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"Don't spike my drink or anything while I'm gone."

It was a joke, really it was. I laughed, I turned away, and I went to talk to the DJ for not even a minute to change my place on the dance rotation. We were having a really good conversation, and he seemed to really like me. I was sure I was going to get at least a couple dances off of him.

I went back to the table, and he was gone.

Bathroom, probably.

I wait... five minutes pass. Where is he?

I walk up to the door girl, "Did you see a while guy with a bald head leave in like the last five minutes?"

"Blue shirt?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah he burned out real quick a couple minutes ago, practically ran out the door."

Well, that was odd. And unfortunate. I sigh, and take my drink he bought me over to the bar to scope out my next victim. I find one, and I take a sip of my drink, though practically finish the whole thing in one gulp. Can't go over to the next guy with a drink, now, can I? He wouldn't buy me another one that way.

I make a face. Ew, that tasted really fucking nasty. Like...

Chemicals.

Oh shit. Seriously, now?

I give the drink to the bar back. "I think someone spiked my drink, it tastes nasty, can you dump it?"

"Shit, are you serious?"

"I'll be okay," I reassured. Famous last words.

I let the DJ know before I go on stage that my drink was possibly spiked, and that if it hits me real hard when I'm on stage I'm going to have to get off and go sit in the back for awhile. The same are you okay questions and concerns ensue. I keep insisting I'm fine.

Stage. First song.

About half way through I started to get lightheaded. I shake it off, and just grab a firm hold on the pole so I don't fall over. I got this, I came to work today, and I'm going to make some money.

Oh shit, the floors starting to move a little.

First song ends, and I go back behind the curtain. I'm breathing heavily, leaning against the wall.

"Faith, are you okay?"

"Water," I gasp out. "Gimme some water, I'll be fine."

He goes to get water while I do my second song. Not even a minute through I know I'm done. I'm about to fall, pass out, something I'm not going to like. I crawl my way back through the curtain.

"I can't do this, tell Bill, I need to go sit down."

And I leave, without even knowing if it's okay that I'm skipping. Fall into the chair, hold my head, curse the mother fucker, cough, light up a cigarette, take a drag, lay my head down for a minute, out cold.

This isn't the first time this has happened. I've had it happen to me three times in Dallas, but all in a low class run down strip club that was my first club. You expect those kinds of things to happen there. It's ghetto prostitution drug central. Hell, I even got drugged once as a customer. Now that's fucked up.

"Faith!" I'm being shaken roughly.

"What? What?" I say incoherently, and raise my head up to look at my managers face.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"Some asshole slipped something in my fucking drink," I mumble back.

Now, I knew this was coming. Bill isn't the most compassionate man in the world, and yet while he'll as a whole be nice to my face, I know he calls me a fucked up dope feign behind my back, and tells my friends I just use them. We've had words regarding that shit, but nevermind that.

"That was a stupid fucking thing to do, you don't leave your drinks with customers!"

"I was gone for less than a fucking minute!" I yell back, as best as I can without overworking myself.

"Well sit back here and drink water, then get back to work." Asshole, really. Why I continue to come back to that club, and build the clubs myspace and website for him, is really beyond me.

"I'm not tolerant to downers, I feel really fucked up."

"That's your own fault."

Of course it is, isn't it always though? Jesus.

I pass out a couple times, am woken up a couple times, in my hazed out unconciousness I remember hearing Bill yell about a dope feign, which I come to learn later was about me. Really though, I didn't know it was about me then, otherwise I would've said something back. However, I know so many damn girls in that club that do dope, and because I was half unconcious, I didn't dwell on it.

"Mary, are you okay?" Alex asks as she shakes me to wake me up.

"No, I fucking hate downers, I fucking hate bald headed assholes, and I'm fucking pissed off."

"Maybe you didn't get drugged, are you coming down?"

"NO! This is NOT how I feel when I come down, damnit!" I yell out of exasperation, thankfully it was only me and her in the dressing room.

Plus, I slept the whole night last night. Eight hours. I woke up and did some dope, yes, however I never start to come down for at least 15-20 hours afterwards. And only six or so hours had passed since then.

