On Being a Junkie

An Exploration of Stigma and Past Selves

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I remember once, in a broken-down house in rural Oregon, aiming a disposable camera and snapping a picture of a friend who’d come over to visit. She took a few pictures of me, too. My head was shaved, and I wore a yellow tank top. My face was broken out and my skin was ruddy. She wore a loose faded t-shirt and in one of the photos it was clear she was nodding off. Out of frame was the coffee table, the needle we were sharing (cleaning it after each use with bleach), a metal cap filled with a dab of water, and the ubiquitous spoon, its curved bottom burned black, a tiny fleck of cotton soaked and resoaked, sticky with black residue. We were both twenty-one.

The house surrounding us was half-built, its walls gaping to reveal fuzzy pink insulation. My room was a mattress on the floor, no closet, a hanging lightbulb. It wasn’t up to code. I didn’t keep food in the refrigerator because I didn’t eat much. It was my friend’s first time visiti…