I Felt Like I Was Wanted, I Felt Like I Belonged

Why do some of us love cocaine?

The Small Bow is funded entirely through paying subscribers. Your money helps pay for all our freelancers and Edith’s illustrations. Help us if you can.

---

Today, we publish the latest contributions from the "Why Cocaine?" prompt I sent out in September. Some people can't explain why they did it. Still, many can offer vivid, lurid details about what this particular drug did for their self-image. There were several variations of this response.

"Coke gave me a sense of belonging, a feeling of being wanted, and being included in a group."

We received almost two dozen responses this time, and some have very high word counts, so I've decided to split it into two parts. The first batch ran here. I said I'd run the next batch soon after that, but we got more than I expected, so I let it simmer. We're actually going to need a third installment. Lots of people love cocaine—or believe it is the impurest evil, one probably mixed with rat laxatives. Down we go.

For anyone unfamiliar with our Check-In format:

All the Anonymous writers in the below portion are credited collectively as 'The Small Bow Family Orchestra.'

The ***** separates individual entries, as do pull quotes.

And, of course, TSB looks amazing because Edith Zimmerman drew everything. 

Thanks for your continued support of The Small Bow. If you love our work, please try a paid subscription and access our complete archive and the Sunday newsletter. — AJD

---

“I Will Quit Right After I Finish This Bag” and Other Nightmares

by The Small Bow Family Orchestra

I haven’t done it in 19 years but I fucking loved coke. I loved heroin too, but heroin felt more like who I was: dark, desperate, bruised— and coke felt more like who I always wished I was: beautiful, sparkling, special.

I loved the ritual of it, I loved the secrecy of it. I loved getting high alone and listening to Sonic Youth and Lou Reed, and I loved getting high with strangers who became like family for the night, husbands for a few hours, while we danced around my shitty living room to Patti Smith and old 1960s county and western numbers, then kissed until we passed out in bed.

A boyfriend once told me to drink milk if you were ODing on coke, so I always walked around with a carton of milk because I was always almost ODing.

Coke made me feel less alone, it made me feel a part of something like the synapses of human existence were finally firing for me–like I mattered. It made me feel like I was enough, even momentarily, even if none of it was real.

Most days I looked in the mirror and sobbed because I always thought I was so ugly I was nearly deformed, but when I was on coke I felt like I looked like a child of God, like I was reflecting light from within.

I finally stopped because my dealer boyfriend robbed me, and because my mom got cancer and told me that she begged God to take the pain from me and give it to her, and she thought that’s why she got cancer, so I felt like I had no choice. I had to stop, lest I prove to her that there is no divine, benevolent force you can bargain with. But I also wanted to stop, separate from the knee-buckling guilt. I felt like I was ready for a new life. I was walking the line of things you can’t ever come back from–a razor’s edge of anguish and freedom, of euphoria and shame. I wish I’d known then what I know now that my life was going to become a relentless gulag of poverty and pain, of heartbreak and loss. I don’t know if I would have made the same choice.

Sometimes I’ll be driving with the windows down or walking by a construction site, and something in the air will smell exactly like coke (maybe because it was cut with drywall like my dealer used to say?), and the smell and the air will hit me, and I’ll want to drop everything, disappear, run away, find that beautiful fucked up creature who used to smile at me in the mirror. Let’s get the fuck out of here, baby, she’ll say, and we’ll dissolve, never to be heard from again..

*****

I would convince myself that it’s okay and I could go to sleep at midnight, even though that’s never happened before

Cocaine felt like it gave me what I couldn’t give myself. And I couldn’t give it to myself because I didn’t know what I was chasing, other than the contents of small plastic baggies.

Coke gave me a sense of belonging, a feeling of being wanted, and being included in a group. A toxic group, a group often only focused on extracting value (coke) from me - but people wanted me around. This validated my perception of myself—that I was only useful or wanted if I could provide something to others. That I didn’t deserve to be in situations where I was comfortable being myself, felt safe, or could freely express my emotions. I felt connected to those around me on a deeper level because of our use, that we got to mutually experience some unique, elevated part of the world while high.

