how the green grass grows

Seasons always fuck with my head. When winter decides to make an appearance, I think of dope. When summer comes along, I think about the heat (and dope.) Spring. Fall. Dope. Dope.

This buprenorphine trip really isn’t all that bad, but don’t let it fool you; its not without cost. Sure, kicking the junk is now pain free, courtesy of the little orange pill, but then what? The best time to walk away from the bup is after the third or fourth day of using it. After that (and we’re talking about maintenance), the bup starts to take its thirty-percent toll. Only thirty-percent of what heroin does to me still isn’t all that bad, but thirty is thirty, no matter how you look at it and that is what counts in the end.

When I stop taking it, and let those opiates ceiling their way up to their grand 100%, (or 99% as it seems since its never, ever enough) I’m at a loss as to what to do next. I mean, if my goal is to kick the whole schebang, then am I supposed to keep on keeping on and get restrung, or do I replace the bup with the good stuff for only a couple of days and then quit cold turkey?

We’re going to find out soon. There has to be a way out of this, even if for just a little while. (Hell, it’s never permanent; kicking, that is. Being a junky means long periods of staying opiated with short breaks of cleanliness just long enough to forget why one quit in the first place.)

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