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I sat on the couch in my small, mismatched, tacky motel room that I was forced to call home. I had taken the comforter off my bed, and curled myself up into a ball as I watched mindlessly the TV that was on at three am. Roseanne, I believe that it was. They had won the lottery, like that was realistic. Fuck, I would love to win the lottery right now. I could at least pretend all my problems could go away with money, and fake happiness for a little while.

Rich people are always great at that, faking happiness. Hell, if I was rich I could just be on some permanent roll and then I'll never be unhappy. Then again, I'd probably never have the patience to ever do anything productive again, because the first bright shiny pretty thing that went past me would have my attention for six hours. Or I could be logical, and realize at some point I would probably OD and die, but then hey, then I'd be dead and dead people can't be unhappy.

Or can they?

My cat Nemesis was perched above my head, making small little whines to point out the fact that I haven't given her enough attention recently. I lift my hand up to her head, more to shut her up than to actually comfort her, and stoke her soft fur was I try not to think about the fact that I'm most likely going to be homeless come Monday at noon.

Some Christmas commercial comes on, and I start crying. I haven't cried this much since I was sixteen and thought life was hell because I was grounded and couldn't use the computer to do my role playing and escape from reality. Sometimes I wish I could still do that, but I think my brain lacks that kind of focus now.

I start thinking about last Christmas. I has my own apartment, I had money coming out the ass, so much I didn't know what to do with it. I bought everyone great gifts, I bought my own plane ticket home, I was happy.

Money does equal happiness, isn't that ridiculous?

How the hell did I get here? How did I get from having everything to being here, with nothing? Not even enough money to buy myself something from McDonalds dollar menu, and not even having the mindset to be able to work.

At least last year when I went through these phases I had thousands of dollars saved up and I could afford fucking off for long periods of time while my brain battled itself and I fought my way away from the razor blades and the pills trying to pretend I actually have something worth living for.

I'm crying harder now, I wish I could just get myself together and go to work and function like a normal human being. But this week had fucked with me, fucked with me more than I thought it would have. I was happy a week ago, wasn't I?

Load up the dope and smoke the pipe. How did I end up at a crack house?

"You want a cap?"

"That would be lovely."

I had never done GHB before, why did I say yes? I was already high from the dope, but who's to turn down good hospitality?

Then suddenly we're all rollin' too... more hospitality I couldn't turn down. I feel lovely, and I want to breed with the pretty light thing I decided was my best friend in the world.

We were supposed to be there only a night, we were there for maybe two, three? I can't remember. It felt like forever, I never slept.

Then suddenly everyone's conspiring against me. Fear grips my chest and my heart is pouding and I think everyone's out to kill me. I don't know where I am, I don't have a way to get home, my cell phone is dead, I have no money, I'm so high....

"YOU LIAR! I HEARD YOU SAY IT!"

I'm freaking out. My knifes my my hand, I'm sweating, I'm trying to breath properly. I keep hearing all of them outside the room, talking to each other, deciding on a way to get rid of me properly. I realize I'm going to have to kill someone before someone kills me.

"That crack whore believes me, I'll take care of it."

I keep hearing things, they sound so real, they are real to me. I think my friends are trying to kill me, even though they keep telling me I'm being paranoid.

You can't be paranoid when you actually hear them.

I'm home finally, safe. But I hear the bounty hunters outside my door. My knife is my hand, my eye is gued to the peephole. I hear them, they're there. They're waiting for me.

I hear a woman's voice in my closet, they're already in my room.

I can't breathe, I'm not safe. I'm not safe anywhere.

Charlie keeps looking at me. At least, I think that's what his name is. He never speaks, he just sands there in my living room, a boy no more than eight, and just stares. He looks so sad. Go away Charlie, I can't help you right now.

"THERE'S BUGS! THERE'S BUGS EVERYWHERE!"

I'm on the phone with my best friend. She tells me I'm hallucinating, by this time I'm sure I am. I'm sure none of this is real, but that doesn't make it go away. I hadn't taken any drugs in over twenty-four hours, why am I going crazy?

Open google.
P-A-R-A-N-O-I-D.
S-C-H-I-Z-O-P-H-R-E-N-I-A.

I start crying, my life is over. I could deal with the doctors telling me I'm bipolar, I can't deal with skizophrenia.

I want to go get evaluated. I want to know if it's real, even though looking at it made more sense to me than bipolar ever did. But if I get evaluated, I get thrown in the loony bin, and where will my cats go? Where will all my things go? My cats are my children... Phoenix, Hades, Nemesis... they're the reason I have any sort of responsibility left in me. I get away from the crack houses because I have to feed my cats...

My mother's on my phone. Arguing with me, telling me my skizophrenia is drug induced, and it makes me angry.

