This week, I’m delighted to welcome to the blog another very talented writer: Marni Mann. Marni has written a very powerful piece about music and addiction. I’ll let her explain.
Music has always been a part of my life. Since becoming an author, it’s played a more dominant role. Below, I’ve incorporated my addiction to music and excerpts from my novel, Memoirs Aren’t Fairytales, showing my protagonist’s addiction to heroin.
My Drug of Choice
I closed my eyes, listening to the soft, harmonic beat in the background, and my mind relaxed. The talking bubble above my head popped. The list of duties I was responsible for was emptied from my queue. I was transferred to a different world. Not this world…
This was euphoric—tingles and sparks and melting—like I was being swallowed by a cloud of cotton and the sun was wrapping its rays around me like a blanket. I could feel my chin falling towards my chest, my back hunching forward. My body was acting on its own, and my mind was empty, like all my memories had been erased. There was scenery behind my lids. Aqua colored water and powdery sand that extended for miles.
The lyrics were my guide. The rhythm slowed and increased my pulse. The song took me above my mood. Dancing to the beat or crying to the verses, it affected my soul. Music showed me all the dreams and possibilities. It showed me the quietness behind bliss. But it didn’t show me these waves…
Coke gave me energy. Ecstasy made me dance and want to be touched. Shrooms made me hallucinate. But heroin. Shit. Heroin was kind. It didn’t trip me out like acid or bring me into a dark hole like PCP. It showed me the quietness of the waves.
There was darkness that spread through my veins, thoughts, whispers, and memories. Memories that I wanted to forget. The blackness threatened to swallow me; bring me into a hole where only specks of light would shine through the soil. I just wanted to listen, but my cravings weren’t like this…
I just wanted a taste. I crawled off the couch to the middle of the room, sweeping my hand over all the trash. I found an empty bag, opened it, and licked the inside. I searched for more and ripped the tops off, wiping the packets over my tongue like they were postage stamps. I licked spoons and bottle caps caked with resin, biting off the clumps of tar like it was taffy. But none of it got me high. All it did was change the taste on my tongue from orange juice and bile.
I just loved the sound of the beating, tapping, and singing. Hearing the voice of my addiction. I wasn’t a junkie. Music was my drug of choice.
I had convinced myself I could stop using, like dope was something simple like chocolate. But heroin was my air. It had a hold of me like we were chained together. And those shackles weren’t just around my wrists, they were tied around my brain too.
A New Englander at heart, Marni Mann, now a Floridian is inspired by the sandy beaches and hot pink sunsets of Sarasota. A writer of literary fiction, she taps a mainstream appeal and shakes worldwide taboos, taking her readers on a dark, harrowing, and gritty journey. When she’s not nose deep in her laptop, she’s scouring for chocolate, traveling, reading, or walking her four-legged children. Her debut novel, Memoirs Aren’t Fairytales, was published by Booktrope in December 2011.