Friday, February 24, 2012

Tripping and Falling Hard

I am 17 years old.  It's summertime and the living is edgy.  Dropping acid has become my normal.  There are times when coming down is so gritty that even after 16 hours of jaw grinding and metal mouth, I will drop again.  I cannot face my legacy.  I cannot be truly alive for fear that I will die - broken by the hand that was so mercilessly dealt to me.


I don't see that the drugs are damaging me. I am ruined anyway.  I drink until a fifth of whatever doesn't even effect me anymore.  I smoke from dirty bongs in drug houses- I am the "batch tester"- that way it's free. My fingers are dingy with nicotine- I unabashedly dig in ashtrays for half smoked butts. I do not value my life. I conduct myself as though I have no control- it is fate that will decide my outcome. If I die- so what?  Maybe I will.  Maybe I hope I will.  No one will miss me and I have not stopped long enough to wonder what matters anymore.  


Many times I have ventured out with my boyfriend and maybe some other acquaintances, high on a cocktail of poisons.  Most of those times I have been left curled in a ball, usually in a public place, screaming for mercy from the devil who grips my mind with a molten acid clutch.  While drugs can paralyze you, they can also make you a wanderer.  My friends always leave me where ever I might have gone over the abysmal edge, to travel the streets and trip happily along in their fantasmic cosmoses.  They see swaying trees and rippling lights.  I see blood leaking between my scrunched eye lids.  I see shadows of dark specters.  I felt maggots in the wounds of my soul.


Our landing place is a flop house on the north side of town under the scummiest drug dealers in town.  My drugs are free, as long as I continue to be the guinea pig but, I have become tired of the same old crutch and the same group of strung-out delinquents.  Today I am going to drop two hits- really hammer my brain, and wander off on my own.  I always end up alone anyway.  I start at the corner store and steal a popsicle to wash my mouth of the morning grime and a lollipop for later, when I start to feel as though I am going to bite my own tongue off.  My journey begins.


I met a guy through my brother last week.  I am going to wander the streets until I find his apartment.  It's a weekend morning and I have a hit for him too.  I am lost for what feels like an eternity.  I sit on a sea of grass on someone's lawn, head in hand, desperately trying to gather myself away from me, light a smoke, talk to myself, and eventually birth myself back to my surroundings and continue on.  In a few hours I find a building that looks familiar.  In one comforting moment, ease returns to me.  Grass moves like northern lights and rainbows outline everything. Just like that, things are looking up. 


My new friend is surprised to see me, still shaking dreams from his addled mind.  He sees that my pupils are cat-like and grins.  I hold out a tiny square of paper for him.  He pops it into his mouth like a Chicklet.  It's a Saturday and this is par for the course amongst this crowd. 


By late afternoon, we are ebbing as the drugs dissipate.  Coming down feels like serious damage- my brain is beaten and dulled.  Between us there is nothing much to say.  We sit on the stairs outside and listen to the pinging of brain cells bursting and dying away.  The only remedy is another hit of acid.  As the sun puts itself to bed, we awaken to a another 16 hours of things not bargained for.


There will be no sleep for our spent bodies.  We are facing monotony- the night-tripper's enemy.  He remembers a party invite.  No question- we will go.  We inspect our morphed reflexions in car windows, wonder at the spectacle of bugs carrying leaves bigger the their own bodies, eat things that feel like something else, and freak out over undiscovered ways to make the ordinary extremely fascinating.  Now, the walk to the party will do us good and we are feeling inspired again. It is always good to get out of one's head for a while. 


We arrive at an apartment and let ourselves in.  There is a thick smog of pot smoke hovering around faceless heads.  At a table in the corner there are lines of white snakes disappearing into noses.  In another corner, people are poking at their veins, syringes dripping with their perfect poison.  Somewhere in the room a TV is playing The Wizard of Oz for a group of concentrated watchers.  I don't want to be here.


Someone asks me if I am going to take a hit or not.  I realize I am holding a bong with a fresh stash of pot tucked into the pipe.  A lighter awaits and so I lower my face and draw a massive hit.  I think maybe it will calm the peak I am hitting from the acid.  I saw that my friend took a hit too.  It must be fine. 


