Well I finally gave in and asked my mother, what the hell happened for the last week? And she helpfully drew out a calendar with what we did each day, which day we went shopping, when I picked up my car, when she called me, when I told them I'd done heroin, etc. I know from my phone records that I bought heroin around 4 pm on Wednesday, one bag, and I did the last of it at some point on Thursday. That's almost all I remember.

Apparently for all day Thursday I had deafening ringing in my ears -- which I *kind of* remember, after she mentioned it. I know yesterday (Friday) happened, I even wrote a diary entry, but I don't remember it. Even this evening at dinner I kept asking the same questions over and over -- and this is at least 48 hours after I did any drugs.

This is disturbing. I also have no conception of the future. Like, usually if I relapse, even once, I'll be worrying, am I going to do it again? and imagining all kinds of scenerios and how I would deal with them. But right now, all I can see is the present moment.

Rather than that sense of being thrown into harsh reality that I used to have while detoxing, I feel like I'm coming off a dissociative (like DXM) -- that feeling of "everything tastes the same". For me this feeling is worse than either being on heroin or being in "real" withdrawal. At least in withdrawal everything seems so beautiful and makes me cry. I like emotion. I don't like feeling dead.

[Side note: saying "this feeling is worse" applies *only* to the mental effects. The physical effects of withdrawal far eclipse anything I've ever felt on or off a drug or in any other state.]

As if relapsing after 8 months (even for one day) isn't bad enough, I got an email from a dear friend with part of her story that scared me even more -- this is after she's been on and off heroin for a long time but was a few months clean:

"Well, I woke up in a puddle of blood on the bathroom floor, hours later, with no short-term memory. I'm assuming I OD'd or gave myself some sort of brain damage, because for weeks I could not remember what day or time it was, if I had eaten that day, who I had talked to or what was said, nothing. My mother took me back into her home and to the doctor, because I was helpless on my own. I lost my apartment, my job, and my boyfriend. All of my belongings were put in storage. Tests at the neurologist’s came back normal. I still don’t really know what happened, though my memory has slowly improved, even if it's not 100%.

For me, that was bottom, the idea that I might not even get the death I welcomed at that point, that instead I could end up mentally impaired for the rest of my life, unable to work, write, or care for myself, a burden to my family. I'm not sure whether I had a moment of clarity, or just finally suffered a consequence I was unwilling to live with, but I have been clean ever since, going on almost seven months."

Reading that gave me chills. Not the losing her apartment or boyfriend part, though I'm sure that was hard. It's the semi-permanent memory loss that really freaks me out. Not having a memory has always been one of my hugest fears. For someone who cultivates being fearless, it means a lot to me that I can even admit it as a fear.

Why do you think I record everything so meticulously, in this diary, in photographs, in everything I do? Even anthropology is a form of remembering -- recording reality.

God, to think it might already be too late. But it's not too late. My memory is coming back, slowly. Not my memory of the past week, that's gone for good, but my short term, moment-to-moment memory. I still keep repeating myself, which my parents find annoying. But it's getting better. I can remember waking up this morning, a little.

Damn. Well as if I didn't need a millionth reason to stay clean. But sometimes the new reasons are the scariest. Somehow I got used to a lot of that other shit, over the years -- no feeling in my arms when I wake up? No money? Constantly dopesick? Risk of death and disease? Everyone hates me? Whatever. But this memory thing... again, not that I needed another reason. But maybe it's good it happened this time. At least, it'll be good, as long as it goes away. It's fucking scary.

AND NOW FOR THE GOOD NEWS: Sorry this had to wait till the end. My father's friend, Mark, owns this design business and has recruited my help with some aspects of designing this restaurant in Uptown, with, wouldn't you guess -- a Thai man. For some reason he needs me, something with color and other design stuff -- he's more of an elegant cabinetmaker, and he remembered that I had a lot of art background.

My dad's like, "Well, he can only pay you $10 an hour.." That's great. Who cares? Wow, after having a job that used my brain (teaching) I was almost dreading getting another restaurant job. I hope it works out the way he says... I'm supposed to meet with them tomorrow.

My parents are strangely sedate, as usual. Our daughter just did heroin and can't remember the past week? So be it. Well dinner's at 6 and then we can go to the bookstore. Got to love them.