Today is a day of reflection for many, as it should be. So today I was reflecting on the battles I have fought in my life...never on a true battle field, but a war zone none the less. Here is a poem, and below that is a small section of the manuscript I am currently working on. Due to poor health my writing has not been progressing like it should, at least how I feel it should, but I am getting back into the swing of things. Tonight a woman is going to help me start putting a chap book together of poetry, I guess the pros will have to wait for the second (or fifth) book :-)
If I die this day
Lay me down with the fallen
For in arms I went to the field of battle
And in their arms I would be sent off
Chris McQueeney 11/11/12 8:39 P.M.
Dr...I need help
Society has a bad impression of drug addicts. And it should, but the way society in general thinks about addiction is not functional. I had been shooting up some very good crystal meth and I wanted to quit…but I couldn't That shit had me by the balls. I’m not sure how long that particular run lasted but it was the middle of the summer, the temp in the mid-90s, and I was walking around in a long sleeved sweatshirt because of the track marks.
I remember getting on the thirty-three bus because I couldn't go back to the place I was staying and I didn't know where to go. I didn't want to do this shit any more. I rode the bus from Oregon City to Portland and back three times before getting off. Not quite sure what time it was but it wasn't too late because the McClane Clinic on the middle level of Oregon City was open. I decided that I was going to go in and ask the doctor for help. I remember thinking that I had to talk to the doctor because if I talked to him as a patent he had to keep it confidential. I walked in and asked to talk to the doc and the receptionist had me fill out the paperwork and wait.
It was cool in the office and the light was dim. I was so fucking high. Every nerve in my body was on edge, racing. After being up for days though and being in a state of perpetual starvation I had reached a plateau. I was so fucking high but I didn't feel like I was. No more picking at myself, no twitching, and no paranoia. I can’t speak for other tweekers but this was a strange feeling to have. I didn't think of it at the time but I was for the first time resolute. I wanted to stop and the doc was going to make that happen.
The wait wasn't long, maybe fifteen minutes, before I was directed into a small examination room. The doctor was already there waiting. The nurse handed him my paperwork and walked out. He looked over the papers and without even looking at me he asked what he could do for me. Without hesitating I pulled up the sleeves of my sweatshirt and showed my arms. All up and down both of my arms were track marks. Every vain I could hit had been hit. Some of the veins had been hit so many times they were just long ugly bruises. People call them track marks because that is what they look like, just follow the tracks to find where the drugs have gone in.
“ I've been slamming crystal and I can’t stop, I need help.”
Finally he looked up at me and his whole demeanor changed. Gone was the calm professionalism, the doctor client detachment. In its place an attitude of disgust washed over the doctor. I could see the change in him. That was the first time I experienced that, but not the last. He didn't check my vitals. He didn't ask me any questions. No when was the last time you ate, or how long have you been up, and no how much have you been using. Maybe those things were obvious to him…maybe, but I don’t think so.
He turned from me and the disdain radiating off him was palpable. He scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Here are some phone numbers, you need to leave” and with that he opened the door and practically shoved me out.
I went into that man’s, no that doctor’s, office, as a paying customer and asked for help. He was duty bound to help me. At one point in time he swore an oath, the Hippocratic Oath. I was polite to his staff, I was honest with him. I asked for help with no excuses, no preamble about how it was not my fault. He gave me a piece of paper with two numbers and rudely told me to leave. This professional, this man who swore an oath gave me no medical treatment, gave me a piece of paper with two non-operational disconnected phone numbers and charged me one hundred and seventy dollars for his mistreatment of me.
Chris McQueeney 2012
There is more from that day, but if you read this far and are not one of my beta readers you'll have to wait. that is of course if you are willing to, or want to read more of my shit :-)