Thursday.

“Boy, I got the juice, I got the juice

Boy, I got the juice, boy, I got the juice

I got the juice, boy, I got the juice

I said, I got the juice, I got the juice

Boy, I said, I got the juice, I got the juice….”

My alarm tells me it’s 8:45pm. 

Thursday’s. Every Thursday, FOREVER. It’s time to start my week.

The needles, the alcohol wipes, the syringe, the Testosterone, all sit immediately to my left on the sink ledge. 

My routine: sterilize the bottle top, sterilize my leg. Attach my drawback needle, drawback the air, insert the needle, push air in, draw the T out. Switch to my injection needle. Set the syringe down.

And sit. 

Is this right?

And sit.

Am I sure?

And sit.

Do I really wanna do this?

And sit.

Should I continue?

And sit.

Why am I doing this?

Is this what you want?

Are you sure?

ARE YOU?

Deep breath. And another. A quick glance. The syringe is there, glaringly obvious on the counter. Taunting. A constant reminder that I am dependent upon it forever. Forever. 

Deep breath. Rub my thigh. Another alcohol wipe to sterilize my leg. Check for veins. Grab the syringe, uncap. Stretch the skin and…..

Relief floods in as my doubt floods out.

I check my phone. 8:50pm.

My week starts every Thursday.

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