Tuesday, January 8, 2013

A short story about a boy, that it's not me.

Getting up and down from planes.

I have crossed the skies, so many times this year. Buckled up to many plane seats, just to seek for a bit shelter, adventure, love and myself. I did find adventure and some clues about myself. About love and shelter... I gotta keep on looking.

You should know first, about the radical change in my persona. So I will explain a bit.

Prelude for a troubled mind.

Not so long time ago... I was drowning in the deep and dark waters of confusion and self-loathing. I totally fucked it up, I mean my whole entire life. I spent so many nights and many days looking out of the window, waiting for something to happen. Anything just for a change. While those days passed, my hopes passed away too.

I discovered the magical world of the drugs, a place so cool that is reserved only for those with true grit. My associates and I were chock full of that. 

It was around christmas eve two years ago when it all started. A long time relationship with a cute girl I used to love came to and end. That christmas night, I changed.  Suffered from a terrible mood swing and instead of feeling sad, I felt really damn good. By that time I could have never believed that I am Bipolar.

All I wanted was to party all year long, get drunk, get high, get laid, drive drunk in some kind of speed frenzy, drug boosted imaginary race. I should have known, that was the first warning, I was becoming crazy.

I really messed up, when started mixing booze with benzos. It was truly a disgraceful thing to do. I lost all connection with the "real" world and created a world for myself, with my very own rules. The real problem started when I believed my own shit. I created a different persona, some hybrid between the classiest members of rock and roll's most infamous club. The "27 Club" and the agressive lifestyle of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, all mixed up in a rare creature: Me.

All my heroes were already dead, but their legacy was still rocking, every verse Jim sung or every adventure with Dr. Gonzo; driving convertibles at top speed in the desert drinking singapore slings with mezcal on the side. All  my heroes were immortal. I knew by that time, the only way to achieve eternal life was to prove to myself and the world how truly mortal I was by dying.

Elaborated an incredible and complex plan to achieve immortality. So I became a crazed up journalist (nom de guerre: Banger) and enlisted myself in some of the most particular stories I was able to cover. When it all was a cheap excuse to consume heinous drugs during my trips. From getting high in millenary mayan ruins, to break into very old theaters in the east side of the country. All in the sake of journalism, fake journalism and racing thoughts.

Manic-Depression, car crash and rehab at the five star room.

The day I got out of benzos, I was broke and there was this new law on regulating prescription drugs and my easily accesible over the counter pills times, were over. Desperate I convinced everyone around me that I was suffering from anxiety and needed to go to the shrink. All this, without knowing that subconsciously, I was asking for help. 

I faked all the symptoms that my ill minded ex girlfriend once had. My goal, was to get Klonazepam. Somehow, I did convinced the doctor and got in my hands a beautiful, all shiny, brand new, hundred pills bottle, plus antidepressants bonus. I was sweetly and entirely out of control.

Amazed about the higher quality of this narcotics. I noticed how easily they dissolved under my tongue and began to eat the klonies just like candies. Taking up to four or five pills at the same time every thirty minutes, when normal people take  half a pill and they sleep all day long or die. Those only got me with a feeling of numbness in my face and my hands; and it usually disappeared a few minutes later.

It was by that time too, when I got hooked on booze. Mojitos, tom collins, cuba libre; you name it, I drank it. But my favorite above all of them always was fine whisky. With expensive tags on the bottle's neck. I mean, have you ever tried benzos with scotch on the rocks? Dammit, what a fucking thrill! Even after, I drank all the expensive whisky in my dad's personal collection of booze; anything with ethanol was enough to do the trick. I knew there was something wrong about me; and I felt ashamed to be stupidly drunk at my sister's birthday. The skin from my hands started to peel off, I was all shaky and soaking wet in sweat. They really got worried (my family).

So... I started skipping college, drinking more and driving faster, getting higher, cutting deeper. One day, I got this story to cover on the east side of the country. It was essential for my work to get hold of a fast car, absolutely NOT take the group bus, buy a huge bag of weed, a bunch of crappy benzos and finally some hard liquour. Driving all the way, drunk, stoned; just like the good person I am. 

Getting the car, the liquour and the crappy benzos was quite easy. Getting the weed was a bit more difficult, but I made some calls to some people who knows other people, who knows other people and it goes and goes that way. Even I got it delivered at my own car. So everything was ready with the exception of myself.

A few minutes later, I smashed my car to someone's house. The car was all wrecked, I severely damaged my left hand and my associate got hurt in the eye because of the airbag explosion. That was the wake up call for everbody.

I got rid of the drugs in case the cops showed up. Mom and Dad got to the rescue. They knew it, I could see it in their eyes, but they could still not believe it yet. 
My associate got his eye fixed in a very short period of time and the doctor said, I had to use a cast on my left arm. 

"Just the cast for a few months, plus the therapy to get back the movement of your hand." -The doctor said.

I still remember how I liked my old red cast... My sponsors (Mom and Dad) warned me about having some very serious conversations, but actually nothing didn't happen, I was sleeping in my room most of the time. Without talking, seeing, hearing, feeling in the darkness of my old room.

