A few months passed, and I found myself sinking into a deep depression. The situation I was in had run its course, and after another explosive fight, I went back home. But it didn’t take long before I gave in again. Surrendering to the cycle, I checked into detox and rehab—another 30 days, another relapse.
During this time, I reconnected with a close friend from high school, one of my biggest supporters. He had his own experiences with drugs, but nothing heavy—more of a free-spirited, mushroom-tripping hippie. This relapse was shorter than the others—progress, maybe? I had already decided to go back to rehab, but I was in withdrawal and couldn’t check in until the next day. Desperate, I asked my friend to drive me to Newark to pick up heroin. My doctor-shopping days were drying up, and heroin had started creeping into the picture.
We pulled up, I called the number, and the dealer climbed into the backseat. Then, suddenly, he pulled out a gun, pressed it to my friend’s head, and said, “Do it in front of me. Now.” My stomach dropped. This was my fault—I had gone behind my ex-boyfriend’s back to use his dealer without knowing the rules. My friend, terrified, did as he was told. The dealer left, and we were fine—physically, at least—but my friend was wrecked, throwing up, shaking.
The guilt sat heavy on me. I had dragged him into my world, and from that moment on, he was never the same. His own spiral into hard drugs had begun.