PERSONAL ESSAY –
Jan. 25, 2024 – I’ll never forget the time a relative casually called me a “junkie,” as I organised my collection of drugstore makeup and fancy soaps on my bathroom countertop. This particular incident stands out as memorable because it was so random – not connected to a specific instance of heroin use or recent drastic weight loss, but simply an out of the blue insult about my past use.
That’s the most insidious thing about the concept of the “junkie” – once you’re declared one by society, nobody will ever believe you’re anything more than that. It’s difficult to shake off that identity or “prove” you’re not a junkie once people have decided that’s what you are.
Technically speaking, “junkie” refers to a subhuman zombie creature found in tabloids or other media sources. The “junkie” is a sociopath who will do anything for drugs. He – and I say “he” because this type tends to be gendered as male – steals, sells, kills, and betrays; all to get high. He lies about anything and everything. He scares small children and grandmothers. His clothes are dirty. He cannot hold done a job, is unhoused or lives in cheap lodgings, and is more often than not whatever ethnic minority is currently most feared by the type of conservative white person that reads the nation’s preferred reactionary media outlet. He is universally perceived as a separate, less-evolved species of being, a member of society that struggles to deserve the same rights as others. Most crucially, he is no more real than the greedy, hook-nosed caricatures or blackface monstrosity found in the most offensive, racist or xenophobic cartoons out there.
