Triggering - Another morning (story, triggers drugs and self harm)
"****!"
I scream outloud, sobbing hysterically behind the steering wheel of my nissan xterra. I am parked a small, rundown park, which is littered by decades old, rusted playground equipment and beer bottles.
My insides do flips inside of me. I shake like a maimed poodle. The taste of vomit is resting upon my scorching tongue is saturating my very being.
My skin cells are burning as if they have each been rubbed raw, and my bones are crushing into paste from the inside.
My violently trembling hand stretches out towards my car's ashtray, and I retrieve a cigarette butt with all but no tobacco left. I ignite the end and drag the last hit from its embers. I pull out my cell phone and check.
Eight minutes have passed since the last call. He said he would be here in Five.
I crack the door and spew a stream of vomit to the gravel littered ground. I notice blood and traces of half-dissolved pills.
A stabbing pain in my chest, I frantically wrap my swollen limbs around torso, and squeeze tightly, hoping to just implode and dissappear into myself, like a black hole.
Im so itchy I can't stand it.
I reach down and begin scratching frantically at my lower legs, feeling the freshly scabbed wounds open up and weep slightly. My second favorite coping mechanism only slightly satiates my thirst. All too soon the pain is back.
My legs are thrashing madly, and I stretch my left arm across my thighs, while holding my left hand, which clutched in a fist around a fifty dollar bill, against my heart.
*Beep Beep*
"Hello?....Hell yeah...naw, bro, im just sick....****....alright....perfect..."
Ten minutes and and exchange of words later, my money is gone, and I am clutching a small off-green pill, scraping it's outer layer away, and preparing for liftoff.
Alice in Chains is blaring in my shitty stereo. The sickness has vanished in thin air, and the warm, nutrient filled liquid is coursing throughout my being. Every muscle is relaxed. Every scar is healed. Every hurt: numb.
I lay back, seat tilted as far as possible, and enjoy counting my slow, concentrated breaths, inhaling bliss, and breathing out sighs of complete ecstasy.
The smoke is long gone, but the smell of boiling pharmaceutical matter remains.
My pin-point pupils drift down in a haze and glance at my left wrist. I count each of the purple-ish pink scars, one by one, as if steps on a ladder leading to a welt on the crook of my elbow. A small trickle of blood is travelling from the needle's hole, as it usually does once I pull my dirty shoe string tourniquet from my bicep.
My glance shifts to the right, and I look at the crimson bandana unraveled in my lap, to examine its contents: a lighter, a bent spoon with a burnt bottom, some q-tips, my shoestring, a small, used insulin syringe, and a baggie with half of a scraped pill inside.
"Thank God. Another 40 to get by. That should last me till the K-8's come back in town. Heard Matt might be getting some bags too. Today's gonna be a good day."
I look at my cell phone, and noticing it's nearly six in the morning, crank up the ignition. I hastily look in my rear view mirror, not so much as to the check for traffic but to examine my features.
Pin-point pupils: Check.
Greasy Hair: Check.
Chapped Lips: Check.
Bags under my eyes: Check.
Yep, I'm ****ed up.
I put the gear in reverse, and pull out of my parking place, and drive back to my parent's house. I pray silently that they haven't awoken yet.
Before I know it, I'm at my front door.
I quietly step inside. My heart freezes when I see my mother lounging in the recliner. She's watching her shows.
Luckily she's taken her meds.
She mumbles something about Dad being out at work, and asks for a kiss. I oblige her, barely noticing her medicine vial in her hand, knowing that it most likely contained several percocets earlier.
I sigh and sulk downstairs the basement. My boudiour. The "Junk Den" as I call it. I lock the door behind me and plop down on the bed, high as a kite, and yet so sad.
I look to my bedside table, where a blade is laying open and inviting, with traces of dried blood as evidence of its comforts. I look away knowing that, not only would the act be pointless, but that the opiates will suffice for now.
I lay back and close my eyes, floating on a sea of amniotic fluid, and fold my arms across my chest. I softly sing the lyrics to "Down in a Hole" to no audience in particular.
"Sand rains down, in here I sit, holding red flowers in a tomb..."
I breathe out again.
It seems like only yesterday I was a little kid, with big, bright dreams of a future, a career, a happy life. It seems just hours ago that I wanted to go the college, and become a therapist. It seems like not too long ago at all I could honestly say I loved myself.
But that seems to no longer be the case. The Past is dead, and so am I.
I made this tomb, and now I lie in it.
Last edited by Arsmart89 : 26-12-2009 at 07:10 AM.