There was no way people could want me around for who I was, my sense of humor, my perspectives I could share, support I could bring. No no. I had to provide something of value to them, because to me, I had no value.

Every day is a battle to find self-worth, self-esteem, and a sense of self. I haven’t done coke in more than a year, but I have compulsively bought a bunch of clothes, compulsively returned a bunch of clothes, obsessively played Sudoku and crosswords, and spent hours scrolling Instagram, always chasing dopamine. I’m always running from my thoughts and emotions. And I’m realizing that constantly running doesn’t get you home; the state of running becomes home.

My legs are tired.

*****

There was just a small period when cocaine felt truly euphoric. It was my freshman year of college, and I was full of vim, vigor, and a desperate need to escape. The first night was fun, I suppose. I couldn't feel my face or my teeth. It was silly. But soon after that, cocaine developed a sinister and violent underbelly that only became fully exposed when the fish died and floated to the top of the water's surface 12 years later.

In my senior year of college, two friends and I were out at the bars, and I was very much desiring MDMA. Some guys overheard me talking as we walked by and said they had some stuff. They told us that we had to go with them to pick it up, that they didn't have it on them, and that they could drive. I was wasted and my friends and I decided what to do. We got in the car. They drove to a house and picked up as they said. The car was pretty quiet. They continued to drive to a Red Roof Inn, and my heart dropped into my stomach. Fuck.

Do we run away now? What do we do? Time was moving fast, and decisions needed to be made, and even my anxious worst-case scenario solution-oriented brain couldn't keep up with the amount of possibilities. Looking back, I guess we could've ran, but we were about a 15-minute drive from campus, pretty isolated from anywhere to run to. In the hotel room, they announced they couldn't get MDMA, and one of the guys dropped about 8 bags of cocaine on the stale comforter of the bed. I must have said something about the amount of coke, and one guy responded, "Don't you know? We run this city." (Do we run away now? What do we do?)

I proceeded to get yipped and but monitored the scenario looking for a safe exit. My two friends and I went to the bathroom together. I whispered, "We have to leave. Now." This was before rideshare apps existed. So I quietly called a taxi with the address. There were two loud knocks at the door, and one guy yelled to ask what we were doing. When we exited the bathroom, I remember doing my best to play it cool. It was very, very, very cool. 'Oh, we have to go now! Gosh, I gotta get up super early. I have a test tomorrow. Fucking bullshit but thanks so much for all of this!' Something like that. What do you do when you realize you're in a room with wild animals? You back up slowly. No sudden movements. Do not show fear. We leave and run to the cab, but one of our friends isn't with us. We panic. A minute later, she runs toward us. "Are you okay?' I ask her. "No." The following week, I had my first complete nervous breakdown that led to self-harm. The night I turned 21, my parents came to town to take me out to dinner, and I hid the gauze around my ankle under my socks.

Years later, at various club nights and raves, I'd try it again because I liked that it helped me drink more. Sometimes, it went fine. Mostly, it gave me anxiety and made me retch and throw up at 7 a.m.

Fast forward to a few years ago. I was in an abusive relationship. He loved coke. On my first trip overseas with him, I had one of the most vile hangovers of my life. I asked him for space. Violence. The church bell was tolling outside the window. I thought maybe this was the death of me. Not my physical body, but the me who could help me out of this.

I freed myself from him, eventually. And that was the last time I did cocaine.

*****

I'm a recovering codependent and an addict, so cocaine is a particularly delicious hellscape. Cocaine is the friend I don't like but can't help but accommodate because of what I think it says about me to turn it down. Even though I have only HATED it at the end of every night of it! But look how accommodating and fun I am! Why cocaine? Because it makes the guy I'm still fucking but shouldn't feel like a safe place! Because it makes me feel closer to my parents who are also addicts, neatly affirming the life-long shame spiral that I am unworthy of anything more than the patterns my family laid bare for me to repeat!

