The Syringe & The Mirror: One of My Darkest Hours

In this post, I take you inside one of the darkest moments of my life — alone, broken, and a shell of my former self. It’s not pretty, but very real.

December 1, 2002.

I sat in a warehouse in East LA, sharpening a dull syringe with a file. My body was so ravaged that I couldn’t find a good vein. Most spots were bruised or collapsed, but I was desperate. I didn’t want to die, yet I couldn’t handle any more pain of all varieties, from the mental to the physical.

I stared into a broken mirror propped against the wall. The hollowed-out face looking back was a stranger: sunken cheeks, gray skin, lifeless eyes. I didn’t know this man, yet it was me.

When I finally jammed the sharpened syringe into my jugular vein, a second passed before the relief came. The world shape shifted into a soothing haze where nothing hurt.

The heroin drowned my destructive inner voice. It quieted the noise, making life more manageable.

Until it didn’t.

It took decades to process everything that led me to this moment. Heroin was both a god and a devil suspended in a syringe of fleeting bliss.

But hadn’t that been true of everything in my life, including the ephemeral nature of football and fame?

To find out more, check out Marinovich, which is available here: https://www.marinovichbook.com.