r/opiateswriters•Posted by u/Krisleigh81

How it all began

I remember my mama trying to make me feel better. I didn’t though. I began to hate myself on that day. I was traumatized and felt like maybe Daddy would stop doing this shit if I was a better princess. I know it sounds stupid. I was three.

 

Polluted

It has been 5 days since I took a shower, or changed my clothes. My teeth are rotting away, and so is my body. I haven’t eaten anything in the past two days except for 5 packs of skittles. The green ones. The doctor said that they’re not good for my tonsils but I chew on them anyway.

Using the only money I have left, I buy a pack of cigarettes. Camel 8 mgs. The highest level of nicotine you can find in Korea.

I light a fag and contemplate asking Dianne for money. Dianne is a language student at Chung-Ann University, and also a part-time sex-worker. Woefully, the only person I know in the world who wouldn’t give me hell for my self-destructive habits. That’s the thing I admire about her. She doesn’t judge, preach or care to tell me to mend my ways.

“Where are you?,” I call her up. “What happened?” “I need $150, I don’t have any money.”

She hangs up.

Fuck.

I light another fag, and stare at the sky. There are no stars. Only a blanket of city pollution. How lovely would it be if you could get high on air pollution. Maybe I’d move to Kanpur then, WHO says it is the most polluted city in the world.

 

Last Time

Romancing the good times

With smoke in our eyes

When love was a sand dune

And sirens were lullabies

We burn our feet on buried embers

Tourniquets and shattered glass

And lie this time will be the last.

 

Day After Fucking Day

I feel like a wind-up soldier. Turn the key and I’ll march. I can feel every single gear turning in my body.

Wake up. Stay in bed for three hours. Finally check the mailbox wearing the same pajamas I’ve had on for the last two days. Three bills and two science fiction books. Back inside, quickly.

Order food. Kills my wallet but fuck dicking around and choosing food for an hour. Lay on couch. Watch TV until I hear a knock on the door. Back on the couch.

It’s fucking disgusting. I have six instruments in the other room collecting dust. I have a jar of pre-workout that I’ve only opened once. My longboard hangs in the closet, haven’t used it since college. The book I’ve been writing hasn’t progressed in months. This couch can’t complain though…

Is this depression or laziness? I’m notorious for both, though I wonder if they’re one in the same.

I don’t know a single person in the state I’m living in. No human interaction whatsoever. I blame that on my job, driving around for countless hours in that shitty van all over the country. Pays well, get some cool stories, cool sights. It just takes up all my time. It’ll be a year in December. Not speaking to anyone save for myself and the few phone calls I have with family and my boss. I don’t trust anyone around me because I don’t know them. I don’t leave the apartment without my knife.

I can’t even blame pills this time around. I haven’t used since April. I hardly even smoke pot anymore, makes me too anxious these days. I haven’t touched Jameson in probably 2.5 months, just been drinking beer. It’s fucking hard to get drunk off of beer. If you don’t drink fast enough you get a headache. If you pound 12 in 30 minutes you feel bloated and disgusting.

I’m so fed up with living that I won’t even put in the effort to get fucked up. That’s terrifying to me.

So here I lay in bed just knowing how today is going to go. Turn the key and I’ll march.

 

Fishing

The Lake is quiet and serene, like a Bob Ross painting. The trees grow tall reaching for the sky from the banks, birds of prey sit on the high branches waiting for an unsuspecting victim.

 I have paddled my way to a distant finger, far from the jet skis and boats. No one will disturb me here.

Without a soul in sight I decide to pull out my kit. A small Tupperware, a bottle of water, a bag of dope, and  a needle. 

“Just the bare necessities, the simple bare necessities…” I hum to myself, dumping the powder form the bag to the Tupperware. I add water and stir the murky mixture into a thin goo.

“Fuck, I forgot the cotton” I always forget the cotton. Instead I tear off a small bit of filter out of my cigarette and add it in.