WHY cocaine, when every goddamn time I sit for hours in extraordinary discomfort, crying through sleep deprivation, smoking weed, taking sleeping pills - anything to stave off the sinus pain and the dreadful, painful thoughts of how big and irreversible my failure is? Whyyyyyy cocaine???? I think it's because it has a wicked ability to make me feel alive, honestly. It's an instant fix for the hamster wheel boredom of sober life, and I'm suddenly pausing the Broadway performance of 'fineness' that I've been doing, and I'm free. Cocaine makes it feel ok not to be ok. Then, it makes everything worse. 

*****

I never really enjoyed cocaine, so I'm still trying to figure out why I did it for 20 years.

The second time I did coke, it was deliciously fluffy. It went down smoothly, but also freezing cold. I didn't stop talking for the next hour as I bounced around the room.I chain-smoked Parliaments until my roommate came home from his overnight shift.

That was the last time I remember coke feeling good.

The high wasn't in the drug for me. The rush came from the anticipation. Making the plan, making the call, taking money out of the deli ATM, and making the pickup. Once I got the stuff, it didn't guarantee a good time, it just guaranteed that I'd want to get more later.

Coke made me think I was cool. Nothing mattered more to me than seeming cool to other people. I was hooked on external validation long before I was hooked on drugs.

Except coke wasn't a party drug for me at all. When we were out, I couldn't talk to my closest friends because I felt their judgment bearing down on me. I couldn't meet new people because my brain was too overstimulated to form coherent thoughts. Every bump made my jaw jut out like Quagmire from 'Family Guy.' People would always ask me if I was ok. I couldn't sit still. I couldn't make eye contact. I couldn't get hard. It sucked. It always ended with me flinching and sweating as the sun relentlessly burned through the curtains, swearing never to do any of it again. But of course I did.

The last time I did coke, my mom was over at my apartment to help me watch the kids. We were relaxing after dinner with some wine, and the kids were asleep in the other room. After I opened the second bottle, I wound up sneaking bumps in the bathroom and arguing with her about Nancy Pelosi.

The last time I drank was on a weekend getaway during early COVID. It was the first extended time I would get away from my wife and kids in eight months. I was so fucking proud of myself for not bringing coke. I brought mushrooms and MDMA instead. I drank so much I could barely feel the drugs. 

I am so grateful I stopped doing all of those things. It wasn't easy. And I still occasionally miss weed and booze and psychedelics and laughing uncontrollably at stupid shit because my brain is practically melting out of my ears.

But I do not miss being unable to form a full sentence without grinding my teeth. Or sneaking around my closest friends and lying to my family. I do not miss waking up unable to swallow. Or twitching in bed until my alarm clock goes off.

20 years. I might never understand it.

*****

The truth is it’s not even the drug. It’s not the drink. It’s the sheer anticipation of the moment when it hits the back of your throat. Lizard brain. They’ve tested rats—and the little fuckers’ hearts race more before they get a hit than after the hit. Junkie lizard rat fuck. 

It’s about making the phone call. The knowing. The thought is that you’ll be able to unwrap the prize in a few short minutes. Unscrew the cap. Chase away the ache. Fuck yes—very soon.

***** 

I have not used cocaine in probably 20 years.  I loved it in the late seventies and most of the eighties.  It was so much fun to think everything you were discussing until the daylight hours arrived was of extreme importance and that whomever you were partying with was to be your best friend forever.   Until you couldn’t sleep because your heart was pounding too hard.  I circled several ER driveways deciding if I should go in and fess up to my situation or try and wait it out.  I waited it out, but eventually, I realized I am too anxious a person to add stimulants to my body and also worried about Len Bias.  So, I quit it and moved to alcohol.  That’s another story that continues….

*****

I first tried cocaine a handful of times when I was around 19 or 20 years old and I knew I loved it. And then and there, I knew I loved it too much. I had no idea what I was doing. Then I stopped. I hadn’t tried hard drugs up to that point — they scared me. Only weed and alcohol, with the latter becoming a problem in my 30s. 

