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O n a hot and humid night last June, I steered my car over twisting country roads toward a small lakeside town for a romantic rendezvous. I had spent the day at a funeral, reflecting on the fact that at fifty, I had more miles behind me than ahead.

Oddly, my paramour had also spent the day at a funeral, and as the summer sun disappeared we made plans to meet halfway between our towns for a drink. It was nearly eleven when I turned my car onto Main Street, and James was growing impatient. We were speaking on the phone when I caught a glimpse of him. Strikingly handsome, he looked at least a decade younger than his 61 years. Running and doing chores on his rural property kept his body lean and muscular, and his face betrayed few traces of the anguish I knew lay in his heart.

James met me at my car, and as we walked toward the restaurant he put his arm around me. I felt a shudder of excitement run down my spine and I pushed in closer to feel his body. When we sat at the bar he swiveled his chair, pushed his knees against mine, and leaned in close to talk.

Our faces were pressed within whispering distance and I inhaled his scent. The drinks we ordered were superfluous; this was all a graceful dance of foreplay. The bar was teeming with a coarse-looking crowd of men and women who had deeply lined faces and leather jackets. The fact that we were completely out of place only heightened our excitement. We huddled and made witty comments about the antics of other patrons, parting only to fling our heads back in hysterics.

We sat at the bar laughing and kissing, and before long James ran his hand up my leg and under my skirt. On previous dates he had teased me about being a Puritan in public, but X-rated in private, but that night I made no attempt to be discreet.

It felt mischievous to be strangers in a raucous tavern far from home in the middle of the night. We reveled in escaping the constricting bonds of our everyday lives — him a lawyer, me a divorced single mother. Our behavior was an unspoken act of defiance against the taunt of age, and the gloom of funerals that had become a common part of our lives.

Outside the restaurant James kissed me deeply and with a new fervency. We were passionately entangled while patrons passed by, and I whispered that we needed to go somewhere private. James began walking me to my car, and I assumed I would follow him to the adjacent hotel, or to his house an hour away. When we got to my car he told me to get in the back seat. I refused, saying that my kids had left a mess in my car. James took my hand and led me across the lot to his immaculately clean Mercedes.

James was right behind, and before I heard the click of the door closing he was kissing me. It was futile to fight the longing we had been feeling for the past hours.

Soon, all thoughts of motherhood and what was proper disappeared. We had been together many times before, but that night we devoured each other. In the days and weeks that followed we frequently reminisced about our romp in the car, and how it brought us back to our adolescence; a time of freedom and endless promise, a time before responsibilities and painful regrets.

We humans are far more complex than the news headlines and clickbait would have you believe. Let the Narratively newsletter be your guide. Love this Narratively story? Sign up for our Newsletter. Send us a story tip. Become a Patron. Follow us. His clients say he saves lives. The government wants to shut him down. E ric James had about a day before the dope sickness really kicked in.

But he knew the opening bars of the overture well: In a few hours, the muscles in his lower back would start to spasm; his knees would rattle; his nose would run.

But worst of all, the fog would set in, clouding his thoughts. He did not want to go through all of that again. The taxi stopped on a quiet side street in an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn. James, a year-old freelance graphic designer with warm brown eyes and buzzed hair, sat on a bench outside of a brown brick apartment building, his fingers sweeping across the screen of his phone as he waited.

The effects had worn off by morning and left him with his daily pre-dose feeling of lethargy and dread. The onset of physical withdrawal was still a few hours away, but he could feel the storm gathering. At another building in another neighborhood, the money in his pocket could get him well for a few hours. This time, he was determined to quit opioids; this time James was after a chalky, bitter-tasting powder that would tickle his opioid receptors just enough to keep him from a full-blown withdrawal.

The door to the building swung open, and a man emerged whom James only knew by his thick Brooklyn accent and pseudonym, John Dee. His face seemed to James not 40 years old but 40 years besieged. Dee had spent about a third of his life copping prescription painkillers and heroin at Brooklyn housing projects.

A diamond-shaped white patch showed where his curly black hair started to recede, as if death had been coming but beat a quick retreat. His black, square-framed glasses and furrowed forehead gave him a hawkish look. It came in the form of two sandwich bags full of greenish powder — and a big, warm hug.

O ren Levy found a new identity as John Dee, a sort of shadowy do-gooder who helps opiate addicts kick drugs. He does it by using a largely unregulated plant called kratom, a coffee-relative that can grow up to feet high in the jungles of Indonesia, where much of the kratom sold in the U. Kratom has long been used in Southeast Asia for its pain-killing and mood-boosting properties, but the plant has only become popular in the U. Addicts are turning to it as a non-narcotic alternative to classic opiate-replacement drugs like methadone or buprenorphine, in the hopes that it is safer and less addictive.