I think Bill thought I was coming down too, the fucking dick. If I was coming down, I wouldn't fucking come to work, that's just half retarded.

I end up back at home before eleven pm, and pass out for about an hour. Wake up, some more dope. There, now I feel much better.

I'm still mad though. Not for being drugged really, cause hell that shit just happens, but because I was actually in the mood to work and make money last night, even though I already paid off my motel for two weeks and still had $350 left over. I just wanted more money. More more more.

I have a headache right now, I blame the GHB I took to make myself pass out.

See how well that one worked out?

Labels: dancing, date rape drug, drugged, ghb, ice, managers, meth, strip clubs, strippers

Whoever said skitzers aren't productive? Lies, all LIES.

I fell off the sober wagon today. And while I was beating myself up over it earlier, because the only reason I smoked was so that I could stop being dope sick AND having a cold at the same time. That was really killing me, and it was very hard to try to get to sleep. I also started getting really nauseated and started gagging.

Gagging, not puking. I never puke. Sometimes I think my body doesn't know how. Then I remember the times that I do, and they only include food poisoning and a massive pill overdose. But I can stick my fingers all the way down my throat and wiggle them about and nothing happens. It's really quite annoying, actually, because you know when you puke you feel better. So do I ever feel better? Nope!

It was ten in the morning, and I was really tiered. My eyes were getting heavy, my back was hurting, and I was feeling even more nauseated. Then one of my friends calls, and tells me she's gonna come over early in the afternoon. I say that's fine, after all, it's been awhile since I've been able to hang out with my friends.

I know if I went to bed then, then by the time she got here, would be when she wakes me up. And my house... was disgusting. Not dirty, not messy... DISGUSTING.

So me, completely sober and VERY sick, starts to obsessively clean my house for about two hours. And not just pick up trash, but wiping down surfaces and stuff. If you know me, that's pretty damn good. I hate cleaning, really, I do. The only time I ever do it is when company comes over. Otherwise, I'm perfectly happy living in my filth. Gross, I know. But true.

Later on in the afternoon, my friend comes over bearing... dope. And to be honest, there was no thinking, no choices, it was there and I did it. And to be honest, after I did it, I started to feel SO much better. And I don't just mean from the high. My sickness was pretty much gone, besides the cough. Dope is my medicine, apparently. How quaint.

Later on in the evening, we meet up with another friend, and everyone comes back to my place. I was currently in the middle of redoing the layout to my website, which I started late last night.

Now see, most people are under the impression that meth makes you do things like clean obsessively, or sit there for hours doing some stupid mundane thing. No, not me. When I skitz out, I need to be on my computer. I do productive things. I am a VERY productive skitzer. And hell, today, I was fucking hella productive.

After watching the new Leverage, my friends take over the TV and I sit my happy little ass on the computer. I finished the layout for my personal website ( Sapphire Smoke Online ) and even added the bones one shot story, and a Bellatrix/Narcissa fan fiction I'm currently in the middle of.

Then I decided, well fuck, my website for Hudson needs a new layout too!

So what do I do? Redesign my entire layout for the website ( Hudson-Leick.Info ). Really, I've been meaning to redo that thing for months now. MONTHS. And I got it done in a matter of... I believe four or five hours. I'm very proud of myself.

Is it wrong to think I shouldn't quit?

Probably.

Everyone has been so supportive of me overcoming my drug problem, but this is why I've always liked it. It gives me the focus and desire to do things that usually I don't have the patience to do, but I need to get done. I'm just starting to think that maybe I just shouldn't combine that many drugs again, but the meth is okay.

Which really, I know it's not, because I know without a doubt that I'm addicted to it now, which I never thought I would be. But I NEEDED it, and I've never in my life needed it. I've never in my life gotten sick because I didn't have it.

I don't know, I got a lot of things to think about.

Labels: addiction, cleaning, dope sick, drugs, hudson leick, ice, meth, productivity, sick, website design, withdrawals

"Don't spike my drink or anything while I'm gone."

It was a joke, really it was. I laughed, I turned away, and I went to talk to the DJ for not even a minute to change my place on the dance rotation. We were having a really good conversation, and he seemed to really like me. I was sure I was going to get at least a couple dances off of him.

