THE RITUAL OF ADDICTION

Peter was 13 years old when his father died. He started doing drugs the
same day.

Only minutes after burying a family member, Peter shoots up at home. He
dedicates that dosage to his dead relative, who was a drug user. Some of
the photos have been digitally altered to protect his anonymity.

Now 33, Peter shoots heroin almost daily as he tries to make a living
rebuilding cars and working construction jobs, while still being a husband
and a father to three children.

One day last month, Peter, not his real name, injected himself with heroin
more than six times - pushing more than $100 in drugs into his armpit.

After shooting up several times one night, Peter holds his Bible and
reflects for a few minutes. He believes he can quit using heroin with God's
help.

After arguing with his wife during the afternoon, Peter walks off, gets
into his truck and drives away without saying good night to his oldest son,
who was watching TV with him in the living room of their home north of Chimaya.

His wife thinks he's going to return a tool to a neighbor - he'll be right
back, she says. He doesn't return home that night.

Peter mixes cocaine with liquid heroin to make a speedball.

Later in Chimaya, Peter tries to clean a trailer home, one of the places he
has been sleeping of late. He tries to clean the carpet with a wet mop,
then collects his dirty clothes, all while listening to musica norte a en
espanol on the radio.

Some of the melodies prompt movement and feelings. He tries to stay busy so
he doesn't get the urge to inject another dose.

About 9:30 p.m., he begins the ritual.

On top of a table, Peter places a clean paper towel over a plastic bag. He
pulls out two new syringes and opens what looks like a prescription bottle
of pills. Inside is liquid heroin already prepared for injection.

He unfolds a dollar bill with a small bead of cocaine and mixes the two
drugs. He fills the syringe with the mix, injecting about one-third of it
into the underside of his right armpit.

After 45 minutes, Peter begins to scratch his throat - he looks restless.
He takes another hit under the same arm. Before and after each injection,
Peter cleans the syringe with water. He tries to hide the needle marks
because he does not want his children to see the scars. Though they know he
is an addict, Peter has never shot up in front of them.

Peter never leaves home without his gun. Here, he checks it before leaving
for the store.

His mood does not seem to change, but every few minutes a song on the radio
makes him cry.

"The love of a woman is nothing compared to the love for a son," he says.
He left his home earlier because he felt uncomfortable, as if he were not
wanted.

Peter prepares several doses of the heroin mixture at a time. He places the
leftovers inside his sock.

In vain, Peter tries to stay busy. He places his family photos next to the
couch where he sleeps and washes a few dishes. He looks out the window
every few minutes. Later he confesses: He was hoping his wife would stop
by. He begins to write on the tabletop, with his name on top and then the
words, "I was here but now I gone - 5/26/99 Q-vo."

The Spanish music on the radio never stops, and the norte as continue to
tug at Peter. He grabs the Bible for a few minutes and says tata Dias does
not want him upstairs yet. That's why he is still here.

Minutes before midnight, he mixes another load of heroin and cocaine - the
fifth of the evening. This time he sits on the couch with the Bible. When
he is done, he places the two syringes - each with still another shot of
drugs - inside his sock.

"I'm having a hard day with this shit," he says.

Illegal drugs are not the only drugs for Peter. He takes prescription pills
for pain, pills for anxiety and pills to help him sleep. He drinks Coke and
Dr Pepper all day long.

Recently, he stopped taking methadone. Methadone helps some quit heroin but
sparks Peter's urge for cocaine. His bones hurt and his body smells when
trying to withdraw from methadone, he says.

When his father died, Peter got hold of a painkiller to see how it felt. He
liked it. Nobody twisted his arm as he continued to experiment with other
drugs.

Two years later, he served 18 months in juvenile detention for attempted
murder after shooting a man in the shoulder.

About four years ago, while his wife was pregnant with their third child,
Peter went to jail for DWI. He stayed clean until last fall.

A day after he uses more than $100 in drugs, Peter is broke. He looks out
of his home trying to spot someone who would lend him money - or a hit of
heroin on credit.

Since 1979, jail has been the only thing between him and drugs.

Now he wants to quit again, but Peter doesn't believe in rehabilitation
programs. People go away for three months and then come back to find
themselves among the same people, the same drugs, he says.

The trick is to do it in the community.

"I'm hungry to quit; in a step of faith and with the help from the man out
there (pointing up) I'll do it," he says. "The hunger I have now is to
better my life."