Wow ? Incedible. I love your writing style (:
Would love to hear more x
It may not be pleasant ; but it's always possible - Brian Molko ♥
I was filled with incoherence .Theories of conspiracy .The whole world wants my disappearance, I'll go fighting nail and teeth .You've never seen such perseverance .Gonna make you scared of me,'Cause haemoglobin is the key - Placebo♥
I awake in a cold sweat. The sheets underneath feel cold and wet. I feel dizzy.
"What time is it?"
Doesn't matter. I'm just starting to get sick again. I must have drifted off without thinking about it. I groan as I swing my legs to the floor, and I grimace at the soreness in my muscles as I reach for my trusty red bandana.
I open it and immediately know something is wrong.
Its only contents are a small note.
My stomache lurches forward as I read the sickening words on the parchment.
"We need to talk."
She took my ****....SHE TOOK MY ****!!!!!. God damn it!
I jump to my feet and dart out my bedroom door. There she is. ONly hours earlier I felt nothing but love for her. Now I was desperate and ready to kill.
She stands up weakly and tries to speak to me, but I dart forward and shove her hard back into her recliner.
I scream, "HOW COULD YOU? WHERE IS IT MOM? I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DONT TELL ME...."
"Please, you need to get help! You're killing yourself!"
Instead of responding, I thrust my hand into the crevice of the recliner and retrieve the small silver vial she clings to more than life itself. The one thing I fantasize about more than anything. It's the key to the medicine safe.
I run upstairs, oblivious to her screams and hysterical sobbing, and jam the key into the slot of the box. I tear it open, and grab the bottle of percocets. I pour out about 40 of them into my pocket and pour fifteen of the little white pills into my mouth and begin chewing. The taste is nauseating but a comforting reminder of relief to come. I sprint past her head out the door. I barely hear her scream "I love you."
Im in the car. Im on the road. Im pulling in. I'm outside of Matt's house. He's got a bundle and I'm willing to make a bargain.
Matt has two hands open. Good news and hopeful news. I'll settle for anything by now. One hand holds the lesser, hopeful news: the dope is an hour out. If I can hang around for the time being, it will be worth it in the end.
The good news, is I will not go without in the mean time.
Already feeling the slight warm glow of the oxycodone drifting through circulatory system, I reach forward and pick up the mirror and and straw and quickly insufflate a decent line of white powder. The burn is strong, and the drain is quite bitter.
"It's cut....probably glass...."
I smile, and swallow akwardly, feeling my heatbeat speed up and travel up my anesthetized esophagus. I feel like such a **** head. I feel like dirty junky. I feel pretty bad. I feel kind of low. I feel alright. I feel okay. I feel good. I feel great.
I feel like I'm God.
I bend down again and do another, smaller line. This one doesn't hurt as bad.
I am God.
Matt and I engage in a long conversation comparing the modern art movement, alternative rock and psychology in one, complicated stream of words and confusing sentence structures.
Only briefly do I feel a pang of guilt when the image of my sobbing mother drifts into my mind. Almost instinctly I reach down into my right hip pocket and retrieve a small x-acto blade.
I dip the edge into the pile of drugs before me and lift a gargantuan sized amount to my nostrils and with one, hard, quick snort, dispose of it.
Lifting my dirty shirt up to my neck, holding it in place with my chin, I drag the coke speckled steel across my stomache, cutting deeply, and begin to rub the rapidly spilling blood on my skin, savoring the sensation of the warm plasma on flesh.
Matt, at first displaying a look of complete dismay and horror, relaxes into an amused grin, and rails another line before nasally breathing out,
"Damn, dude. You have have got some serious ****ing issues."
In silentl agreement and self loathing, I lower my shirt and refrain from doing any more drugs for the time being to enjoy the high. I hear the door bell ring. Maybe it's the dope man.
I sprint to the door, oblivious to the shouts from Matt to let him get it.
I open the door, only to be greeted by the angry stare of my Father.
Five years ago, I never would have imagined my life would in anyway resemble this. Here I am, a gut and pocket full of my own mother's painkillers, blood dripping from my shirt, cocaine and meth eating away at the cartilage of my septum, and my father staring deep into my bloodshot eyes with all the hatred in his being.
Five years ago, I thought I would be dead by now.
I can remember it all to clearly. Waking up each morning just wishing I could go back to sleep and dream forever. Something seemed safe in that. At least when I was sleeping the darkness couldn't reach me. I wanted to sleep forever, as the waking world was just too much for my fourteen year old mind to grip.
Every single moment, even the seemingly happy ones were all shadowed. The subliminal sensation, a prickling fire behind my eyes, persisted to eat away at my ego until nothing remained. At first, it was frightening, but once I surrendered, I sadly accepted my fate as a mission. I set forth on what seemed to be a unstoppable path of self destruction.
