FIRST HALF OF CHAPTER ONE
The path to recovery is fraught with ups and downs, seemingly leading nowhere, yet the elusive trail toward love remains hidden within the confines of capitalism.
She loved to sniff but couldn’t afford the scent. Like many cocaine enthusiasts, from time to time, Anne ran low on funds from the expensive habit — she loved to sniff, but she couldn’t afford the scent. It was then that her clammy hands searched frantically underneath her wine-stained couch cushions before manically dumping her purse, spilling a bundle of old makeup and random trash spilling onto her dirty hardwood floor, scrounging for any coin better than a fucking Lincoln. Once a remarkable president, reduced to the mere value of one percent of the American dollar, embodied in a humble copper coin.
When the funds for her preferred substance ran dry, she found herself sinking deeper into despair, resorting to a pitiful substitute. With a mere fifteen dollars in hand, she would purchase a legal “upper” — an over-the-counter nasal decongestant with a meager dose of ephedrine, just enough to provide a lackluster and unsatisfying high. It was akin to having a small shot of espresso diluted in a sea of diluted methamphetamine, reminiscent of sniffing classroom glue as a desperate alternative to the allure of magic-smelling markers.
At the end of each month approached, she willingly sacrificed electricity and decent food in her apartment, often facing imminent eviction threats, all for the sake of a few additional days of indulging in her beloved white powder. Nothing else mattered when that substance made its way down her nasal passage, seeping into her brain. The surge of dopamine overwhelmed her mind, seemingly resurrecting her from the depths of depression like a vivid caricature brought back to life. It was as if the pulsating beats of silent electronic dance music were the very catalysts propelling her forward.