Denial was my full time job.
And nobody worked harder than me.

For years you couldn’t tell me I was a junkie. Not me. You got the wrong guy. Maybe that lost soul on the corner nodding and scratching was a junkie, begging people for change and running around the hood hustling and scamming their way from high to high. But that wasn’t me. Sure I did just as much dope as they did, probably more since I could afford to since I always had a job. But the difference between them and me was instead of spending my days languishing on the street getting money the fast way, I spent my days industriously at a job proudly earning mine the honest way. I truly believed that all that separated me from a common street junkie was that I punched a clock everyday.
But being a junkie is more than what you do for drug money, it’s the work you put into your addiction all the way around. The lying, the sneaking around, the balancing act of juggling two worlds, one focused on my addiction and ways to feed it, and one where I keep all that I fear to lose out of sight of, shielding my family, friends and colleagues from the gritty reality of it and all that exists in it lest I be seen as dark and seemly as the dank hallways of the buildings I ventured into day and night hunting down my next fix. You couldn’t convince me that I was anything like the junkies on the street because I had a paycheck to show for my labors. The fact that it went to the same place “real” junkies also spent their money meant nothing to me.

Besides, in my mind junkies weren’t up before dawn to catch the train into work everyday. Sure I caught the earlier train so I’d have time to swing by the spot and cop on my way to work but that was really me being a responsible employee. I needed to get this dope if I was going to get through the day and there was no way in hell I was going to work dope sick. So even if that meant I had to walk from spot to spot aimlessly searching for someone up as early as I was until I finally found someone then that’s just what I had to do. Sometimes that meant I would be late to work but whether it was ten, thirty, 45 minutes late at least I still made it in because, again, I wasn’t a junkie, I actually showed up for work. However late I was you’d ultimately have to tack on an additional five minutes for me to step into the restroom and right myself before I got started. What junkie do you know that cares about putting their best face forward for their boss? None I know. But it was my job to be professional so if it took an extra five minutes then that’s what it took. Because this was my job, the one thing keeping me from being everything I loathed.
One thing I can say about myself is that when I’m at work I’m all in. Of course every so often I had to step away for a few minutes and get myself together. The constant runny noses were explained away by bad sinuses and the momentary nods were due to insomnia I wrestled with. Like any good addict I had excuses for excuses but I never had to make excuses for my job performance. Coworkers liked me, bosses could rely on me and any tardiness or mysterious disappearances could be tolerated as long as I kept up the good work. Which I did. Because this was my job, the last thing separating me from becoming everything I refused to be. The one thing that made me better than what the world despised, than what I despised. As long as I could call myself employed no one could call me anything else.
junk•ie (n):
a drug addict
a person with a compulsive habit
But any good junkie will tell you that eventually what once was most important will become least important. As I began to drown in my addiction the little things that no one paid much mind to became the big things no one could ignore. The tardiness became more frequent and on the occasions where I couldn’t find any dope to start my day I simply wouldn’t go in. Once the sick days and vacation days were exhausted and the absences continued to pile up the bosses who once thought I was so reliable are beginning to wonder what happened to the guy they hired and counted on. The extra breaks I would take for myself became more of a nuisance than the mild intolerance they had been before. I begin to come in looking more and more disheveled, the coworkers that once enjoyed my company begin to keep their distance, walling me out of conversations I used to be welcome to and being not so subtle about their displeasure with me and the increasing number of mistakes I was beginning to make.
For the first time I begin to worry that I might be forcing myself out of a job. I’d been given a final warning about my attendance and if I was late one more time it was all over for me. I was on my way to being everything I swore I wouldn’t be because what once was fun had become such a chore. I didn’t like getting high now. Getting high wasn’t worth it anymore, not if I was going to end up as a worthless, unemployed junkie. Getting high once felt like a fun exciting hustle but had now ballooned into a full time job and I couldn’t sacrifice my actual job for an overblown past time. Something had to give.
So I decided to go on one last run. Just this last time, one final trip. Get just enough to help me wean myself off, not enough to get high, just enough to function. I would head straight home and call it a night early to be sure I got up on time the next morning since most mornings I was too ragged and worn to pull myself together when I should. I’d save myself enough dope to make it thru the morning, not do it all that night, just enough to help me sleep and not a line more. I wasn’t about to lose this job. I wasn’t about to wear the shame of a junkie. I was going to get back on track and right this ship. I had to fix this. This was my job.
I slept through my alarm the next morning. I had one fucking job…