When my heart ramps up and my throat begins to constrict , I realize that this may not be okay after all.  Words are nonsense, movements are ghoulish. I am wheezing and drooling.  I scan the room for my friend who has already planted his eyes on me.  He reaches for his heart as I reach for my throat and we realize that something is terribly wrong. He gathers me by my hand and heads for the door.  After the stairs, our legs give way.  I am crawling on the cement sidewalk, leaving a trail flesh and blood.  He hoists me up and we hold onto each other- strong when the other is weak until at last we reach his apartment.


We light a candle thinking that the organic flame will bring us back.  But the melting wax is grisly, like flesh rolling away from bone.  The flickering flame is a strobe and not the steady warmth that we so crave.  The only thing left to do is to blow it out and accept our fate in the dark of night in this dingy room.


He rolls away and I lay still and watch night illusions gather to dance with wild gesticulation.  I can see through my eyelids that they will not be going away- they will only invite more unfamiliar apparitions.  I hear myself inwardly screaming- my mouth is a grotesque nightcrawler when I reach to cover it, squirming under my fingers.  The noises I hear are pulsing from the remote corner of my cracked soul. 


I give myself a mental slap and try to concentrate on relaxing my muscles in hopes of chancing upon sleep.  In this concentrated moment I realize that I might die.  I hear my labored breath, I feel my heart throbbing and twanging, stopping and starting up again.  I take a last labored breath and I am gone.


Moments that feel like hours later, I greedily draw breath again after struggling to make my body obey what it should do automatically. I am gliding through a tunnel that is cracked and creviced by rot.  There are ancient spider webs and crumbly waste in these cavities.  I am certainly rounding the last stretch to hell.  I know that if what I see around that corner is indeed just as dark and horrific as I suspect, I will have to do myself in.  I cannot be a vegetable doomed to these catacombs for life.  My wildest hope is that somehow I will be able to get to the kitchen to find a knife to plunge into my heart, ending this undoable mayhem.


But miraculously, around that corner is light.  I recognize, as the grip of death lightens up, that this is uncanny.  There really is light?  There really is a chance to redeem my mistakes?  Just like in the movies I am given a choice- finish the journey or come back.  I hold onto anything I know to be dear and crawl, in my minds eye, backwards toward my own battle-scarred body.  When I awaken in my own wetted pants and wipe at my snot crackled face, I wonder why I have chosen to come back to a place that I have so hardily tried to escape from for so long.  After four years of drinking and drugging and smoking myself into oblivion, I know that my choice will not include a scenario like this ever again.  I have been resurrected and now I must walk forward into a new day.


...

I hope that the amazing young adults in my life (my babies), of which there are many, will read this.  You all know that I "get" you and love you.  You know that I understand that drugs are a part of your lives and that you need safe places and ways to explore.  I don't lecture you guys- I try to support you.  But PLEASE, if you are finding yourself doing so many drugs that you can't even keep track and that you are doing it to escape a less than quality life, I beg you to talk to someone, do something to save yourself.  I live daily with the repercussions of having trashed my mind.  I wish to God I had had someone in my life to steer me away from how far overboard I went.  I am here for each and every one of you, always and unconditionally. 




Child Abuse, Sexual Abuse, PTSD, Anxiety, Self-harm, Depression, Survivor, Survivor of childhood abuse, Post-partum depression and psychosis, OCD, Recovered memories, Repressed memories, Spousification, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide, Teen Suicide, bullying, drug abuse
























6 comments:

  1. and then, you poor thing, you wind up living with me and I'm drinking 12 beers a night for the first month of college. My alcoholism rampaging with new found freedom from my parents and the mental illness in my home. I guess together we could have done worse. -Bethany

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    1. Somehow, we were perfect room mates. We both liked our own space and were good at being our own people. My fondest memories are of that apt. and you. I think i am better for ti. <3

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  2. As you probably have read, I went through my own period of time, from 11 years old, through my 20's and beyond. I haven't covered it as deeply though. It scares me. Thank you for giving me reassurance that others have been there.

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  3. It scares me too. those were some hard hitting times. I am in control now. Other people have been there and have pulled out of it. We are not delinquents! We just couldn't stand to feel. XOXO

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  4. This is the first post I've read on this blog. Wow! I could be describing my own self at that age. It scares me to think about how close I came...to literal oblivion. The drug use is a direct result of child abuse. I learned to choose friends based on healthy common values. Meth is not a value.

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  5. I hope you will have time to read more. I know we have some of the things in my stories in common. I can't imagine that i could have lived with or without drugs at the time. It was a necessary evil, as you know. Thank you for reading! I hope you will come back. :) Cairn

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