Ok, do you want to hear a depressing story? This is my life:

I was clean for the five days I was in San Francisco. When I got home, my lack of self control took over again. I used heroin Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. I didn't get high in the morning or at work, but it's always after work, around 2 pm, either I'm in a good mood cause I just got off work, it's sunny, or I'm tired from work. Whatever it is, I manage to find some excuse to score. On the good side, at least I wasn't high from morning till night, and I was only using $15 per day.

Friday I had off work and Donna slept over Thursday night to help me in the morning. As it turned out, I had a migraine and couldn't get out of bed even if I had wanted to score. I slept all day. One day clean -- yay! Saturday (today) I got up and went to work at 7 am. After work, I walked home in the rain... I'd given Donna all my money so I couldn't score, but Jason gave me a bit of heroin, like 1/3 of a $15 bag. That was a bad idea, obviously. When I do just a little bit, I come down early, rather than sleeping it off over night.

Around 6 pm I started to get depressed and restless. The funny thing is that depression doesn't make me crave heroin as much as happiness does. Getting off work in the sunny afternoon, when I feel pretty and full of energy, always makes me want to score. Lying around my house depressed in the evening, it's easier to reason my way out of it. I have a more realistic outlook on my life when I'm depressed. I want to do anything to stop feeling that way -- and I'm rational enough to realize that heroin isn't the answer, as long as the depression doesn't get *too* out of hand. When the suicidal thoughts are so strong they make me squirm, that's when I want heroin. When I'm just really depressed, I think: "If I can make it through tonight, I'll feel better tomorrow."

So I gritted my teeth to stay clean and summoned all my anti-depression tactics: got my journal and a few inspiring books, put on an outfit that made me feel pretty and mysterious, a little eyeliner, jewelry, and hopped on my bike to Powell's. As long as I can remember, the easiest and fastest way to improve my mood is to have a cup of coffee at the Fresh Pot while reading magazines from Powell's. It almost never fails. And first I stopped at Fred Meyer and shoplifted some juice, sushi, and yogurt -- sometimes eating makes me feel better.

But midway to Powell's, my mood continued to plummet drastically, past the point of rationality. "Fuck it," I thought, "I'm going to score." I called my dealer, but no answer. It was 8:30; usually he closes at 8. I tried a bunch of times, no luck. The emptiness flooded through me twice as strong. There was nothing to do but concentrate on the task at hand. I bought my coffee and sat down with my magazines. I read through an entire issue of The Sun. I enjoyed it, I could concentrate, but at the same time I may as well have been reading the back of a cereal box. The depression weighed so strong I felt like I wasn't really there. I ate my sushi and drank my juice and coffee. Nothing.

I closed the magazines and got out my journal. Maybe writing would help. But suddenly it all hit me and I started crying, without warning, before I could run to the bathroom. I put my arms around my head and rested it on the table so no one could see my face, and sobbed silently. Over the years, with boyfriends intolerant of crying, I've learned to cry in total silence. But my whole body was shaking with sobs, and tears dripped off the table.

The weird thing was that no one seemed to notice. I wasn't doing it to get attention, though I was afraid it might appear that way. I would have rather been crying at home, but it happened to hit me at Powell's. At the same time, I don't know how people near me could have failed to notice this girl, head on the table, shaking. Other times when I've cried in public, someone usually comes up and says "Are you ok?" -- even if it's a guy using it as a guise to hit on me.

Some guy said, "Excuse me?" -- but he was just trying to unplug his laptop from behind me. After a while the complete isolation of the situation started to get to me in itself, and I started packing up my stuff in between sobs, so I could go outside away from these heartless laptop zombies and will my body to die by sheer force of will -- a feat I've never managed before, but I haven't given up hope yet.

Just then, this woman sat down next to me. "Can I sit with you? You don't have to talk if you don't want to." She put her arm around me and exuded this sense of calm and comfort. My crying let up a little. She listened as I tried to explain why I was crying, which was difficult since there was no real reason. She made me focus on the present moment, that nothing was hurting me, that I was free to do anything. She listened to some of my story and told me about herself -- she's older than me, has been through several abusive marriages and divorces, and has led a a fascinating life. Her name is CeeCee.

I told her, "It's so hard, because nothing is really wrong with my life, but I can't stop thinking about suicide, and I have these waves of unbearable emptiness and depression, and I don't even know what to do about it because I can't figure out what's wrong. I don't have any close friends other than Donna, so when she's not free I have no one to turn to, and it gets out of hand and I have panic attacks like this." I don't need to type out all of her response here, and it wasn't even what she said exactly, but just that she sat there with me and held me and gave me hope. After a while I started to feel better and we kept talking, about her life, Portland, other stuff.

I felt so much better. And then my phone rang. It was Tony: "Where are you? How many do you want?" I could have said no, I could have not answered the phone. "I"m at 37th and Hawthorne, I can be there in 15 minutes. Just one. But I don't have any money. Yeah, I can pay you back tomorrow." And just like that, it was all for nothing. I'd hit rock bottom, pulled myself back up with the help of this angel, and then the cause/solution of my misery suddenly returned, and I was powerless, and fell right back into the cycle.

CeeCee was still wonderful: "It's ok, you can do whatever you want. It was still good that we talked. No matter what choice you make, it doesn't mean you're failing. You can make a new choice tomorrow. You can call me whenever you want." I thanked her over and over again for talking to me. "I'm so sorry. I wish I hadn't answered my phone. But you have no idea how much it means that you stopped and talked to me. Thank you so much."

I packed up my things, hopped on my bike, rode to 52nd and Burnside and met "the man", and rode home. It doesn't feel as good when you're past the moment of pure need. It's just a let down. After all that, after I could have gotten through the night without it. After breaking down in public and having an amazing stranger bring me back to sanity -- I still fucked up.

I don't know whether to hate myself, be disappointed, go back to being suicidal, try to have hope for tomorrow, try to be happy that I met a new friend, or all of the above. I just had to type this out before I went to bed, because it was such a strange experience.

Tomorrow I work 8-2. Maybe tomorrow will be the day when I don't score after work. I need to find a diversion. If you're my friend, why don't you call me around 1:30 and try to convince me to do something else with my day? 503 757 0062. If you succeed, you can die happy that you did a good deed for a confused girl one day.