“…what do I gotta do to get through to you to show you there ain’t nothin’ I can’t take a chainsaw to?” –Eminem, “My Dad’s Gone Crazy”
I’ve been confused about the timeline of my addiction, because my memories are so hazy. For some reason, I’ve been trying to figure out when I switched from snorting the horrendously large amounts of ADHD medication I’d been getting prescribed (I legitimately suffer from severe ADHD, but I abused my prescriptions when my student loans ran out after I dropped out of college and no longer had the money for cocaine) to smoking crack. I’d narrowed it down to some point in 2011-2012, but I think it likely that it happened right after I dropped off the blogosphere (at the time, LiveJournal) in mid-2011. There is a blank for all of 2012 when I just didn’t write anything, during the time when I was vacillating back and forth between addiction and recovery and had gotten kicked out of the house. All of 2012, well the times I wasn’t actively seeking help for my addiction, I was out chasing my “bottom” (as in “hitting bottom”) in full force.
I’ve been going back through old 2011 entries, which have been imported into this blog, and I’m now in the process of making those posts public because I don’t need to keep them secret anymore. I am amazed at how I would make duplicate posts (which I’m deleting to save space and headaches during my own future searches of my material), not realizing that I’d posted the same things just a few days previously, and how I raved like the truly mad woman that I was then. If you’re interested in seeing how deep madness can take a person, check out this post from me at that time… you probably won’t understand most of it, but I was convinced I was under direct personal attack by a genius meth addict who had told me a few too many of his deep dark secrets. I quite probably was dealing with malware, and it’s possible that said meth addict did indeed infect my computers with malware also, but the situation was nowhere near as outlandish as I was convinced that it was at that time. Another one is this one, posted after walking through an “interesting” neighborhood alone at night for the first time in many years.
Psychosis is very real to a person who is caught up in it. Psychosis has nothing to do with what most people think it does – most people I encounter think psychotic breaks/episodes have something to do with psychopathy like that of serial murderers. Psychosis just means hallucinations, an imagination run riot with things that it presents to the senses with information that seems just as real as reality (perceived by everyone else) itself. I know psychosis well. I never thought I would go chasing my own psychosis down the rabbit hole as far as I did then, and later further still when I got into smoking and shooting shards (crystal meth).
My past brings me great grief, but if I choose to forget what happened, it’s all too easy to start wanting to get loaded again and numb myself into denial of all that I have done wrong, all the people I have wronged, all the deep dark dank cesspools of filth I not only sank into, but regularly reveled to bathe in back then.
P.S. – I’m fairly certain that somewhere in the FBI’s Cybercrimes Division, there’s a “zero file” with my name on it.
Note: This poem is written primarily in street slang, so it probably will only confuse you or be irrelevant unless you have an interest in the urban dialect of the pacific northwest. It also speaks of numerous deviant activities, with which I became familiar in recent years. I no longer spend any time hanging out with my former street “friends” but my experiences were liminal and fairly formative in my current inner personality. I don’t dwell on it much lately, this was written during a period at the beginning of the year when I was not clean or sober in the slightest.
If you are a minor, please wait until you have some adult experience before trying to comprehend these concepts. Kids, stay kids as long as you can, some people (like me) never had that option.
Okay, disclaimer done. Read at your own risk.
Ten toes down for that rusty renegade rock-bottom crown
That prehistoric hustle of hips hovering horizontally, they
Numero ocho their way above the ground.
This well-designed dawdle is a marketing ploy, out on the
Bleak blustery razor of the blade,
Saying simultaneously, “Come catch me!”
And yet, “Too pricey for your pocketbook, Loverboy.”
You can only make it here if you
Stay always somewhat out of reach.
It’s unattainable for me to stay in pocket
Me, the potentially top-dollar head doctor
Still intrinsically the same small-town whitey-whitebread reject kluck
Finding over and over that “I got you”
Equates to “I’ll bop you” time and again.
Unlike the other ho’s I was born to the trade
but not to The Blade. I didn’t trick, didn’t have no licks, cuz I was the trick, I was the lick.
Not for my Johns but for those damn gorilla pimps
Who take a “No, thank you” personal and so maneuvered
To be my non-consensual gigolos
Here, where a head-game
Is naught but the time of day (where no one wears a watch)
So I branched out to feed my habit
Boosted bottles and such, switched up those toes
For a few fingers – five, to be exact.
Slung a few rocks, but couldn’t stop myself
From lezzing it up for that cold, hard, White B**ch
More than a little, for
More than a little too long
But because I didn’t also fall for the Midnight Lady’s numb embraces
I was constantly inundated by my emptiness.
The street can only be home when you no longer feel your heart.