"So basically my drug use before was in response to me being bipolar but now that I might be schizophrenic it's only because of the drugs?!"

So what came first... the psychosis or the drugs?

Mother doesn't understand... this fits much more than bipolar ever did. And while my first psychiatric episode might have been triggered by the drugs, it doesn't change the symptoms I had before I even got into drugs.

"You need to get off the drugs."

"NO THE MORE PRESSING MATTER IS WHERE THE FUCK I'M GONNA LIVE COME A DAY AND A HALF!!"

I hang up on her, she's stressing me out. She's not listening. Not helping.

My brother calls me. David, who will probably be the only one I can talk to about this without the need to freak out.

He's got some odd tone in his voice, I can't place it. He's worried, like I'm some breakable thing or something. I don't like it. He keeps telling me that I need to figure out something to do. He doesn't understand that I can't think, I can't make a decision, someone else needs to.

"Your sounding like Mom, only a tad less annoying."

"Thanks, I'm glad you just compared me to Mom, Mary."

No problem. Hang up the phone. Go to sleep. Gotta run away from everything. Again and again and again....

The TV keeps making me cry, it's five in the morning, no one's awake. I call Mom anyway, cry some more.

After awhile, she gets the I need stability first before I decide what to do with the drugs, and my craziness, and whatever else needs to be fixed.

Mother is sending me $300. Money she can't afford to send. I feel like a loser, I'm almost to pushing a grand that I owe her now. I don't like being on this end of things. I liked it better when I had money. Fuck this economy, it's ruining my life.

I keep realizing how messed up my brain is becoming. Sometimes I can think and analyze and go over everything with all the details, not missing a second.... and then other times I'm sparatic, only pointing out major details and having a hard time describing anything. I was fine at first, where did my brain go? I feel lost again, damnit.

How do I fix this problem? How do I even make it feel like life is worth living? Whether I stay here, go home, go to my sister in Atlanta... it all just seems like it's going to be the same.

The same bullshit over and over and over again.

I wish I had the desire to get high, maybe I could feel normal again. I feel so high right now... and I've been sober for a long time......

Labels: delusions, depression, dope, drugs, ghb, hallucinations, meth, paranoia, schizophrenia, x

I sat on the couch in my small, mismatched, tacky motel room that I was forced to call home. I had taken the comforter off my bed, and curled myself up into a ball as I watched mindlessly the TV that was on at three am. Roseanne, I believe that it was. They had won the lottery, like that was realistic. Fuck, I would love to win the lottery right now. I could at least pretend all my problems could go away with money, and fake happiness for a little while.

Rich people are always great at that, faking happiness. Hell, if I was rich I could just be on some permanent roll and then I'll never be unhappy. Then again, I'd probably never have the patience to ever do anything productive again, because the first bright shiny pretty thing that went past me would have my attention for six hours. Or I could be logical, and realize at some point I would probably OD and die, but then hey, then I'd be dead and dead people can't be unhappy.

Or can they?

My cat Nemesis was perched above my head, making small little whines to point out the fact that I haven't given her enough attention recently. I lift my hand up to her head, more to shut her up than to actually comfort her, and stoke her soft fur was I try not to think about the fact that I'm most likely going to be homeless come Monday at noon.

Some Christmas commercial comes on, and I start crying. I haven't cried this much since I was sixteen and thought life was hell because I was grounded and couldn't use the computer to do my role playing and escape from reality. Sometimes I wish I could still do that, but I think my brain lacks that kind of focus now.

I start thinking about last Christmas. I has my own apartment, I had money coming out the ass, so much I didn't know what to do with it. I bought everyone great gifts, I bought my own plane ticket home, I was happy.

Money does equal happiness, isn't that ridiculous?

How the hell did I get here? How did I get from having everything to being here, with nothing? Not even enough money to buy myself something from McDonalds dollar menu, and not even having the mindset to be able to work.

At least last year when I went through these phases I had thousands of dollars saved up and I could afford fucking off for long periods of time while my brain battled itself and I fought my way away from the razor blades and the pills trying to pretend I actually have something worth living for.

I'm crying harder now, I wish I could just get myself together and go to work and function like a normal human being. But this week had fucked with me, fucked with me more than I thought it would have. I was happy a week ago, wasn't I?

Load up the dope and smoke the pipe. How did I end up at a crack house?

"You want a cap?"

"That would be lovely."

I had never done GHB before, why did I say yes? I was already high from the dope, but who's to turn down good hospitality?

Then suddenly we're all rollin' too... more hospitality I couldn't turn down. I feel lovely, and I want to breed with the pretty light thing I decided was my best friend in the world.

We were supposed to be there only a night, we were there for maybe two, three? I can't remember. It felt like forever, I never slept.

