January rain.

Duane Peters- no stranger to damage & pain.

Winter 2002. Revolving lights of red & blue pierced the fog of my overdose; shining through the haze of Percocet & vodka. The shimmering lights of the police & paramedics were lighting up my narrowly-escaped demise. I heard the beep, beep, beep, of the EKG machine & the hiss of oxygen, as muffled voices came to me like a distant dream.

I tried to focus my eyes & saw the rainy street; its greasy asphalt reflecting all the attention back onto me. I saw concern, disgust & frenzy on the faces of those nearest. I had become truly lost. I hated waking up … and hated them, hating me. “Ugh! Not again”, I moaned to myself. I was living in a broken dream. I hadn’t become a tenth of what was expected. You see, I know about the ‘element’ that is everything.

I’ve known its intimacy for so long, I hardly know anything else. I loved it, as it pissed its -fake -comfort down my spinal cord. I -forever- needed its soothing cloak of security, it blanketed me with. It left me dying on oily asphalt & in pathogenic basements…my life, a cracked mirror. It boiled my blood –thrumming & blurry– while its nails punctured my skin. It filled me with throbbing hunger. There is little on this earth that compares to the hell of opiate withdrawal.

It called to me daily. It whispered lies & showed me a thousand magic lanterns. It was Himalayan in its heights.  Once awakened from a peaceful stupor, I noticed my guts  in a knotted mass. I felt shattered glass under my skin;  sweat-soaked desperation. I lay writhing, hair matted, skin crawling, hands clenched in horrible  longing. It made my blood shriek & hammer, insatiably. I loved & hated its purring chemical voice. I was a favorite slave.

Thankfully, those days are long past. I no longer feel the need to numb myself to my existence. If you feel the urge to escape, remember that it can become a crutch. I know. It becomes everything to you. Then, your blood wakes you up; darkly calling . You too, can become ‘truly lost.’  There will be no comfort in skating, no comfort in love or family, no sexual urge, no comfort in God. There will only be the  sordid existence of the pipe, the bottle or the needle. I am neither preaching nor ‘grandstanding’. I have lived in an ugly place…but no longer. I am sharing-only-my experience. If it helps to be self-disclosing & brutally truthful….possibly it can help one other person. I can only hope. Put the crutch away, get help…and go skate. Thank you MRZ for the image. -Ozzie


5 thoughts on “January rain.

  1. keep it honest and only let your skateboard be your crutch thats the way i’ve kept it for years

  2. MASTER, MASTER!! you promised only lies! i got Metallicas Master of Puppets way back in 1985 or 6 not sure, but it would take years for me to totally understand the nature of that catchy tune, i am grateful for the folks i have stumbled across that share this common bond, the daily reprise we get from chasing our tails into the circles they lead us. i love to ride my skateboard,and it’s only thru having these people in my life that i get to do it, with out them, i’m the guy at the intersection trying to get you to pay for my next one. i don’t skate, i don’t live, i don’t do anything but find ways and means to get the next one, it’s ugly and sickening. skateboarding was the first place i found the commonality of brotherhood in my life, these people i’m talking about, is the second place i’ve found it. both have made me a better person, i’m stoked i found your site Ozzie keep posting, it’s fast becoming my favorite place to visit

  3. I’m a big fan of honesty — brutal honesty. Yes, it can and probably will help at least one person, if not today, down the road. It’s always worth it — Thank you — K aka kcake

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