I insert the tip of the needle and pull back the plunger. Sucking in the vile mixture it mimics the brown lake water, minus all the bugs. But who knows what really was in that bag anyway.

I pour more water in the Tupperware and drink down the cotton and leftover murkiness. It tastes like vinegar. “Hmm maybe this shot will be good.” 

I tie off with the rope from my kayak and go for the easiest spot, the good old AC. The kayak rocks gently in the water but, I’m a pro. I guide the needle in and push the plunger down as I release the rope to drift off behind me.

Immediately my body relaxes. I taste the sickly sweet vinegar in the back of my throat, as my head rolls back to stare at the sky.

“What a beautiful day”

The sky is blue, dotted with clouds, like it always is in the south. I stay there limp in my kayak until a sudden “bloop” jars me back to reality.

Just a fish catching his prey, like I will soon be doing.

Getting out my rod, I bait a worm and cast toward a distant point. 

I watch my bobber float on the surface like I float in the vast opiate ocean.

I take my eyes off the bobber to admire the beauty of the lake. The water mirrors the trees and the sky in their beauty, but I am scared to look in to see my own reflection. Does the lake know the truth? 

Would it reflect the mask I wear to work and Sunday brunches? Or would it show the real me? The beast, forever hungry, always wanting more and more until one day it will consume myself.

I shake the thought off as my bobber disappears. Yanking back on the line I feel the pull of the fish, fighting for his life. He puts up a good fight as I reel him in.

A ten inch Bass dangles in front of me, not a bad catch. He swallowed the hook all the way down past his gills, pulling it out might kill him. So I snip the line and let him go back to be fooled again by some other fisherman. 

I light a cigarette, Southern cut of course,and think to myself.

I can’t believe he fell for that, the hook was still exposed. But I guess that’s the way it goes. No matter the obvious danger or risk he will always go for an easy meal and I will always go for another shot. Even though just like the fish, I might not survive the next one.

 

Chasing a Feeling

They say I’m chasing some feeling that I felt a long time ago. Maybe I am. The feeling of almost 12 years ago, when I was 15, sneaking into my mom’s medicine cabinet, googling the names of her prescriptions to see if they could get me high. A vast treasure surprised me complete with oxycodone, hydrocodone, hydromorphone, codeine and tramadol. The pills had long expired, making it easier to rationalize my thievery. Luckily for me, the expiration meant little in terms of potency.

What I remember is innocence– snorting 20 mg of oxycodone and playing Mario Kart Wii at my friend Sleck’s house. At this precise moment, I declared independence from the human condition itself. Freed from pain, I floated in a sky painted like that in the game with dark blue pastels and perfect, uniform, bright and shiny stars. If I had to pick any moment to spend eternity in, I thought, this is surely a contender.

This is the moment I was chasing, they tell me. Because, according to the doctrine, tolerance lasts forever and it will never feel as good as it did the first time. And I wonder if this is true in other areas of life and if it explains any other of my actions. For example, love. Is every new romantic interest simply an attempt to fill the void left by my first love– that skinny, little butterface I lost my virginity to in high school? You only get to lose your virginity once. Never again will sex have so much innocence, so much meaning, so much validation that yes, I too am a lovable member of the human race deserving of affection and happiness. That I have the power to make other people high.

But, of course, that relationship failed. It turned out we were totally different people– incompatibly so. It turned out it had really just been about the sex all along. And as much as I romanticize it, my first time wasn’t even that great when I really think about it. I got nervous and took a bunch of Adderall, leaving me unable to even come. Was I chasing the first time? Or running from it? Maybe the feeling I’d been chasing was never real. Maybe it only ever existed in my imagination. Maybe the void I’ve always tried to fill wasn’t left by any drug or woman. Maybe the void was just… well, me.

 

 

The Lake

“Do you want fentanyl or morphine?” He was asked, while strapped down in the back of an ambulance. 

“Morphine.” Came his answer, trying not to sound too excited.

The ambulance came to get J after going to urgent care for severe neck pain.