By the age of sixteen, my ideal evening involved lighting candles in my bathroom, popping six or seven vicodins, and listening to various anthems of teenage angst and self loathing.
Seventeen came around and my loves shifted only slightly. Cocaine became a new addition to my collection, as well as a lovely little pill called oxycontin.
Eighteen brought only more of the same, only with smokable cocaine and actual heroin.
I maintained my fascade continuously all the way to age nineteen. My parents and friends knew something was wrong, but eventually realized their concerns, however loudly voiced, were unheard. Eventually they grew to just sadly look on as I faded away like the light from a dying man's eyes.
The cutting grew worse over time as well. I began that around the time I was fifteen years old. All of my self loathing and confusion would only be satiated by making the pain physical. I started out with a common shaving razor. I graduated to straight razors within a year, then to cigarettes and lighters. I had two addictions: release through physical pain, release through chemical pleasure.
I thought I knew everything. I thought I had planned it all out. I was to go as low as possible and die in the depths of hell. My own method of suicide. I would play it out in the most despicable method possible: Force my loved ones to hate me so that I would not bare the guilt of being missed.
I thought wrong.
My crazy train of auto-anihillation hit a brick wall that day.
That day is today.
My father looked deep into my eyes, reached out a yanked me by the collar and dragged me outside.
"Enough is enough! I will not let you destroy this family! I will not let you **** up your life!"
Before I could respond, I felt the smash of fist against my cheek. I felt sickly sweet warmth of blood in my mouth and pain in my jaw.
In other circumstance one would find the idea of father beating son over his self destruction abominable. One would contemplate calling the cops. One would stand up and demand the son get help.
In my circumstance, I deserve it.
In my circumstance, I knew damn well it would be warranted.
But the evil in me will not let me believe that.
Hurting me was my job.
I threw my hardest punch with my bone-skinny right hook, and hit my father with a cheap shot directly in the gut and dart past him into the suburban wilderness.
After a while, his shouts fade away and all I can hear is my own cranked out heartbeat and heavy breathing.
Wow.......This is really good. I'd love to read more. :)
<3 Katey
"As the blood is rushing to my head And from my wrists I'm in love with all the things I know I should resist And all the times you said to me Your falling down ones destiny A simple thought occurs to me I'm face down on the tracks The train is coming fast And you're right there waiting It's not the first time And this won't be the last That my heart is failing" Heart Failure lyrics by Sixx:A.M.
Matt allowed me to sleep on his couch. It was the least he could do after breaking my nose. I nearly collapsed on the floor, dripping blood, hardly even able to make out the majority of his raging onslaught of profanity, no doubt an appropriate reaction for having such a disturbance occur in his "spot".
He's also done me the favor of supplying me with some clean needles while we wait on the dope man, as I am in no shape to be snorting anymore dope. At first I am reluctant to inject a stimulant, as my previous experience was limited to opiates, but my cravings remedy this predicament shortly.
As I cook up a generous amount of cocaine in a hardly clean spoon, I notice that my phone is vibrating on the table. It's mom. I ignore it and drop a small, balled up piece of cotton in the steaming elixir before me and reach for one of my newly acquired syringes. The phone stops vibrating and displays I have thirty-nine missed calls. I wonder who they are from.
Matt speaks.
"You're gonna love this ****, man. If you think pushing off on dope is ****ing sweet, banging blow is gonna blow your ****ing head open!"
I penetrate the virgin cotton and pull the plunger back, filling the chamber with an almost clear liquid, unlike dope, which usually is a shade of brown.
"Yeah, I'm ****ing psyched bro. I'm kind of nervous though."
"Hey, dude, you're ****ing shaking. Want me to doctor you?"
"Naw, I got this."
I calm myself a little, and tie a tourniquet above my left elbow, and begin to smack the small welt made earlier by the oxycontin. Usually I don't shoot into the same spot, but I figure it will help my accuracy . I push the needle into the skin, and push the plunger.
My entire bicep goes completely numb.
"Dude, what the hell are doing?', Matt laughs, "Jesus, man, you forgot to check to see if you're even in! Let me help".
I ignore him, pull back slightly, and begin to probe around for the vein. I can't feel a thing, but at this point I could care less about the damage I am doing to tendons, nerves, and veins. I just want the hit.
I pull back the plunger with a shaky hand, and my eyes light up at the sight of the small cloud of crimson jetting into the chamber. I try to steady my grip as not to lose the vein, and then blindly push in.
I barely have time to exhale.
There is no come up. There is not wait. There is no analysis of whether or not there is too much cut in the drugs, or if more is even needed.
In a matter of seconds, it is done.
I have never been so high in my god-damn life.