I went back to the table, and he was gone.

Bathroom, probably.

I wait... five minutes pass. Where is he?

I walk up to the door girl, "Did you see a while guy with a bald head leave in like the last five minutes?"

"Blue shirt?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah he burned out real quick a couple minutes ago, practically ran out the door."

Well, that was odd. And unfortunate. I sigh, and take my drink he bought me over to the bar to scope out my next victim. I find one, and I take a sip of my drink, though practically finish the whole thing in one gulp. Can't go over to the next guy with a drink, now, can I? He wouldn't buy me another one that way.

I make a face. Ew, that tasted really fucking nasty. Like...

Chemicals.

Oh shit. Seriously, now?

I give the drink to the bar back. "I think someone spiked my drink, it tastes nasty, can you dump it?"

"Shit, are you serious?"

"I'll be okay," I reassured. Famous last words.

I let the DJ know before I go on stage that my drink was possibly spiked, and that if it hits me real hard when I'm on stage I'm going to have to get off and go sit in the back for awhile. The same are you okay questions and concerns ensue. I keep insisting I'm fine.

Stage. First song.

About half way through I started to get lightheaded. I shake it off, and just grab a firm hold on the pole so I don't fall over. I got this, I came to work today, and I'm going to make some money.

Oh shit, the floors starting to move a little.

First song ends, and I go back behind the curtain. I'm breathing heavily, leaning against the wall.

"Faith, are you okay?"

"Water," I gasp out. "Gimme some water, I'll be fine."

He goes to get water while I do my second song. Not even a minute through I know I'm done. I'm about to fall, pass out, something I'm not going to like. I crawl my way back through the curtain.

"I can't do this, tell Bill, I need to go sit down."

And I leave, without even knowing if it's okay that I'm skipping. Fall into the chair, hold my head, curse the mother fucker, cough, light up a cigarette, take a drag, lay my head down for a minute, out cold.

This isn't the first time this has happened. I've had it happen to me three times in Dallas, but all in a low class run down strip club that was my first club. You expect those kinds of things to happen there. It's ghetto prostitution drug central. Hell, I even got drugged once as a customer. Now that's fucked up.

"Faith!" I'm being shaken roughly.

"What? What?" I say incoherently, and raise my head up to look at my managers face.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"Some asshole slipped something in my fucking drink," I mumble back.

Now, I knew this was coming. Bill isn't the most compassionate man in the world, and yet while he'll as a whole be nice to my face, I know he calls me a fucked up dope feign behind my back, and tells my friends I just use them. We've had words regarding that shit, but nevermind that.

"That was a stupid fucking thing to do, you don't leave your drinks with customers!"

"I was gone for less than a fucking minute!" I yell back, as best as I can without overworking myself.

"Well sit back here and drink water, then get back to work." Asshole, really. Why I continue to come back to that club, and build the clubs myspace and website for him, is really beyond me.

"I'm not tolerant to downers, I feel really fucked up."

"That's your own fault."

Of course it is, isn't it always though? Jesus.

I pass out a couple times, am woken up a couple times, in my hazed out unconciousness I remember hearing Bill yell about a dope feign, which I come to learn later was about me. Really though, I didn't know it was about me then, otherwise I would've said something back. However, I know so many damn girls in that club that do dope, and because I was half unconcious, I didn't dwell on it.

"Mary, are you okay?" Alex asks as she shakes me to wake me up.

"No, I fucking hate downers, I fucking hate bald headed assholes, and I'm fucking pissed off."

"Maybe you didn't get drugged, are you coming down?"

"NO! This is NOT how I feel when I come down, damnit!" I yell out of exasperation, thankfully it was only me and her in the dressing room.

Plus, I slept the whole night last night. Eight hours. I woke up and did some dope, yes, however I never start to come down for at least 15-20 hours afterwards. And only six or so hours had passed since then.

I think Bill thought I was coming down too, the fucking dick. If I was coming down, I wouldn't fucking come to work, that's just half retarded.

I end up back at home before eleven pm, and pass out for about an hour. Wake up, some more dope. There, now I feel much better.