When I was experimenting with cocaine back then, I had a very distinct memory of a voice inside me saying: “No more. No more cocaine. It will be bad. You’ve seen what hard drugs have done to your friends.” Something silly and serious like that. It was so distinct that I kept that memory close to me for years and stayed away from drugs because I did indeed see friends, acquaintances, and a close family member succumb to drugs in a bad way. 

Yet, I was offered cocaine at age 38 and I said why not? Go ahead. My life must be in order. I’d already “officially” quit drinking alcohol a year and a half earlier so why not? 

So why do I love cocaine? In 8 months of spending an insane amount of money on an insane amount of cocaine and being an asshole to my wife, and being negligent of my children, the lid blew wide open on all of my addictions, including my sex addiction (porn, infidelity, etc.). I lost my job and spent 50 days in residential treatment. I caused trauma to everyone, including myself. I lost family, people who I truly love. 

I love cocaine because it exposed me for who I really am—an addict whose life isn’t in order. Or someone with a major case of arrested development. Or someone who sees the world through fear and insecurity. The list goes on, but I’m in a better place now despite the destruction and desolation. 

No one says, “I want to get addicted to cocaine” or “I want to get addicted to sugar.” So why me? Why’d this happen to me? I’m currently working on that. I know I’m an addict. Cocaine is part of it, but only because it exposed something much deeper in me than I ever realized. 

If only that distinct memory of mine would have crossed over into my other addictions, maybe everything would have played out differently. Anyhow, I think back to that memory and feeling quite a bit. I tell people about it because I don’t know. It’s comforting in a way. It’s as if I already knew I was an addict destined for this destruction. Those 8 months made that incredibly clear.

*****

I had arbitrary rules of drugs I would and would not do, so most of college consisted of cannabis, chain-smoking hand-rolled American Spirits outside the library, spending sleepless Adderall nights debating what probably is now passé political theory of marginalization or some other things that I am no longer articulate enough to talk about, and tripping balls on a friend-of-a-friend’s homemade lysergic acid. My body was mine to do what I wanted and do I did. And then I met a cutie that opened a door to the hedonism I was really interested in.

I’ll refer to them as my very-toxic-very-hot crush (VTVHC). They beat up their other girlfriend while not busy fucking me, so I won’t put in any effort to make them seem hot or mysterious like I thought they were at the time. 

We met at a party and tried to study together but spent months in bed. They were the first person I had sex with that was both queer and kinky, so anything they suggested I was game for. Split a xanny and see if we could both cum before passing out? Sounds like a fun game let’s go! Key of coke and a bathroom stall makeout in between study sessions? Why not? They mixed substance and play in a way that checked all of my boxes before I knew they existed, and after some months of here and there use with whomever had a baggie, it was me who was usually holding.

I want to go into excruciating detail about this powdered love affair per my whims, but in clawing, sifting through the memories of that time, I can’t find more than snapshots. I also imagine that excruciating details may come off as a boring circle jerk for anyone reading. I digress to mental Polaroids:

• Joint 21st bday with my girlfriend (not VTVHC): we did lines off a few people’s body parts in a bathroom, a party trick I found later makes people’s eyes go wide with disbelief when you do it with molly.

• Chill hangouts at a friend’s with her older girlfriend turned to 5 of us splitting a baggy and yapping til sunrise, feeling infused with  CONNECTION and PURPOSE and ACCOMPLISHMENT. I didn’t need to plan for the future, I had the next line to think about. 

• Proposing love to a musician boy on the train tracks and talking about running away together, we hung out maybe all of 5 times.

• Drinking increasingly shitty whiskey cocktails at the shitty small-town dives because I could smoke inside and someone would have blow if I didn’t.

• Ending up at a very straight, very not collegiate trap house where they were baking ketamine after a roommate had a coke-fueled fight with her lover and left me alone at said trap house. I played it cool til I thought I was sober enough to drive home.