The day had started out on the lake, fishing in the murky waters of the lake with 10 fingers.

 There was not a care in the world for J on this fateful day until he and his friend Carson saw a sheet of rain headed their way. But they didn’t care, they were high off resin hits, Kratom, and a couple of beers. They were afloat above their bodies basking in the great ocean of bliss.

“Should we head back?” Asked Carson, casting his line into the water.

“Yeah probably but let’s have a few more casts” J replied, reeling in his line to cast it again.

It had begun to rain and the water had grown choppy, as they packed up to leave a few minutes later. The wind was blowing toward the docks as they boarded their kayaks.

“Ready for a ride?” Asked J with a boyish grin on his face, setting off.

“We’ll see…” said Carson tentatively. 

As they paddled J began to drift, caught in a slipstream, like a fish caught in a net. He tried paddling as hard as he could to get out of it, but it wouldn’t let him go. 

They waves get larger and the wind grew stronger and J knew he was in a fight for his life.

“Whooosh” came a wave that broadsided J and flipped him and his kayak.

“Oh shit” thought Jason as he came up gasping for air.

The kayak was nowhere in sight, nor his life jacket or any other floatation device.

He twisted around and to his relief, he saw the kayak upside down but still floating. Reaching for it his fingers finally caught the grip.

He hung on for dear life as he tried to stay afloat, breathing as much water as air.

Meanwhile Carson waved his oar and shouted for help but it was to no avail. Everyone smart had stayed on the shore or outrank the storm.

“Fuck! Fuck! J!!!!” He yelled, but no answering call returned

Carson paddled with all his might to get to J. When he finally reached him J was spewing water holding on for dear life.

“I lost the tackle box” yelled J.

“Fuck the tackle box” Carson said pleading that his friend would survive the storm.

Together they tried to flip the kayak, J had managed to find purchase and dragged himself on to it upside down.

They drug themselves to shore after an hour of intense storm riding, to finally reach safety. 

“Fucking eh man, I thought you were gonna be a statistic” said Carson.

“Yeah me too, I can’t believe we made it” replied J, coughing up a lungful of water.

“Let’s get you to a doctor” 

“Yeah probably a good idea. I kept getting hit with the kayak” said J, as he vomited up lakewater.

At the urgent care the doctor poked and prodded J while he told them where it hurt.

“You might have a cervical spine fracture, I’ve called an ambulance to take you to the ER.” Concluded the doctor, putting a neck brace on J like a dog at a vet.

“I’ll give you ten milligrams now but I can go as high as twenty if need be” said an older EMT.

As soon as the plunger went down J could taste the pharmaceutical grade god. It tricked through his body like maple syrup on waffles. Still though J grit his teeth, he wanted all twenty of those available milligrams of bliss.

After ten minutes the EMT administered another ten milligrams, maxing out his ambulance limit.

“Oh yes, this is good. No, better than good, this is nirvana.” He thought to himself as he radiated warmth and floated in the opiate ocean. 

The hospital diagnosed J with a clean bill of health, for someone who almost drowned, and J left with his wife and a bottle of 9 Roxicodone 5mg tablets.

 

LOVER

this isn’t her. this isn’t real.

this isn’t her. this isn’t real.

i don’t know her; only fear.

i don’t recognize her; only from the rear

she was once my friend, my dear

now i lie splattered in her rearview

mirror, wont even look at me, i’m unclean

i’m selfish, i’m mean, at times a bit obscene

i’m just a 17yr old scene kid, razor to my wrist

“hope nobody sees him, or his scars

all his skanks from the bars

the bullshit trip to Mars…”

ooh… wait! let me pull the sword out,

before it scars. in the small of my back

just as i turn around,

my LOVER, there you are!

 

Can’t Stop Thinking About it

There ain’t enough dopamine in my brain, to keep me goin in this thing I call the opiate game. Well then I guess it’s just- so be it mayne, I’ll be without it til my soul flown outta my grave.