I'm still mad though. Not for being drugged really, cause hell that shit just happens, but because I was actually in the mood to work and make money last night, even though I already paid off my motel for two weeks and still had $350 left over. I just wanted more money. More more more.

I have a headache right now, I blame the GHB I took to make myself pass out.

See how well that one worked out?

Labels: dancing, date rape drug, drugged, ghb, ice, managers, meth, strip clubs, strippers

Whoever said skitzers aren't productive? Lies, all LIES.

I fell off the sober wagon today. And while I was beating myself up over it earlier, because the only reason I smoked was so that I could stop being dope sick AND having a cold at the same time. That was really killing me, and it was very hard to try to get to sleep. I also started getting really nauseated and started gagging.

Gagging, not puking. I never puke. Sometimes I think my body doesn't know how. Then I remember the times that I do, and they only include food poisoning and a massive pill overdose. But I can stick my fingers all the way down my throat and wiggle them about and nothing happens. It's really quite annoying, actually, because you know when you puke you feel better. So do I ever feel better? Nope!

It was ten in the morning, and I was really tiered. My eyes were getting heavy, my back was hurting, and I was feeling even more nauseated. Then one of my friends calls, and tells me she's gonna come over early in the afternoon. I say that's fine, after all, it's been awhile since I've been able to hang out with my friends.

I know if I went to bed then, then by the time she got here, would be when she wakes me up. And my house... was disgusting. Not dirty, not messy... DISGUSTING.

So me, completely sober and VERY sick, starts to obsessively clean my house for about two hours. And not just pick up trash, but wiping down surfaces and stuff. If you know me, that's pretty damn good. I hate cleaning, really, I do. The only time I ever do it is when company comes over. Otherwise, I'm perfectly happy living in my filth. Gross, I know. But true.

Later on in the afternoon, my friend comes over bearing... dope. And to be honest, there was no thinking, no choices, it was there and I did it. And to be honest, after I did it, I started to feel SO much better. And I don't just mean from the high. My sickness was pretty much gone, besides the cough. Dope is my medicine, apparently. How quaint.

Later on in the evening, we meet up with another friend, and everyone comes back to my place. I was currently in the middle of redoing the layout to my website, which I started late last night.

Now see, most people are under the impression that meth makes you do things like clean obsessively, or sit there for hours doing some stupid mundane thing. No, not me. When I skitz out, I need to be on my computer. I do productive things. I am a VERY productive skitzer. And hell, today, I was fucking hella productive.

After watching the new Leverage, my friends take over the TV and I sit my happy little ass on the computer. I finished the layout for my personal website ( Sapphire Smoke Online ) and even added the bones one shot story, and a Bellatrix/Narcissa fan fiction I'm currently in the middle of.

Then I decided, well fuck, my website for Hudson needs a new layout too!

So what do I do? Redesign my entire layout for the website ( Hudson-Leick.Info ). Really, I've been meaning to redo that thing for months now. MONTHS. And I got it done in a matter of... I believe four or five hours. I'm very proud of myself.

Is it wrong to think I shouldn't quit?

Probably.

Everyone has been so supportive of me overcoming my drug problem, but this is why I've always liked it. It gives me the focus and desire to do things that usually I don't have the patience to do, but I need to get done. I'm just starting to think that maybe I just shouldn't combine that many drugs again, but the meth is okay.

Which really, I know it's not, because I know without a doubt that I'm addicted to it now, which I never thought I would be. But I NEEDED it, and I've never in my life needed it. I've never in my life gotten sick because I didn't have it.

I don't know, I got a lot of things to think about.

Labels: addiction, cleaning, dope sick, drugs, hudson leick, ice, meth, productivity, sick, website design, withdrawals

My name is Mary. I'm a 24 year old creative mess. I like to tell stories in anyway that I can, though mostly through visual artwork. I enjoy film editing, writing, modeling, photography, dancing, and website design. I'm a lesbian. I'm bipolar. I'm stronger than I usually give myself credit for. I'm a recovering drug addict. I'm passionate as all hell. I'm a beautiful disaster. I want to be free. I want to fly.

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