THE FIRST TIME I did heroin, it was a Listening to Prozac moment. Like the patients that psychiatrist Peter Kramer describes in his 1993 book, I felt the way I wished to be, but better than I'd thought possible.

Moments before, I'd been insanely jealous: I'd found out my boyfriend had been with another woman. I was shouting at him in a grotty New York welfare hotel. I was filled with self-hatred. I'd been suspended from college because of my involvement with cocaine. I thought I had ruined my life. I was about as miserable and low as could be. And then I wasn't.

I was sitting in a dingy room with peeling paint and crooked furniture. My boyfriend and the couple who lived there desperately wanted me to shut up: He had large quantities of cocaine, they had large quantities of heroin, and neither wanted to attract attention. I'd always resisted heroin because from what I'd read, I knew I'd love it. But my anger got the better of me, and I impulsively snorted the huge line they offered in the hope of quieting me.

 

 

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