• Blowing a much older guy on the drive to his house, titillated that I couldn’t feel my throat. 

• Driving my Honda many hours to my hometown, with my BFF lining me up to keep me awake and chatting. 

• The same BGG (but not the blue-haired Day One) and I leaving a baggie for each other on the record player for a cheeky morning bump. I didn’t have the proverbial “problem” because I only did one line before class.

• Using the restroom three different times during a political science final to do a key to refocus on my IDEAS.

• And the not-quite-last time: spending the second half of my night in what should have been a fun and low-key end-of-term hang with my TAs, puking my guts out in their bathroom after apparently overshooting it. I uncharacteristically passed out in my friend’s car and woke up later with water thrown over me. She told me I had stopped breathing. 

I don’t think I OD’d, but that last one fucked me up. I stopped wanting to spend money I didn’t have on something that was, by then, the only thing that made me feel normal. Yadda yadda, my slow crest to bottom had arrived in just 9 months. I did blow before and during graduation, there’s a gorgeous photo of me high as fuck in a cap and gown, and then I left, and my plug was gone. I moved on to bigger and better adventures but swore I wouldn’t touch the good-good again. It’s been nearly a decade, and I have kept my word. Nearly.

*****

After a few lines, we decided to go find them -- with an armory of guns, including an AK-47, my friend had brought to the software executive event we were running.

There was something about blow that had birthed so many great adventures. Sure there were nights sitting at a house doing lines off plates while listening to my buddy Bill tell everything he knew about nearly every musician throughout history. Super Bowl week in New Orleans, dodging literal flames on the bar as they lit it with EverClear in between the lines while the Breeders were playing. Or the night we got dropped in San Jose after the people we were hanging out with pulled a gun on us. After a few lines, we decided to go find them with an armory of guns (including an AK-47 ) that my friend had brought to the software executive event we were running. Luckily, we ended up in a diner with no appetite, and I made it home to my family.

Tie the emerging tech industry with a 90s indie rock life fueled with a bag in the fifth pocket and a vodka drink across New York, Boston, Las Vegas and San Franciso, we were kings in the space. Ninety percent of the time, my buddy sold me the good, clean, high-quality stuff, but the other ten percent of getting the stuff led to strange characters that made me think I've got to stop taking these risks. Knocking on a trailer near Slapout, Alabama looking for the former classmate who just went in with my money only to see 20 rough dudes smoking crack. Or buying in Amsterdam in such a paranoid scene near the red light district only to find myself doing lines with a gorgeous bartender in Rotterdam the next night. 

The storied nights while using cocaine were what I was looking for. I figured death from a heart attack was in the cards since my dad was gone at 59 after being a heavy smoker. But I wanted to live a long life with my young kids. So I quit on Pearl Harbor Day in 2003, along with stopping drinking since the two were entwined. I haven't had either since that night. 

I still look to make crazy stories, but somehow, they don't come quite as easy as when I was drinking and using. 

*****

I’m 33 and do cocaine.

For over a decade, coke was something that found me. It was a casual line at a party, or walking in on a bathroom stall deal I could weasel my way into, or being asked, “Do you like to party?” by the cute hostess at a club.

It wasn’t until last year that I met a connection. That guy turned out to be a huge piece of shit, but the universe provides, and by chance, I met a better supplier with better prices.

At first, my cocaine usage was strategic, and I was always with other people. If I was going to see a friend DJ a party, I knew exactly how to make it better. Did you know ABBA could sound this good?

A buddy of mine liked coke as well, so we would stay up for hours listening to music, talking about nothing and everything.

Eventually, I started using it alone at home. My go-to move was getting ripped and chatting with strangers on Twitch—if you think coke feels good, wait until you’ve made internet people laugh at your jokes.

It’ll take me about three days to go through a ball all by myself. By the end, I’m exhausted, my nose aches, and I’ve got a massive craving for sweets. I’ve noticed myself getting more irritable and feeling restless. It’s stopped being fun.

