Ship Goes Down
Bless my soul! Where do I begin this treacherous tale of the perils and pitfalls of my chemically dependent addictions?
There seems to be a blockade of too many thoughts all trying to purge themselves at once, like a hundred folk trying to exit a crawl space door at the same time.
Keep it simple, perhaps.
All I know is that the first time I caught a buzz was a day that would change my life up to this very moment. I believed that I had stumbled upon something wonderful and fantastic: a way to change my mood. My self-consciousness was thrown out the window and a good time was never questionable.
I believe that the problem began when I began to rely on the effects of drugs and alcohol. Soon, the dry time in between being drunk and high became literally unbearable.
"Why should I have to feel miserable like this?" I thought. I want to feel good right here, right now, and I know exactly what will do that.
The insanity of this philosophy became all too apparent when I began medicating myself with pain killers and then heroin, in my opinion, the ultimate elixir to make the world rosy, to skew my personal reality. Ten years on methadone and its ritual did not help, nor did the alcohol and benzodiazepines on top of it.
It is very difficult to come up with more of what to say, because there's just so much, so let me call this my "Overview in Extreme Brevity".
I will wrap this confusing mess up at the moment by saying that I was recently in Austin, Texas for a two week period. I was on the streets for the first six days and then, drunk and whacked out on benzos, I slit my skin in a hotel elevator. There was sanguine everywhere.
I spent the last week of my stay in Austin in the hospital and the psychiatric ward. Now, here I am, a strange newborn baby trying to learn how to live and grow, and that's all I have for now...