That very same night, I got really high and really drunk. Smoked and drinked everything I had near me. A bottle of 1800 and some rum Zacapa ice cold. It was until next morning, when Mommy and Daddy found me in the couch passed out, with my body entirely painted in red. A mixture of red marker and blood stains from the manic self-cutting. I had written some girl's name on my chest, I draw the lines were to cut; and wrote many senseless words everywhere I could. There was this jar full of weed, a pipe, pills,  razorblades and my computer, with first aid information. Wicked...

That day we all remain silent. We went to eat out some gourmet sandwiches. In the afternoon of what it was just like any other day of march; they took me to the hospital, after I ate half bottle of pills. 

"I am going to go to rehab." - I knew.

They said that my entrance to the hospital was quite memorable, wearing my spanish sunglasses, dancing with my arms stretched, humming old folk songs. I even tried to smuggle some pills, but they found my not so secret stash. 

Those ten days felt like an eternity. I wasn't so great anymore, actually I was spiralling down into a deep depression. Then mania. And then depression. And mania again and it goes that way, for some time. They locked my windows, I wasn't available for visitors, knives, lighters and people who wears hats at night, just because. 

I have very few memories about that time. I remember, there was this recurrent entity who visited me every day. She loved to run in circles around my bed. Everything was blurry and numb. I actually spent entire days with all the lights off, wearing my sunglasses. Sitting in the dark, just not being me. I was so scared. 

I could not sleep by myself. So they  had to give me several doses of sedatives just to calm me down.

Here's a short letter I wrote, when I was back there in the 201: 

Five Starr Prison

"Prisoner is on the five star room"

03/27/11 - 22:03

Three generations sitting in one room, while having a chat about life and death suddenly ther started throwing knives to each otherr, burning old memories, photos. Writing each other 'hate letters', that no one will ever read. Sheets of paper turned into angry gestures,  of keeping to read to yourself at night.

The three men concluded that waking up in the morning with her perfect woman by their side admiring her morning beauty, you know without and all that crap. She might not believe ever about how pretty she looks in the morning, these sincere words, never taken seriously laying by having a little sample of a women scent, love. The three men concluded that you may want something and not get it or get it and have to face the loose of this thing. Buddha's words not mine. By that time there scotch enough scotch, the two men stood up and went home. 

'"Paradise resides in our best memories" - I was thinking one of mine, this recurrent mantra on my psiquis trying to guide mantra me to give the best of my character today. Also there's a charming and  manipulative demon with equal whit  the eloquence of a prince and depravation of s dolomite. Usually whispered in dude can wet much higher.

   "Forever?" - She asked.
   "Ever and ever, till the end of times" I replied. Sadly didn't went that way.

Lots of things happened in the middle. I prefer to no talk about it.

Then my mind starts to over think, drugs coming, taking control and then! I'm on rehab on some place i don;t which it is people crayon, try to figure what happened later.  the  and there weren't  tanned two individuals never went to the 201. Now i want a cigarette my sat generations were dumb as me whith the exception of the echo i really care. sitting those other two gentlemen who i was talkin with next to me. I'm the only one in the room, a hospital room, walk in circles while i approach to this mirror and see this transformation from men to a maddest in a matter of seconds, scared me to the shit.

Beasts? Might sound inappropriate  you know, thats what substances turn you into, wild outlaws with thirst of greatness. Well, the same breed of yours. Dangerously in love like snakes and apples.

           All that thinking let me to this question; do we deserve this?

               Live the day they say… honestly I think that's bullshit some kind of shit.


"I am going to go to rehab." - I thought.

Coming back to life, with a little help from my friend: Echo.

I remember, all this situation was very difficult for everyone who loved me. (Yes, there was people who showed me real love) But I guess, it was specially difficult for my Dad. It has to be! Put yourself in his shoes; a healer who doesn't know how to heal his very own blood. 

With a little help from an old photograph, a very old polaroid and words that could only could be spoken in songs, wrote by those false heroes I used to have. He managed to crack the thin ice that was still holding me. Somehow we both broke down to tears and finally. We were staring at the same shining sun. 

There were many late night walks in the hospital halls, conversations that created really strong bonds. And I started to feel safe. Then I was out of the hospital. I returned to my old life; but I didn't really remembered anything about those things I did on the mood swing. It was difficult to sleep, to concentrate on things, I was agressive, and not very considerate with those around me. I must credit my family for bringing me back to the "real" world.

After the hospital... I was never the same again. Not bad, not good either, but just never the same...

Hoffmann's potion and the sudden smell of the flowers. 

I needed vacations from this grotesque world. This time with pure intentions, I was starting a travel of healing. A very deep connection with the universe; that I achieved that incredibly long night. With the proper chemicals and the correct set and setting, I smiled again; for the first time in a very, very, long long time.

Travelled to the Caribbean, Europe, the north, the south, the middle, left, right, up and down. Everywhere I went, was fresh new to me. No more harsh memories. I was sort of feeling happy.

A year have passed. I'm still sort of a mess, but yet a better mess than ever before. I moved from motherland to a place where I thought; I could find the missing piece of life's puzzle. Discovered that I only needed to walk everywhere I wanted to go, always wear sunscreen, listen to moody folk songs and to never stop my seek for shelter.

"I'm still looking for that special something."

- E