Category Archives: Addiction

I think I enjoyed it

 
 
The realization that all of your actions speak louder than your plans and desires. 
 
That  shaky moral code that says you never strike a woman or children or old people and animals. Anyone else is fair game and has been fair game. 
 
A time in your life where you could not eat meat of any kind, for moral reasons, but busting open a guys skull on the sidewalk was acceptable

Continue reading I think I enjoyed it

I am so fucking done loving the addict and hating the addiction

 

I found out this morning the little girl – the who we can’t name or share her picture, the one born addicted to heroin, the one born blind, the one born deaf in one ear, is now “profoundly brain-damaged.”

I am so fucking done loving the addict and hating the addiction. This little girl and her story have tested my belief system about as far as it can be tested.

I was up last night thinking about a rant on child protective services and how they are doing everything in their power to keep us from raising money for this little girl, but you know what, fuck that.

I am an addict, but one day in 1993 I was able to dig down underneath the layers and layers of self-pity in denial and bullshit and touch, for one brief moment, what was left of my humanity. You cannot be a bigger addict or a bigger asshole than I was or am, for that matter. If I can anyone can.

If you are using and pregnant you need to do one of three things: you either need to pull your head out of your ass, walk away from your denial and get into a program and work the fuck out of it, or you need to abort that baby, or you need to load up that spike with enough dope to kill five motherfuckers and take care of the problem now.

 

 

Fish Whispers, Opiates and Other Opining

The Fish Whisperer

Saturday I did something completely out of character… I went fishing. I don’t fish. I’d not gone fishing since I stopped drinking and taking any chemical I found laying around (many years ago).

I’m way to busy for fishing and such things. I spend most of my life wondering where all my time goes. You find out on a boat, on a lake, completely disconnected.

My friend and fellow author, Mike Hoard, took me. The dude can fish. I swear to God he’s the fish whisperer. I mean it was spooky. On a nine mile long lake he knows where the fish are. He knows. I never have ever seen anything like it. He doesn’t know the general area, he knows on what side of the log and how deep. Seriously spooky stuff.

The fish must be terrified when they hear Mike Hoard’s pickup driving up to the lake…

I spent a few hours with my phone in his truck glovebox. That was the closest to withdrawal I’ve felt in almost twenty-four years.

It was nice, it was freeing, once I stopped sweating. Other than pondering how the hell Mike could possibly know the location of every fricken fish on a thousand acre lake…

“Bill, we are going to find some crappies here…let’s fish for some Walleye here… some rock bass over there.”

I pondered what life was like before I was married to this device in my hand right now.

I remembered acid and amphetamine laced trips into the backwoods upstate where I’d disappear for a week or more with no outside contact, just a verbal agreement for someone to pick me up at an appointed place, at an appointed time.

Somewhere between those days and now is a better place to live. Thanks Mike, it was an eye opening Saturday. And damn, Sam, them Louisiana boys can fish!

Opiates…

Some days I watch the news and I have to get up and walk away.

Montgomery County in Ohio is on track to have 800 fentanyl deaths this year, 10,000 deaths in that state this year – more that the entire US in 1990…

Drug overdose is the #1 cause of death in Americans under 50.

Attorney General Sessions wants to ramp up the “war on drugs,” while it is generally understood it has been a dismal failure. Meanwhile, Congress has their hands out for more money from the pharmaceutical cartel… Let’s not even go into the CIA’s role in importing drugs into this country.

I love it when they talk about El Chapo or Escobar or Blanco. They never mention George Bush Sr. but, hey, whatever…

We need answers and education, not stupidity, Sessions, and rhetoric.

I talk to people every day who can tell you all about ISIS and terror… I’m terrified of opiates. To hell with ISIS.

Want to read more from author William Lobb? Start reading THE THIRD STEP now… And don’t forget to leave your honest review!

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War On Drugs Hidden Victims

The war on drugs has hidden victims, babies and kids pushed under the rug, in hopes they will just go away. Tiny babies born addicted to heroin and Percocet, Oxy and Fentanyl.

I know one. She came into this world sick. Dog sick. Dope sick. You’ve never seen sick until you’ve seen dope sick. I can hardly imagine being born that sick. I’ve seen grown men in tears and puking and shaking, near death, from being dope sick. It’s hard for me to fathom this happening to a baby. Continue reading War On Drugs Hidden Victims

The War On Drugs Is Killing ALL of Us

Drugs addict activities and some used tools

Another news story about the “War on Drugs.”

I just read a county in Ohio had 24 overdoses in 48 hours. Is it me or does that seem a lot?

Jesus…

This not a rant about Trump, this mess goes back to Nixon. There is plenty of blame to share.

The war on drugs has got to end. It’s a dismal failure. It is part of a machine that needs to be dismantled. Continue reading The War On Drugs Is Killing ALL of Us

Hector Luis, his long road home

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been thinking about my friend Hector Luis… He didn’t make it. I think about Luis a lot, often. When he died his wife found a number it his wallet, my mom’s old house phone. We’d not seen each other in 20 years, but he always told his wife to call me if he got arrested or in trouble. When she called I was humbled and sad. Deeply sad.

I’m not so sure how we became friends. We met unloading a truck. We worked in a grocery store. He was older than me, married, had a kid. We were sitting in the nose of a trailer full of canned food and huge fifty pound bales of sugar and seventy-five pound bags of rice; drinking warm beer on a really bad for hot summer day. It must have been one hundred and twenty degrees inside that trailer. It was the kind of job on a day that hot when even the boss, a world class dick on most days, made something of apology for making us do it.  Continue reading Hector Luis, his long road home