My buddy passed last week, I never-

Remember when i switched to dope, thinking that it was cheap, Then paid the highest price, wit my life, when i OD’d. You never think about it. Nothing’s cheap, when you’re always thinkin about it.. It’s got a bounty on yo head, when you thinkin about it..

Went to his wake, seen his face, bowed my head… now i can’t stop thinking about it. shit…. My friend dead.. I can’t stop thinking about it..

Pullin lyrics from the sky, pull a tissue, dry my eyes, Proccessing the lies, Preparing my demise Head to the sky, clouds pass, still I can’t stop thinking about it…

Looking for an outlet- the “sweet escape.” I think he finally found it. God bless his soul, bless his mothers heart, that the devil stole. Rest of her days she’ll live forever broke. Hope you never know the pain, the struggle, livin wit the dope. Conditions of the game, just to see another day, we won’t ever know. but still.. I can’t stop thinking about it..

It’s been a year… and I can’t stop thinking about it

 

The Three

There were three of us, Adin, Brooke, and I. Adin loved weed, Brooke liked weed and alcohol. But me, well I loved it all.

We lived in a small two bedroom townhouse that reflected our lifestyle.

The bedrooms were dirty and cluttered. Mirrors for makeup lay dusted with powder.

The porch was cluttered with a couch, a shopping cart, and more blunt roaches and cigarettes butts than I can count.

The closet under the stairs Adin and I hotboxed it so many times, the walls were almost green.

In the kitchen I had my homemade chemistry set. I made everything from opium, ephedra extract, and even mescaline in that kitchen.

Though our home was bare bones it was our home. Party’s, trips, rolls, everything happened in that house. We loved the place.

After work I sat outside on the “smoking sofa” puffing away at a splif, lounging in the opiate ocean.

This was my heaven, I had raided my stash of Oxy, Tramadol, and Xannax, and was lost to the waves of euphoria. That was until Brooke came home.

Brooke had a very unique ritual she performed after coming home from work. It began as soon as the door slammed behind her after getting of from her waitress job.

“Babe! Babe! You wouldn’t believe the rush today…” She would start in about her day.

I, like the thoughtful boyfriend I was, would sit up and pretend to listen to her day.

After she finished talking it was always time for a scalding hot and hour long shower.

“Hey roll one for us when I get out” were always her parting words.

At five it was Adins turn to return home, and try to disrupt my obvious opiate glow.

“What’s up bitch?” he would say, pulling his motorcycle into our living room, disrupting my losing match of online Black Ops.

“What’s the deal dude?”

“A $90 quarter is the deal” he responded, holding up a bag of green bud.

“Come on its hotbox time!” gesturing to the half burnt bubbler on the coffee table, and walking to the stairs.

Brooke was still upstairs so I followed diligently.

After three bowls we played with our flashlights in the thick smoke, making lightsaber noises, until we emerged.

Brooke was always on the couch, playing Starcraft. Waiting to make the obvious joke about coming out of the closet.

Afternoon turned to evening as my pre-rolled blunt was shared and the munchies descended upon us.

After one more line of Oxy and Xannax for me and a quick run to Taco Bell our hungers were filled. The beer began to flow and night engulfed our home.

Adin always went upstairs first and shortly thereafter Brooke and I would follow.

Just another day on the calendar for us.

 

Trust

I trusted you.

Even with all the heartache I have been through, and the many times I believed unrequited love to be true.

My fragile self esteem shattered and the tears I have cried. I was running on empty, nothing left to give, even as much as I tried.

I swore to make more of an effort to see signs early on. Determined to spot  narcissists wanting to play me like a pawn.

I didn’t want to be vulnerable as I was in the past. With renewed conviction to hang onto my heart and avoid moving too fast.

Then i met you. Your charm mesmerized me and your intentions seemed pure. Like some voodoo love doctor with a magical cure.

I built a wall around myself that I worked so hard to maintain. Only to find being away from you was something I couldn’t sustain.

The sweet words you whispered seemed so sincere. I fell into bliss and needed you near.

