Talk about impeccable timing. Not a bad pay, for an excruciating time spent operating on my own face in a gas station bathroom. I’m kind of a jack of all trades.

(Egg cracks, and hits hot skillet) This is your brain, this is your life, this is your FACE. On drugs. Any questions?


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