Open Your Veins and Bleed

“You simply sit down at the typewriter, open your veins, and bleed.”

I have seen memes all over social media that claims this was a Hemingway quote, but that is absolutely false. Walter Wellesley Smith was asked if writing was a difficult task for him and he was quoted as saying, “Why, no. You simply sit down at the typewriter, open your veins, and bleed.” *

I wish it were that simple for me to do. I wish I could speak my truths eloquently, so that I may celebrate those who have helped me to elevate myself and spare the feelings of those who have been such a detriment to my emotional and spiritual health. I feel angry and heartbroken and used. And the only person that can change that is me. I am trying to find the joy in my suffering. I am trying to rediscover who the fuck I am. I am trying to genuinely love myself for who I know myself to be, not who I have been conditioned to be. I have done a great disservice to myself in many facets by allowing the thoughts, feelings and actions of others to influence the things I do, and the way I think about and speak to myself.

When I was in active addiction and it had driven me into the underbelly of Rochester, I did not even see myself as a human being. I was driven by heroin the way a wild animal is driven by instinct. I allowed myself to live without basic human needs. I allowed my mind to convince my heart that I was not worthy of self love or the love of my family and friends. I allowed others to treat me as sub human. I did not demand respect or consideration from people. I did not voice my opinions or thoughts, because I did not have any.

Survival mode as a heroin addict only revolves around one thing. Heroin. Until you either get better or die, that will not change. I could find no value in my life and I accepted that my fate was to die alone on those streets. I had accepted that heroin would take my life and I was waiting for that sweet embrace.


I had a pair of black North Face winter boots that lasted throughout all my years of active addiction. The toughest years were the last two, as I was homeless and living on the street. Both laces of the boots were missing, because at one time or another, I needed something to tie off with. The toes were wearing thin and this past winter when I wore them, they let the cold and wet soak my feet.

Today, I looked at them and thought, it’s time to trash them. But, I felt like I could not let them go. They were the only thing that outlasted the time I spent homeless and using. Those boots spent two winters out there with me, and protected my feet from the elements, even with no laces. Unbeknownst to me, at some point, I had forged an emotional attachment to a worn out pair of boots. If that doesn’t explain the plane of solitude on which I was barely existing, I don’t think anything will.

In the end, though, I threw them away.

Self Preservation

I have recently had some in depth conversations with my therapist in regard to the trauma I suffered as a child and how they were direct contributions to my heroin addiction. As we have been exploring these events, a lot of feelings have surfaced that I never knew even existed. The purpose of starting a blog was so that I could put down some of the things I’ve been carrying for years. I found that incredibly hard, impossible actually, when some of the people involved subscribed to my previous blog. Therefore, I have decided to proceed from a place of anonymity so that I may protect them and my relationships with them. My goal is not to cause more destruction, but to find peace. Peace with my loved ones, my past and most importantly myself.