I trusted you.

I buried my fears, and gave you all that remained of my delicate heart. With a leap of faith I decided to let all my defenses fall apart.

You worked so hard to convince me that you were my one and only. That you couldn’t live without me and would never leave me lonely.

I trusted you.

Then you changed.

Like a predator who finally conquered their prey. The love you once proclaimed for me, now replaced by the constant lies you would tell me everyday.

You managed to convince me you weren’t like the others, but could no longer hide behind your mask. The reality is manipulation and cheating have now become your main task.

The scars that slowly healed are now all torn open. My soul feels the gaping wounds of merely becoming your token.

Melancholy thoughts of a future with you melt like an oil painting on fire.

And to think how I believed our love was something to cherish and desire.

A little too late, I realized my mistake..

I trusted you.

 

Primal Instinct

The cold night air bit into her cheeks as she helplessly stood next to her car. She had taken an unfamiliar exit as smoke was billowing from under the hood.

She swore under her breath for taking a chance driving with the “check engine” light on for weeks now. With the recent move to her new job out of state, her priority had been to finish unpacking and to get settled in.

Her frustration grew as she looked down at the cell phone she neglected to charge before she left work. Almost in tears, she kicked her tire before she started walking.

She looked around the desolate road where she could see dark menacing trees and her breath outlined in the coldness.

As she walked she came upon a lonely street light with moths dancing carefree under it oblivious to her plight.

Aside from the crunching of gravel under her shoes, the silence was deafening. She felt tiny eyes peering at her from the deep forest next to the road and for the first time, she felt a gut wrenching fear.

Hopefully, she would come upon a gas station or store where she could call for help.

As she walked along in the darkness, she heard a car motor behind in the distance. Within minutes a car pulled up beside her.

“Hey there… is that your car back there? Do you need a ride?” He asked her through the passenger’s side window that was down.

With a mixture of relief and uncertainty, she looked into the car at the young man behind the wheel who was clean shaven and wore glasses. There was nothing distinctive about him – just a regular guy.

Before responding, she noticed empty pop cans and used kleenex amongst clothing items in the back seat of the man’s car. There was a plastic bobble head lady on his dashboard that was finishing her hula dance as he came to a stop.

Noticing her hesitation, the man tried to reassure her by saying he could take her to the gas station a mile or so down the road.

She weighed her options. Should she keep walking in the night, go back to her car and wait for daylight, or trust the young man offering help? He seemed like a nice guy but she was often warned by her parents not to trust strangers.

In a split second, she went against her primal instinct and got into his car.

As they drove he made casual conversation but her mind was more on who to call once they reached the gas station. She looked up at the full moon and then noticed an uncomfortable silence.

She turned to look at the man. He was staring at her intensely, barely looking at the dark road in front of them. She quickly turned away to avoid his eyes as he drove by the dark gas station which was closed.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up as she heard the “click” of the car doors locking.

The quiet darkness was disturbed by birds fleeing out of moonlit trees as a scream penetrated into the night.

 

GLORY DAYS

I see her sitting at the table across from me. Lifting the martini glass to her red lips, I noticed the tiny age spots on her hand.

I became fixated on her for some reason. I noticed her pointy red nails. Her dark blue dress had a plunging neckline revealing a spray tanned cleavage with deep lines in between her breasts. She wore three inch patent leather heels with black stockings and her hair was feathered and dyed honey blonde. She had black eyeliner and dark eyebrows that stood out as if they were shouting.

My gaze turns towards my friends, who are busy talking and drinking. Some are on the floor dancing while the colorful neon lights rythmically move in sync with the music.

I watch them throwing their hands in the air and laughing, unaware they are living a moment in time that they will nostalgically remember to be magical and carefree.

All are too busy partying to notice the lady across from our table still sitting by herself.

She took a large gulp of her martini and asked a young man passing by a question as she pointed to the dance floor. He looked a bit confused and shook his head as he walked away mumbling to himself. Embarassed, the lady took another sip and stared down into her drink.

I couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking. What brought her here tonight in her painfully outdated outfit and Charlie’s Angels hairstyle? There was an aura of desperation about her.

I imagined what she was like 20 years ago. Looking through her overdone makeup I could see a woman who was once quite beautiful. A woman who, I imagine, during her glory days had the attention of many men and would have had her pick of someone to dance with. I saw a big diamond ring on one of her skinny fingers but it was not a wedding ring.

Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the man who the older woman spoke to earlier. He asked me if I wanted to dance. One of my favorite songs was playing so I took his hand and followed him towards the dance floor.

As I passed by the woman’s table she looked at me with an awkward somber expression.

After seeing the sadness in her eyes I no longer felt like dancing. The expression on her face made me stop and let go of the man’s hand. He looked surprised as I walked away with no explanation but quickly replaced me with another woman standing close by.

A tear drop rolling down her cheek shimmered in the neon light as I sat next to her and ordered two martinis.

 

The Price of a Dollar (Poem)

So fuck school, knew I’d never work a 9 to 5, born in ‘94, took a different path since ‘95.. But growin up I- was kinda blessed by the wealth Never stressed, mom and pop always had they health Didn’t know what struggle was, Never rode the struggle bus, momma used to drive me, buy me, all the things that I had wanted. Just to go to school and flaunt it. Make it look like everything was all good,

But inside my head was haunted..

See pops was always working, Comin home 3 in the morning, The pressure real, shit he’d pay for every meal, every bill, got his blood pressure raisin hell.. Thats when he had a heart attack,

But what’s the price of a dollar?

My damn father? Nah So I made a promise. I would do whatever needed just to never feel the stress that he did. Fuck emotions, started dealing wit the drugs, no more dramas. Everything cool, yup, I started payin off the Mazda. Got my own cake.. and started disobeyin mama.. My bad,

But what’s the price of a dollar?

Now my momma stayin up late, wonder where I’m at and if I’m safe, am I still awake? I’m only tryna catch a fade. Need somethin to captivate my mind, cuz my skull too thick, and life too short, the game too quick, that I could never catch a break.. So I’d dedicate like everyday to gettin high and slangin, And if I’m dry, make sure I’d find another way to stay lit.. Cuz the craving takin over, And I hate it when I’m sober, even rippin off the homies.

So I be sleepin when I’m walkin, Never thinkin when I’m talkin, Got me drinkin like a dolphin, more often than not- Smokin pot, hackin a lung, coughing a lot. Now the drugs tapping into the funds, how could it not? Til that one day I woke up bankrupt. what the fuck. lookin back at the last 12 months like that was more than one…?

Need to make a change, make a move, but i’m broke as fuck. Running outta luck, but no chance that ima lose this buzz So i made the jump, quite dangerous- lined the H up, deep breathe, and ripped the bump

Feet up, never worry bout tomorrow, But deep down, was slowly drowning in my sorrow.

The pressure just to find some success was always lurkin… Easier to just act a fool, and close the curtain.. So all them days my pops was workin late, back breaks, rat race, headaches, man, it was all worthless….

Someone tell me- what’s the price of a dollar

 

Honesuckles

My youth was short and blurred.

I imagine it felt like the last few moments

of Kurt Cobain’s life;

All light and no color.

Though I was born a winter baby,

Summers irrevocably held my heart.

They tasted like the sunscreen that dripped

onto my chlorine-damp lips

And smelled sweet like the honeysuckles

That strangled the Forget-Me-Nots,

 

falling and flying

Falling again, who would know

The places we’ve been, the places we go

Addicted to not

SAMPLE ANSWER

How did opiates writers talk about their bodies, and relating to or acting upon bodies?

Introduction

Opiates were a substance/drug used in the 18th century. Opiates were both prescribed and taken recreationally, then as now. Although opiates had such negative social connotations, its use inspired literary discussion about topics such as self-control. Because opiates could produce feelings of altered perception, it gave rise to long-standing discussions about when one’s own body is truly one’s own. Because opiates could be physically addictive, it caused tension between users and those who encouraged moderation

Opiates was a substance/drug used in the 18th century.