My heart is pounding out of my chest. My muscles are somehow tense and relaxed simultaneously. I can't hear anything over the incessant ringing and sounds of trains. It feels as if I have been dragged under the ocean. My mental capabilities are that of a student in kindergarten.
I stand up after a few moments, and glance over at Matt. His lips are moving but I cannot hear anything he's saying. I think he's angry. He even looks scared.
I face forward again and see my reflection in the mirror across the room. My pupils have completely consumed my eyes. My skin is pale and clammy. I'm twitching violently although I cannot feel it. My nose is bleeding again, and it's spraying in rhythm to my heartbeat. The corner of my mouth is foaming.
Then, it all disappeared. I was completely consumed. I caught glimpses of what was going on: Matt screaming, the ceiling, fingers holding a pill, the sensation of being forced to swallow.
I could hear shouts, this time with another person in the room. I could feel my heartbeat get slower, but not by much. The warmth inside turned cold. I could feel the cement and gravel of the parking lot scraping the skin of my back.
I felt myself fall, only to be cushioned by some unknown object. I opened my eyes, and saw Matt and his connect standing over me, and then darkness.
And all the eyes of every demon that ever haunted me glared out of oblivion as unconsciousness overtook me completely.
"As the blood is rushing to my head And from my wrists I'm in love with all the things I know I should resist And all the times you said to me Your falling down ones destiny A simple thought occurs to me I'm face down on the tracks The train is coming fast And you're right there waiting It's not the first time And this won't be the last That my heart is failing" Heart Failure lyrics by Sixx:A.M.
Another Morning: The Path of the Wand and the Welt Chapter 2
The Path of the Wand and the Welt Chapter 3
"All I want in life is to be happy...."
The words ring out as a requiem to a funeral dirge of bagpipes in the recesses of my mind, like a choir of serephim laying my sanity to rest.
Strange how some obscure song by Korn can come to mind while an ER scalpel slices a hole in my trachea.
Convulsions. Writhing. Pain. Screams. Black vomit. Black blood. Black. Black. Black. Black.
"Come on, stay with me buddy! Get me the Haldol stat! Where's that catheter?!"
Voices come in and out of my peripheral hearing. Some sound like man, others like beasts of unknown origin and unforgivable conscience. They speak only foreign tongues, and only words of hopelessness and malevolent will.
"All I want in life is to be happy...."
The tracheotomy tube in place, I can feel the prickling numbness vanishing slowly, but I still can't stop shaking. I rapidly shifting female with very reptilian overtones approaches bearing a wand. The wand looks larger than the one that cursed me, but seems to bear the same accuracy nonetheless. I feel its bite on my right shoulder, and the shaking begins to stop.
Stop.
Stop crying.
Stop crying or your heart will stop.
Stop your heart or you will never stop crying.
Haldol aside, my state of mind is hardly making the progress it should. After all, the bugs are still there, aren't they? They were still there when I got here. I showed them where they were. I even brought some to show them. They crawl under the skin, you see? They crawl under and run every time you get close. They crawl in. They crawl out. They crawl out and in and out and in.
I feel the penetration in my urethra by the rubber phallus, and the swelling in my groin seems to subside, almost like the release of pressure as the blood leaks from the deflowered.
"Okay, he seems to be stable. Give him some 2 mg. of Versed and get him on a morphine drip in ICU. We got any identification?"
"Not yet, Doctor, but the police are on the way. Should we get Dr. Harold for an evaluation? The lacerations seem to be self inflicted and the scars indicate that the behavior was present prior to the incident."
"Of course, and get me the blood panel, urinalysis, and test results from the abscess as soon as possible."
"Yes, Doctor."
Why, yes Doctor, did I hear you say morphine? Did the dope man get here? I think he'll do it on a front. He knows me. Is Matt there? I think he should doctor me up. I can't really feel my hands too good. Make sure my dad doesn't know, though. God damn it, these ****ing bugs are everywhere. They are all over me! They are inside me! Please, God, Why aren't you helping me? Please, help me! Please!
Another wand in my IV, and I go quietly.
It's time to sleep now.
I think I can hear my mother.
"Hush little baby, don't say a word, mommy doesn't want baby to hurt.
And if medicine doesn't do the trick, I think Hell just might work."
The wand: magical moments nodding out in my bedroom, candles and nirvana, blessings of the cool air and waves of pleasure and forgiveness flowing around me in a sea of heaven.
The welt: sitting in my basement, with my back to his chest, his warm embrace keeping me safe. I feel his breathing. I vigilantly keep glancing towards the door, making sure my father doesn't walk in. I tilt my head and meet his lips in a quick, sneaky peck, and resume cuddling silently.
The wand always penetrates and destroys the welt from within.
But the wand makes the welt silent in its corrosion.