Then suddenly everyone's conspiring against me. Fear grips my chest and my heart is pouding and I think everyone's out to kill me. I don't know where I am, I don't have a way to get home, my cell phone is dead, I have no money, I'm so high....

"YOU LIAR! I HEARD YOU SAY IT!"

I'm freaking out. My knifes my my hand, I'm sweating, I'm trying to breath properly. I keep hearing all of them outside the room, talking to each other, deciding on a way to get rid of me properly. I realize I'm going to have to kill someone before someone kills me.

"That crack whore believes me, I'll take care of it."

I keep hearing things, they sound so real, they are real to me. I think my friends are trying to kill me, even though they keep telling me I'm being paranoid.

You can't be paranoid when you actually hear them.

I'm home finally, safe. But I hear the bounty hunters outside my door. My knife is my hand, my eye is gued to the peephole. I hear them, they're there. They're waiting for me.

I hear a woman's voice in my closet, they're already in my room.

I can't breathe, I'm not safe. I'm not safe anywhere.

Charlie keeps looking at me. At least, I think that's what his name is. He never speaks, he just sands there in my living room, a boy no more than eight, and just stares. He looks so sad. Go away Charlie, I can't help you right now.

"THERE'S BUGS! THERE'S BUGS EVERYWHERE!"

I'm on the phone with my best friend. She tells me I'm hallucinating, by this time I'm sure I am. I'm sure none of this is real, but that doesn't make it go away. I hadn't taken any drugs in over twenty-four hours, why am I going crazy?

Open google.
P-A-R-A-N-O-I-D.
S-C-H-I-Z-O-P-H-R-E-N-I-A.

I start crying, my life is over. I could deal with the doctors telling me I'm bipolar, I can't deal with skizophrenia.

I want to go get evaluated. I want to know if it's real, even though looking at it made more sense to me than bipolar ever did. But if I get evaluated, I get thrown in the loony bin, and where will my cats go? Where will all my things go? My cats are my children... Phoenix, Hades, Nemesis... they're the reason I have any sort of responsibility left in me. I get away from the crack houses because I have to feed my cats...

My mother's on my phone. Arguing with me, telling me my skizophrenia is drug induced, and it makes me angry.

"So basically my drug use before was in response to me being bipolar but now that I might be schizophrenic it's only because of the drugs?!"

So what came first... the psychosis or the drugs?

Mother doesn't understand... this fits much more than bipolar ever did. And while my first psychiatric episode might have been triggered by the drugs, it doesn't change the symptoms I had before I even got into drugs.

"You need to get off the drugs."

"NO THE MORE PRESSING MATTER IS WHERE THE FUCK I'M GONNA LIVE COME A DAY AND A HALF!!"

I hang up on her, she's stressing me out. She's not listening. Not helping.

My brother calls me. David, who will probably be the only one I can talk to about this without the need to freak out.

He's got some odd tone in his voice, I can't place it. He's worried, like I'm some breakable thing or something. I don't like it. He keeps telling me that I need to figure out something to do. He doesn't understand that I can't think, I can't make a decision, someone else needs to.

"Your sounding like Mom, only a tad less annoying."

"Thanks, I'm glad you just compared me to Mom, Mary."

No problem. Hang up the phone. Go to sleep. Gotta run away from everything. Again and again and again....

The TV keeps making me cry, it's five in the morning, no one's awake. I call Mom anyway, cry some more.

After awhile, she gets the I need stability first before I decide what to do with the drugs, and my craziness, and whatever else needs to be fixed.

Mother is sending me $300. Money she can't afford to send. I feel like a loser, I'm almost to pushing a grand that I owe her now. I don't like being on this end of things. I liked it better when I had money. Fuck this economy, it's ruining my life.

I keep realizing how messed up my brain is becoming. Sometimes I can think and analyze and go over everything with all the details, not missing a second.... and then other times I'm sparatic, only pointing out major details and having a hard time describing anything. I was fine at first, where did my brain go? I feel lost again, damnit.

How do I fix this problem? How do I even make it feel like life is worth living? Whether I stay here, go home, go to my sister in Atlanta... it all just seems like it's going to be the same.

The same bullshit over and over and over again.

I wish I had the desire to get high, maybe I could feel normal again. I feel so high right now... and I've been sober for a long time......

Labels: delusions, depression, dope, drugs, ghb, hallucinations, meth, paranoia, schizophrenia, x

My name is Mary. I'm a 24 year old creative mess. I like to tell stories in anyway that I can, though mostly through visual artwork. I enjoy film editing, writing, modeling, photography, dancing, and website design. I'm a lesbian. I'm bipolar. I'm stronger than I usually give myself credit for. I'm a recovering drug addict. I'm passionate as all hell. I'm a beautiful disaster. I want to be free. I want to fly.

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