The main alkaloids in kratom reach the mu-opiate receptors, quieting the withdrawal symptoms that make opioids so hard to quit. Chronic pain patients and recreational users also take kratom for the subtle euphoric effects it provides. Between 3 and 5 million people in the U.

But Kratom is having something of an identity crisis. Overpriced, low-quality commercial stuff is silently marketed as a legal high in gas stations and smoke shops, where it often sits next to things such as glass pipes and amyl nitrites poppers. Online vendors like Dee, however, import high-quality kratom straight from Indonesia and sell it at a lower price than store-bought brands.

Kratom is in the crosshairs of regulation and may not be legal for long. Critics who want kratom banned say teenagers can easily get their hands on it. Legislation is under review elsewhere. For the last six years, Dee has been running a one-man kratom operation out of his three-room Brooklyn apartment.

He has improvised a makeshift packaging center inside, with each room serving a dedicated purpose for his business, Red Devil Kratom. Scales, bags, and various-sized scoops caked with kratom soot sit upon a worktable in the middle of a spare room, where Dee handles packaging. A nearby storage unit houses several hundred pounds more. Dee organizes his supply by color. An earthy smell not unlike green tea escapes when Dee opens the bins and scoops up some powder to weigh on the scale.

He also sells cannabidiol CBD , an unregulated, nonpsychoactive hemp compound that has been heralded as a cure for everything from epilepsy to overly active pets. Dee came to the kratom industry after years of abusing opiates himself. At the time, he owned a nightclub where he worked full-time, and drugs and alcohol remained a constant during his early recovery.

The party scene wore him down. In , Dee quit the nightclub business to figure out his next career step. He had always wanted to work in the recovery sphere. A friend who directed a rehabilitation center suggested he try recovery coaching. Unlike therapy or counseling, which is clinical in nature, a recovery coach acts more as a motivator, confidant, and role model — helping clients focus on their future, rather than on their past. Dee went to school and became a certified recovery coach in But like the nightclubs, Dee soon found recovery coaching toxic.

The job required him to live among those he coached, with their families, at their homes, and many of his clients still used drugs. While he was already off of opiates himself, Dee wanted to help others kick the habit, and he pursued a growing interest in alternatives to mainstream treatments for opioid dependence. He received glowing reviews from recovering addicts.

He gave most of it away again, but this time he sold a little bit to make his money back. Dee still juggled several part-time jobs while building his kratom business, working security at big nightclubs and doing recovery coaching. He says he never mixed kratom with his coaching, despite a growing belief in the power of the plant.

Recovery coaches are strictly forbidden from offering their own diagnoses or recommendations, although they can provide feedback and research on different holistic treatments if the clients bring up the idea first. He boasts of a seemingly endless list of mothers, sons, friends, and relatives — all of whom, he claims, owe their sobriety to him and Red Devil Kratom. Dee nodded as James told of a year pill addiction, hard drinking, and a growing distance from his boyfriend, who thought that he had kicked the habit.

Dee told James to wait for mild withdrawals before taking the first dose. To supplement the kratom, Dee stressed the importance of step programs. James headed home with several ounces of kratom in his pocket. The following morning, he started the regimen, gulping down the kratom with a glass of juice. Just a bit of cold sweats and some gastrointestinal discomfort.

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Log dich ein um diese Funktion zu nutzen. My Mom Songtext von Eminem. Yo yo, alright, i'm gonna lay the first Here we go now. My mom loved valium and lots of drugs And that's why I am like I am cause I'm like her Because my mom loved valium and lots of drugs That's why I on what I on cause I'm my mom.

My mom my mom I know you're probably tired of hearing about my mom Oh ho! Whoa ho! But this is just a story of when I was just a shorty and how I became hooked on va-al-ya-hum Valium was in everything food that I ate, The water that I drank fucking peas on my plate, She sprinkled just enough of it to season my steak, So everyday I have at least three stomach aches, Now tell me what kind of mother would want to see her Son grow up to be an under a undera-fuckin-chiever, My teacher didn't think I was going be nothing either, What the fuck you sticking gum up under the fucking seat for?

Mathers your son has been huffing ether, Either that or the mother fuckers been puffing reefer, But all this huffing and puffing wasn't what it was either, It was neither I was buzzing but it wasn't what she thought, Pee in a tea cup?

Bitch you aint my keeper, i'm sleeping, What the fuck you keep on fucking with me for? Slut you need to leave me the fuck alone I aint playing, Go find you a white crayon and color a fucking zebra. Fehlerhaften Songtext melden. Alben Relapse von Eminem. Songtext kommentieren. E-Mail Adresse. Website optional.

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