We agreed that the best thing is for me to do a short detox with suboxone. I'm still on the cusp of being able to stop without serious withdrawal, so the suboxone isn't totally necessary, but it will make it easier. In the past, it was the physical withdrawal that killed me. But now it's this depression -- so it doesn't matter that I could stop now with almost no physical discomfort, because I can't seem to get past my mental state (I agree with you, Bobby).

He thinks the Naltrexone implant is a good idea once I come off the suboxone. However, I was surprised with one guestbook poster who said Naltrexone won't work for me. You wrote: "If you were to go on this drug it would probably need to be accompanied by therapy to address why you are choosing to use drugs." I'm not sure why you think I *wasn't* going to also be in therapy. I need therapy, and I've known this for years, but unfortunately the only way I was able to get clean before was to follow Donna or Brian around the country. For the last few years, especially when I was with Brian, I was never in the same place for longer than three weeks. I knew I needed therapy, but I was always putting it off until I was actually living somewhere semi-permanently, something Brian kept promising but never allowed until we were in Thailand, where I couldn't get therapy anyway.

I think the best analogy is to anti-depressants: Many depressed people could get better without drugs, through a combination of therapy, exercise, diet, meditation, etc. But when you're in the thick of depression, how are you going to be able to make those life changes, let alone get out of bed in the morning? The Naltrexone will allow me a few months of breathing time, while I get therapy and deal with whatever issues I need to deal with in order to stay clean long term.

When I first got here, I was so happy to see Donna, be in Portland, etc. I was clean and even though I still had cravings, I thought I was strong enough to deal with them. I should have started therapy then, but I was so happy, it was hard to see the point. But I quickly realized that as strong as I was *almost* every day, there were a few days when I wasn't strong enough to resist the urge, and that was enough to ruin me. Once I realized I did need therapy, I was so depressed I was unable to do anything. It wasn't until this week that my parents offered financial help, so I was calling all these free places and not finding anything that sounded helpful.

So after I talked to Dr. W, I felt a lot better. Kind of. My depression is so intense that I can't actually enjoy the relief the way I would have normally. In four days I'll be able to get clean, painlessly. I remember the first time I found out about suboxone and made an appointment, I was overjoyed that I'd be able to get clean without having to go through withdrawal. But all day today I just felt the same depression. And I didn't even use heroin until 4 pm, since I don't allow myself to be high at work, so it wasn't the dead feeling I get when I'm "high".

After I got off work I scored and went to the park to lie in the grass, but I just got more depressed. Heroin always makes me feel like shit, mentally, after the first few minutes. Physically, it makes me able to relax, but inside I have this gaping pit in my soul. It's so bad that I'm unable to think of any good way to describe it. Normally I spend a lot of time fine-tuning my writing to explain my emotions -- I live for emotion. But I have been lazily repeating the words "depressed", "empty", and "dead" to describe how I feel, pretending that you'll magically understand.

I almost feel like I'm trying to spare you an accurate description of how I feel, because I don't want you to feel how bad it is. I don't want to let you in that far, because I'm afraid it might suck you in, too.

It's so bad that the knowledge that it will be over very soon doesn't comfort me. I'm 99% certain that the depression is only because of the heroin, so once I get clean I should feel better in a few days. But I'm beyond logic. I kept trying to remind myself, "Hey Becky -- in a few days, this will all be over!" Hmm, I feel the same. "Hey, guess what, in a few days you won't feel like this." Still thinking about suicide, crushing weight of misery in my heart. My brain knows I should be relieved, but the rest of me isn't buying it. It's like winning the lottery, but you have to be tortured for three days before you can get the money.

I went shopping to try to cheer myself up, and found a beautiful pair of lavender sandals that tie up my leg (too hard to describe, I'll try to take pictures), and an orange flowered skirt (lately I've only been buying orange clothing). I wandered to Hawthorne and sat on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and nodding off. I like being around lots of people but I'm broke and don't have any friends, so sometimes I just hang out on busy streets and soak up the energy. It was a beautiful summer evening. But this drunk panhandler kept harassing me, so I went inside Powell's and sat down with a fashion magazine and a glass of free water.

And the most amazing thing happened. While I was sitting there, I started to feel happier. For real, not just masking it with laughter or conversation. It was like my old cure was working again -- it always used to cheer me up to sit at the Fresh Pot reading a fashion magazine. There were these people near me trying to remember what existentialism meant, and getting it totally wrong, so finally I helped explain it. I didn't do such a good job either, but still, it was funny. One of the guys was kind of hot, but I couldn't decide if his total lack of knowledge about existentialism was a 100% turn-off or just a 95% turn-off.

By the time I got up and left, I felt happier than I have in about two months. I guess two months of depression isn't really that long, but it sure as hell feels long. I even texted Donna: "Guess what! I feel happy for the first time in, like, EVER!!!!"

Then I went to Fred Meyer to buy some cereal and things. I had to walk home because the buses run so infrequently on Saturday night there's no point in waiting, My feet are sore and dirty from my flip-flops, and my back aches from carrying the groceries all that way. But when I got home, I didn't instantly come to my room and shoot up. I ate a bowl of cereal, and then I sat down to write this.

I'll see at work tomorrow if Natacha has changed her mind about me being a shitty employee. She makes the schedules on Sundays so hopefully she'll give me more hours this week. Katie told me that she was sticking up for me, and I think I did a good job today.