THE ARCHWAY CHRONICLES: CHAPTER IX
The inevitable has happened, and I am now tasking myself with acknowledging the true reason while I still retain the mental capacity. I need to somehow ignore the copious cacophony that is my mind, and pin down the true reason that this has happened.
Because let us face facts, there was no rational logic. It was simply Another. Excuse. Yet more fresh, filled and stinking with bullshit illogical reasoning from my music bag of a brain filled with mind-warping card tricks. Irrational thinking to rationalise irrational behaviour. I know this cycle damnit, but knowing wasn’t enough.
The lifeblood; the bane of existence for any junkie. We always have a reason to use, a reason to escape. An excuse cannot be defeated and dealt with until one begins to realise this relationship between the conscious mind and that which is beneath the iceberg, my subconscious, which seems to be dictating my actions without my approval. This is what I need to piece together. Yes, these are the bugs that need extermination.
I knew how awful this would feel. I knew this as a fact. A recent brain scan displayed noticeable holes in my brain where there sure as hell arent supposed to be holes. The scan also revealed that the receptors in my brain that bind to opiate based medications are, for lack of a medical term, out of commission. Oh sure, I just ate 60 goddamned tablets, each containing 12.8 mgs of Codeine and a disturbingly high amount of Ibuprofen. I am most certainly feeling… Off base-line. And despite the (relatively) low amount I ate – compared to my absurd and disgusting use while a career junkie – I am extremely fucked upand am needing to close one eye as I write this now.
Good God, when will they realise the medicinal effects of mushrooms and plants. Backtrack-the studies are there and inarguable. But a plant, helping addicts, when so much money can be made off the back of poison like Methadone? What possible motive could they have in a capitalist’s society? Mental Health doesn’t turn a profit unless it is engineered.
I’ll keep dreaming that one day I’ll legally be able take some Ketamine, or Ibogaine, or hell some Ayahuasca would be nice. Perhaps I’ll need to book a vacation to the Amazon to trip with some Shamans.
Ya know, so many times, in music and film, are the lines “just one last hit”. I need just one last hit, and Im good.
I’m suddenly Renton from Trainspotting, trying to decide what type of last hit this was.
Just one last taste. I convinced myself I needed it just to get through the worst of this bizarre place. But wont it only get worse? Surely. Of course, not only is the notion of a last hit of such a horribly addictive substance laughable it is absurdly backwards. Jesus it is so obvious now-one taste like this again will land me back into full time junkie lifestyle. It was only one taste over eight years ago that kickstarted this entire krishnu-damned rollercoaster ride. Fuck look at what those eight years were. Fuckin’ NOTHIN!!
I fear this has set me back two months. The withdrawal symptoms. I thought I had gotten past the worst of it-Now? I feel as if I have pressed the reset button. Push!! Suddenly I am white-knuckled as if Im watching a tense film. Worried what the future will hold. Worried what to do while feeling like this-it isnt even late yet.Was my one month clean before coming here a complete waste of effort?
It would seem so.
However. it seems.. now.. that being aware of this fact that it is my brain trying to trip me up has had no negative affect. In fact, I feel such relief right now that I think I shall clean my room, I’ve been here ten days, I think it is probably time for a wash.
This cozy feeling is hard to look at negatively. I really should keep that note I wrote in MRT, and read it every goddamn day. I can’t turn back into the lifeless, friendless person that I was. But I look at the television and the sounds coming from the video game another resident is playing sounds like some sort of audible honey that I cant understood. The beanbag I am sitting on feels as if it were filled with the feathers of a thousand ducks. I am floating, my body feels completely disconnected from my mind and absolutely nothing is bothering me at all, for the first time since I arrived. I can hear voices saying myname but I smile. I simply dont care.
I can’t deny that I am in Heaven right now, sleeping in on Sundays.
But there is no way that eating all these pills is not going to royally screw me in some way. Im ready and willing to try any remedy that will help this overwhelmed adult-baby-junkie, whose one little hit was two 30 tablet boxes of Australia’s favourite over the counter combo.
It might seem a bit cliché now, but I think Im approaching the limits of my ability to write or think coherently
This fuckup is exactly why I need to be here, no doubt. But if I am able to do it once, what is stopping me from using again? Is there anyone here I could possibly tell who won’t dob me straight into the staff? I can’t imagine an offence like this being any less than “strike number three!” So I just keep it to myself?
Now getting paranoid about tomorrows activities. Another passive-aggressive group meetup and my second mandatory MRT meeting. Paranoid that I am going to hear another bitching session about my behaviour. I am waiting for the drumming to be brought up. Hopefully it remains unspoken of and I am left to play in peace. This of course means being left to play extremely hard, abrasive, fast and as loud as possible. How else does one approach an instrument where all you do is smack things?
I think I trust Chris enough to tell him what is happening. It is getting heavier. I think this is the best I can do right now. I approach him and can sense he can see my pupils are tiny dots and knows I’m acting all funny like. And of course the further down that rabbit hole you dive, the more it sounds like Disneyland – the more you are late for the tea party!
We spoke for an amount of time that couldnt comprehend, I cannot remember anything he said to me. My brain has taken sick leave. If this doesnt end in disaster, I need to revisit Chris tomorrow
Why? Why this day, at this time? Go look at yourself. Look in the goddamned mirror.
When I wake up. I must close my eyes to sleep the non-sleep of too much codeine, but I know I will pay for this, in one way or another.
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