“Please God, just let me die. I can’t fuckin’ do this anymore. I’m sorry.”
This menagerie, the one dubbed reality, 7 billion plus people and no one sees me. People stream by, no one would notice, even if I had something to say. My arms mirror my heart and soul, they have been torn apart, and one deep track illuminates my sins. It’s made it this far, and it needs to hold up one last time. I am over life. I have lived long enough to see a lot of the world- I’ve been enough women’s regrets, friends’ disappointments and my family’s hidden secret. It’s time to go.
With that, I shove a syringe loaded with heroin and cocaine, the needle piercing skin then vein, pushing one last cure into my brain. The rush is pointless to even begin to describe, as are the next two hours, spent no doubt slumped over in a public library bathroom stall. My stiff neck and numb arm lend credence to the assumption. My phone keeps ringing, jogging consciousness into temporary reality. Cinder block eyelids finally connect with the right synapses, fluttering open.
At my feet is the rig, the point bent almost 90 degrees. A rusty stream has dried up on my arm, flaking like 20-year paint baked desert sun. My mind is struggling to add one plus one and come up with 2. This isn’t happening. That needle had over a gram of dope, it should have killed a fucking elephant. How am I even here?
Technology chirps one more time and I manage to flip the phone open.
“Mike! It’s Phil. What’s wrong with you?”
“Where are you Mike?”
The 4 words probably took me a minute to say, pulled from my throat through a narcotic fog. Next thing I know ice is down my shirt and pants, I’m drifting in and out, 10 miles in the rearview and I’m standing at the emergency room entrance at West Palm Hospital.
“You either drag yourself in there and save your life, or walk away and die. I’m done trying to help you.”
I smoke a cigarette. And another, with a million thoughts streaming by like vapors in the jet stream. Walk away and die. That sounds right to me, too appealing really, but I have nothing left. In the end, I decide to go into the hospital, not because I want to live, but because I’m too exhausted to amble anywhere. There’s also a bathroom, and this matters more than anything to me, since I have a little more cocaine and heroin left.
I stagger over to check-in, the buzz barely numbing the latest wave of shame washing over me.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I just tried to kill myself with a speedball.”
“Ok, let’s get you to the back immediately.”
I’m suicidal, they say. I disagree, I’m Kevorkianal, and I deserve to be euthanized. I’m sick, and as much as I used to enjoy the suffering, the appeal has long since vanished. This isn’t the easy way out, it is so far from that. Blood, sweat and tears just drizzle before the torrents fall from the sky. There’s been far too much pain, much of it self-inflicted, sure, but the dreamer inside me has been stuck on playing nightmares. I wasn’t always hopeless, I can tell you exactly how I got here. I imagined a perfect life, even attained it in society’s eyes, while my eyes focused to see the illusion. All I ever wanted was to be happy.
Isn’t that what everyone wants?
5/13/15 – So that’s how this one starts, a far cry from the last one. A far cry from LSS prideful, look what I can do, shoot dope while driving, not get in trouble, get over on everyone, dickhead attitude. That story is still in this one I think, but where I went from late-2011 to June 18th, 2014 was a desperate, sicker than I have ever been prior, place.
I use the word grace a lot these days, one of those words we say often, but probably rarely think about it’s true meaning:
unmerited divine assistance given humans for their regeneration or sanctification.
I do not deserve to be here, I’ve lost a few friends these past few months to drugs, and plenty over that lifetime, when I was nothing more than a selfish, self-seeking animal that lied, cheated and stole his way further down the spiral. Yet here I am. Blessed, given gifts too monumental to explain, things like neutrality and inner peace.
I think I’ve used this line more than a few times, but I know God as I like to call him, or Big Guy up in the ether, has blessed me, always having my back, always holding my hand. I know he’s thrilled I’m walking next to him, and relieved he doesn’t need to drag me anymore.
Anyway – Shoestring Theories June 18th, 2015