Opiates were a substance/drug used in the 18th century. It was used recreationally and medically, but it’s still around today.

In addition to being a recreational drug and medical treatment, opiates were also used because of the way they made people feel: happy and relaxed.

Opiates were both prescribed and taken recreationally, then as now.

Opiates were both prescribed and taken recreationally, then as now. The drug was used to treat pain, but it also played a role in recreational use of opiates—in particular, heroin. Heroin is an opiate that can be injected or smoked (or snorted) on its own; however, it’s more commonly mixed with other substances such as heroin/morphine base (smack), cocaine or morphine powder(coke). Heroin is typically black or brown in color and has no odor when heated.

In the late 1800s through early 1900s doctors began experimenting with different methods of administering drugs to patients who were suffering from various health conditions including cancer pain or traumatic injuries; these treatments included ingesting pills orally followed by injections into muscle tissue at specific points around their bodies where they would release chemicals similar to those found naturally within opium plants like poppy seeds called alkaloids which act on nerve endings causing intense sensations ranging from euphoria all way down until death occurs due partly because our brains become dependent upon these chemicals over time so if left untreated eventually death occurs even though there may be many years between treatments since symptoms didn’t disappear completely immediately after treatment ended.”

Because opiates had such negative social connotations, its use inspired literary discussion about topics such as self-control.

Opiates were used as a way to explore the boundaries of self-control and awareness. For example, in “The Case of Dreyfus” by James Joyce, the main character is addicted to morphine and spends his days wandering around Dublin talking about himself. He also imagines himself being shot again and again because he can’t control his body at all—it’s constantly moving toward something that he doesn’t understand or even want.

In this way opiates functioned as a form of self-medication for people who didn’t have much control over their lives; they gave them an opportunity to experience fear without having real consequences (because when it comes down to it: no one really dies from using drugs).

Because opiates could produce feelings of altered perception, it gave rise to long-standing discussions about when one’s own body is truly one’s own.

Opiates could produce feelings of altered perception, which led to long-standing discussions about when one’s own body is truly one’s own. Having a body that you can’t control can be both good and bad—it’s easy to think of people in pain who might benefit from opiates, but it can also mean that you’re not in control of your own mind or actions. For some people, this idea may seem like an odd way of thinking about the body; for others, it might seem more natural because they’ve been told their whole lives that there are two separate entities: mind and soul (or spirit).

Because opiates could be physically addictive, it caused tension between users and those who encouraged moderation.

Opiate users were often faced with the reality of addiction, which can lead to physical health problems. Some of these issues include:

• Painkiller dependency

• Depression and anxiety

• Loss of appetite, weight loss and anorexia.

Addiction can also cause social problems because it affects relationships with friends and family members who have been affected by opiates or know someone who is suffering from painkiller addiction. The negative effects on health are obvious but there are also financial consequences; if you’re addicted then it’s likely that your job will be affected as well as any career aspirations you had before becoming dependent on drugs such as morphine/codeine etc., this means losing money through having less hours at work which could lead into unemployment!

Writers in the 18th century used opiates for a variety of reasons and often discussed their experiences thereof in fictional work.

Opiates were used for a variety of reasons in the 18th century. Writers often discussed their experiences with opiates, either recreationally or therapeutically. In addition to recreational use, many writers also used opiates to deal with physical pain or emotional pain (such as depression). Some writers sought out this treatment because they believed it would enhance their creativity; others sought out medication so they could write better or more easily than they otherwise might have been able to do without having taken an opiate-based drug like laudanum or opium (which was often prescribed by physicians).

Conclusion

Overall, opiates were a drug that was both prescribed and taken recreationally. Writers in the 18th century wrote about their experiences with opiates in fiction and non-fiction, which often caused tension between users and those who encouraged moderation.