Charli XCX references doing lines on Brat, and while maybe she can conjure the illusion of coke being sexy, my trash can full of bloody tissues says otherwise. I recognize the foul ichor coming out of my nose after a bender is my body trying to mitigate the damage. This is not sustainable. 

I’m not proud of using cocaine, and I’m putting in the work to stop, but I’ll quit right after I finish this bag.

*****

Until recently, I could count my cocaine experiences on both hands. In college, I used it if it came around, and I'm sure it was all stomped on. The highlight was probably going to my crush's birthday party, snorting a gram, and being restrained from fighting her boyfriend. I always wanted more but didn't have a plug.

I did it a few times since then with friends from LA who could get "LA coke" that was more pure than anything I'd ever had. Then I discovered the dark web, where I could source similarly potent powder with the speed and convenience of Amazon Prime-like service.

Uh oh.

I've done it probably 20 times since then, and my wife just found a dusty bag with a straw. She gave me the benefit of the doubt and asked me if it was pills, but I told her the truth. But I lied about having more.

fin

---

Part III will drop at a later date.

If you’d like to contribute to Part III, email me here: ajd@thesmallbow.com

SUBJECT: Me and Cocaine

Everyone who submits gets a free three-month subscription to the Sunday newsletter.

HERE IS PART ONE:

---

Commenting privileges are usually reserved for paid subscribers, but the comments on our Check-In posts are free for everyone.

---

OTHER RECENT WHAT IT’S LIKES:

---

This is The Small Bow newsletter. It is mainly written and edited by A.J. Daulerio. And Edith Zimmerman always illustrates it. We send it out every Tuesday and Friday.

You can also get a Sunday issue for $8 a month or $60 per year. The Sunday issue is a recovery bonanza full of gratitude lists, a study guide to my daily recovery routines, a poem I like, the TSB Spotify playlist, and more exclusive essays. As a paying subscriber, you can access the complete Small Bow archive.

If you want to support our podcast, you can donate here.

Here is our latest episode:

Thanks for helping us grow.

---

ZOOM MEETING SCHEDULE

Monday: 5:30 p.m. PT/ 8:30 p.m ET

Wednesday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET

Thursday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET (Women and non-binary meeting.)

Friday: 10 a.m. PT/1 p.m. ET

Saturday: Mental Health Focus (Peer support for bipolar/anxiety/depression.) 9:30 a.m. PT/12:30 p.m. ET

Sunday: (Mental Health and Sobriety Support Group.) 1:00 p.m PT/4 p.m. ET

*****

If you don't feel comfortable calling yourself an "alcoholic," that's fine. If you have issues with sex, food, drugs, DEBT, codependency, love, loneliness, depression, come on in. Newcomers are especially welcome.

FORMAT: CROSSTALK, TOPIC MEETING

We're there for an hour, sometimes more. We'd love to have you.

Meeting ID: 874 2568 6609

PASSWORD TO ZOOM: nickfoles

---

A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:

A Message from Tony Hoagland

by Jeffrey Harrison

************************

     I got an email from Tony just now
though he’s been dead for a year and a half,
and in the instant before my rational brain
told me it was spam, I felt the thrill
of seeing his name pop up in my inbox,
the dopamine rush that he was writing me
from beyond the grave. And when I clicked
on his name to open the message, the body
of the email consisted only of my first name
followed by an exclamation mark
(as though he was excited to be writing me)
and, under that, a compressed link
in the electric blue that indicated
it was live. My giddy finger slid
the cursor over it, to see what Tony
was sending me—maybe instead of
infecting my computer with malware
that would harvest my data and require me
to pay a huge ransom in cryptocurrency,
the link would take me to a web page
where I could find all the poems
Tony has written since he died.
I paused a moment and thought about
what those poems would be like,
but my imagination failed me. Then
I clicked “delete,” and went into my trash
and deleted the message again,
which made me feel timid and puny,
as though, like D. H. Lawrence
and his snake, I’d missed my chance
with one of the lords of life.

— New Ohio Review

---

ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN