Tinfoildragon's Dispatches From The Rabbit Hole

 Writing by Tinfoildragon via Reddit

 

"If I off myself/otherwise cease being alive, could you guys please make sure that these dispatches get published?"

Dispatches from the Rabbit Hole #1 - rainy day woman say everybody must get stoned

Junkie Jesus must have heard my prayers last night. The phone is still dead, but the day is early. $300 to make in 12 days, that's 3 appointments away. I have faith that there are three more johns for me before the next rent cheque is due. I have fear that there isn't, too, but its all about the positive vibes, right? Whatever. I'm trying.

Rainy day on the wet coast. Lots of police downtown today, too. They're shooting a movie or something a couple blocks from skid row, which is probably to blame for that. I got downtown with the pills I found in an old handbag last night, and said a little prayer that someone would be looking for what I had on me. Four T4s, a couple concerta, a couple tabs of E, a shit pile of seroquel.

There's a few perks to being a pretty young woman who doesn't look like a junkie. The first guy I talked to saw me sweating, traded me a couple points for a couple T3s. Success. Bored, I kept on going - a block down, a concerta and the 2 e tabs for another 2 points. Another few blocks then I remembered that the safe injection site was close. I haven't IVd down, ever. Ive only ever IVd coke, and my SO shot me up both times I did that. I miss him and it hurts it hurts it hurts until I chase the dragon in their bathroom, grabbing a handful of rigs, some clean cookers water ties and swabs as I leave. I have a deal with the devil, I'm playing Russian roulette with my life. For now,I'll keep to foil and lines off the back of my journal; however, if the 31 comes and I'm still fucked, I'm outta this world with a needle and the rent money I do have in my tiny little veins. I choose not to focus on that thought, its all consuming and all too comforting.

I keep walking, hear my alias called. My favorite dealer is there, smile on his face. I trade him a T3 and a cigarette for a $20 quarter gram of the best heroin I've ever had.

I say goodbye, turn around to head to my coffee shop haunt. A guy my age asks to borrow my lighter, and gives me a nice little rock of jib to say thanks.

Junkie Jesus, thank you. I spent only $20 but left with plenty. I shouldn't have spent that twenty beans but I would have anyways. Junkie math: nothing really fucking matters if I'm dope sick.

So now I sit, stoned and depressed, wishing I had better shoes on so I could walk more without my feet erupting in even more blisters. I remind myself of that song, I think its Phil Collins -"she's got blisters on the sole of her feet, she can't walk but she's trying, oh think twice, its just another day for you and me in paradise.." I hide it well for now. I am still at a relatively healthy weight, dress nicely and don't have to worry about track marks for the time being.. I never will if I play my cards right. If I shoot up, I'm doing it once and riding the short bus straight to Hell.

At first glance, I'm any normal 24 year old girl. I fit in at any university campus, look like any average, semi attractive human female. My dark dark eyes hide pinned pupils pretty easily. You have to look pretty close to see the physical signs of my intoxication, I rarely nod off in public. I prefer to do that at home.

To really see that I'm a junkie, you either need to catch me trying to cop on the DTES, or talk to me long enough and with enough understanding that I crack and the tears start to flow. So few people know that side of me, and the ones that do have largely fucked off out of my life. I hear that its too hard to be my friend a lot these days. Good thing they don't have to walk in my shoes, cause I guarantee that it is harder to be me than it is to know me.

And it is hurting me to think again. I need to cut this off. Nobody wants the working girl with tears streaming down her face. Tinfoil and Tooter in my purse, coffee on my table to save my seat, I'm off to chase the dragon and bide my time.

 

 

Dispatches from the Rabbit Hole #2: I'm so tired that I can't sleep.

Today pissed me off by the end of it, despite Junkie Jesus being kind. Struck out at work for the second day in a row. I'm trying to stay optimistic that this weekend will be busy. I need $300 by the 1st. I need 3 men to pay me to pretend that I am not repulsed by both myself and them; them for paying me to spread my legs, and myself for paying the bills by doing so. Besides, I make more money when I keep a smile on my face, on the whole. I only have the one regular who requests a super bitch - I like him the best. I take my rage out on him, he gets off on it. Win win situation - of which there are very few in my current paradigm.

It's already ten to three in the morning. I am showered and shaven and my alarm clock is set; however, I dipped into the jib I was given in exchange for the use of my lighter earlier today. Junkies, man. Sleep, or amphetamines? Easy choice. I forgot how much I love the high, and hell, I wasn't gonna be sleeping tonight anyways - both insomnia and self-loathing were already winning that battle...and my most profitable days thus far have all been the ones following sleepless nights. Justification of my bad behavior, or ritualism in the hopes of achieving the simple goal of paying the bills? Who knows anymore? Who cares, really? I don't think I do anymore. I haven't in a long time, if I'm being honest. For tonight, I'm choosing to stow the monsters under my bed and ramble on Reddit instead of trying to pretend that sleeping is at all an easy thing to do. I'll post a poem that I wrote a while ago here at some point. It's up for publication soon. I wish that felt like an accomplishment.

I wish I remember what feeling felt like. I wish I could forget the things that haunt me. I wish a lot of things. I have stopped awaiting the magical genie that doesn't exist, and accepted that one of the only truths I know to be absolute is that the things you wish the most to be able to erase from your memory banks will inevitably be the things that harass you the most subconsciously for the rest of your life. Unless, of course, you learn the methods of self-medication that provide even the slightest reprieve.

My SO is causing a lot of anxiety and depression and stress for me right now, too. It's too complicated to explain at length right now; however, the just of it is that I am starting to wonder if this year long rehab promise was actually a charade, a way to extract me from his life without breaking my heart outright. Again, I am trying to remain optimistic despite overwhelming reason not to; and until I hear otherwise from the horse's mouth, I am choosing to believe that the man I love more than life itself isn't yet another one of the hundreds who have, at this point, broken my heart because they can; because breaking my heart is both easier and more entertaining than loving me, at least, until the day comes when I can do that myself.

"Love me until I love myself," the sweet nothing we used to whisper to each other, the most romantic and poignant promise two people as broken as us could ever have made. Well..I promised, and I meant it. Still do. Always will. Whether or not he still gives a shit about me, I will forever love that man, more than I have or ever will love myself. I need to switch the topic here because the depression is creeping back in and that, I cannot allow. I must maintain the static and benign headspace I am in, I must stay afloat, I must keep an even keel until the 24th at 12am, when I am forced to take two days off which I can neither afford, nor pretend to give a fuck about. I fucking loathe the holidays. But again - even keel, not tonight.

Tonight is for survival, and besides the mild reprieve from the various things causing my pupils to pin, survival means being militant with myself, my thoughts. I must stay as sane as my insanity will allow. Solitude is not helping; however, its probably for the best I'm on my own.

I've started to harbour a slow-burning but infinite rage for the general public; in particular, the people I thought were my friends until I needed them to step up and, y'know, be my fucking friends. Perhaps this is an unfair or even a conceited thing to say, but their "problems," on the whole, are still situations that seem to me, near idyllic. Oh noooo, you couldn't afford the Louis Vuitton purse you wanted and had to settle for the slightly less pretentious Marc Jacobs handbag. Well shucks, you got a massive promotion and have to travel first class all expenses paid to meet a client in Europe. Well shit, I suppose that my life is just peachy keen and I should be able to ooze sympathy for you, while I am literally at my wits end trying to keep afloat, haven't been able to talk to my SO for 7 weeks, and could use a friend to talk to myself; however, shame on me for even trying to talk to you about it..clearly, your dire circumstances are so very much more difficult and I should be ashamed for requesting an ear to talk to, let alone a shoulder to cry on while you are suffering so immensely and I am clearly just crying for attention.

It all just seems so trivial, and yet, for the few friends (that word seems so wrong) I do still have, I try to offer an ear, a shoulder, a tidbit of advice where I have some that makes sense. But it makes me vibrate with rage, how they pour the sympathy on each other so thick that it becomes saccharine; and yet, how they brush my problems aside. If, despite it all, I can force myself to plaster a smile on my face and soldier on regardless of how badly I want (and truly deserve, I honestly feel) a break; then how is it fair that its perfectly acceptable for them to bitch and moan at problems that not only do not truly exist, but cease to exist when they either throw money at them, or take "well deserved" month long vacations?

I could use a vacation. Do you have any idea what I would give for a week, all expenses paid, anywhere in the goddamn world right now? Shit, I'd even settle for a week in my bedroom, if only I knew that all my bills were accounted for. It infuriates me, and again - maybe it isn't fair, but I deserve it more than they do. Same with Christmas - I deserve to have presents under the tree that I didn't buy for myself, holiday dinners with people who look forward to seeing me, happiness and community instead of misery and solitude. I didn't ask to come from a fucked up broken home. But I did. And it seems to be yet another one of those things that I don't get to bitch about within my social group. They all tell me to just go home, to forget the past, to make the best of it. If I could, I would..but home is where the alcoholic birth giver and the abusive sperm donor I call mom and dad reside. It isn't as simple as putting away our differences and having a nice get together - I've tried. Someone always ends up battered and regretting the fact that they tried. That someone is wise enough to know that its better just to skirt the situation entirely, as much as it kills me to have to admit.

I could expand on this point for days but I'm already getting lost in my rage, and that isn't what I'm trying to do tonight. I'm frustrating my damned self, at this point. Inhale. Exhale a cloud of smoke that instantly helps me to relax, at least a little bit.

There is this teeny tiny itty bitty part of myself that allows this fantasy where my SO shows up on Christmas and I actually get the one thing I really want this year; however, I know better than that. Its yet another frustration: the fantasy makes me smile for an instant, and then reality comes crashing in, as it always does, and I end up back at square one.

The capacity to believe in God is one that I am starting to envy, for it would make so many things so much easier. Having something bigger than the truth to blame for reality would be such a fabulous and welcome convenience...however, I'm staunch in my atheism. Blame a roman catholic upbringing for that. I do; however, know that energy can neither be created nor destroyed, so in a very round about way, I suppose I do believe in reincarnation. Perhaps this is my punishment lifetime.

Or, perhaps, life is just unfair, and it just happened to be the luck of the draw that I was the chosen one; born into an unfair paradigm, and predisposed to have to fight just a little bit harder than everyone else for everything from the love of her parents to her monthly rent.

That said (and again, perhaps this is conceited and unfair), given the things that frustrate me about other people, I'm almost glad that its me who has to bear the burden of living this life. I'm pretty sure that the vast majority of the people I know would never have made it this far, let alone have the will nor the strength to do what I do every day and try to make it a little further.

I sound like an asshole when I'm being honest. Maybe I don't deserve friends, nice things, an easy life. Maybe I'll never know.

The truth of it all is that at this point, I'm not sure what I'm holding on to anymore. When I was a kid, I had all these hopes and dreams about what life would be like as an adult. I never gave a shit about a wedding or a car or any of that shit, just wanted to get away from my parents and be happy. I thought that escaping the abuse would make me happy, and maybe it would have if leaving home at 14 didn't set me up for even more abuse. I guess that at this point, I'm afraid of happiness, because all of my anecdotal evidence at this point only goes to prove that happiness (for me, at least) is fleeting - it isn't that I never get what I want, its that I do, briefly, and then it is ripped from me and I end up more crushed than I was initially.

Luckily, I have discovered that no matter what, there is another constant in the world, and that is the fact that drugs help. I remain responsible with them for that reason, too. My mom ruined liquor for me, and I hate being out of touch with reality - living alone at 14, I was always too terrified of not being able to make it home in one piece to lose control. At the end of the day, the only person I've really got is me, and if I lose myself, I'm truly fucked.

That last paragraph set me at ease a bit, and I'm starting to relax again. I am enjoying this very moment, although I accept that it too is fleeting. My workday starts soon, but I still have a good few hours to be in my own company, under the influence in a safe place, Skins on my tiny TV and brain occupied with this endless, pointless dispatch from my rabbit hole. I'd apologize to you all, but fuck that. I'm not forcing you to read this, to enjoy it, to agree with me, to give a flying fuck. I'm just sharing. This is the safest of my safe places right now, for I don't have to try to find a way to explain what only other users of substances can ever comprehend. It is liberating, although for you, probably tedious.

My roommate/landlord is banging around upstairs. He's younger than me, nice enough, smart enough, but nothing truly above average. A lot of my jokes, literary references, ideas fly over his head and it frustrates both myself and him, as communication is hard. He thinks I'm weird, and I feel obligated to dumb myself down. Still, he's the one with a cushy real estate job, and I'm, well..me. He was nice to me until a couple of weeks ago, he was wasted and I wouldn't fuck him. Still won't. I have an SO (as far as I know..fuck), and I'm not looking for anything else. He threw my current job in my face with such vitriol that it physically hurt me. I hear him bragging all the time about the $6000 commissions he's making, and still, he breathes down my neck every day reminding me that he did me a favour the first month I was here, extending my rent due date to the 15thbof this month and that I'd better have next months on the 1st. He doesn't even need the money. Its a power play. I am not by myself in this house, but I am certainly alone.

Just once, I'd like to have the upper hand; however, I don't think I would know what the fuck to do with it.

I need a cigarette, and I think I want to sit in the tub with my book and a cup of coffee for a little while before I strategize how best to get through this, another day I don't particularly want to face, but kind of have to.

By the way, Chad Kultgen is a marvelous author, for those bibliophiles out there. I starter with "The Average American Male," which I highly recommend, and I'm about 2/3 through "Men, Women and Children," which is brilliant and chilling.

I'm sure there will be more from me. Unless, by some grace of Jeebus, I keel over in the tub, which we all know I wouldn't complain about at all, st this point.

Play safe, kids. And happy Friday to you. Thanks for reading yet another pointless wall of text from your friendly neighborhood bored junkie whore.

 

 

Dispatches From the Rabbit Hole #3: Welcome to day 2, where your feelings get pent up and your thoughts don't matter.

Ten minutes to three. I'm still awake, afraid that in the dark quiet stillness of the night, one of my thoughts might just make sense and I'll have to feel a feeling or two. The only feeling I want to let myself feel is (ironically) tied right the fuck back to last night, when I was typing out my bullshit and still convinced that I'd get laughed outta this community, like every single other one I've ever been a part of; and then, through messages and comments and actual fucking human contact with you, my fellow bropiate/ettes (although, is it really human contact if we are all still relative strangers? I choose to say yes, as my money is on the likelihood of us all actually getting along in real life and having a crazy drug fuelled month long conversation that no normal/boring person could possibly understand, then miraculously managing to pull enough money together to do it all again when we are dry in some Tarantino-esque plot that every junkie has experienced, just because its day__and the jib made us do it. Yeah yeah yeah, so I daydream a lot. Point is, it counts because I genuinely like you all a whole lot more than pretty much everyone I actually have real human contact with on any sort of semi-regular basis; however, I digress), I felt so much less alone in my loneliness, so much less arbitrary, so much more a person and less some misunderstood caricature of the early 90s D.A.R.E. days. Its kinda overwhelming, this rediscovery of my true love of writing, which is truly nothing more than a thinly veiled attempt to both legitimize the habit of and negate the pathetic truth that I'm actually not a very good writer/interesting person - I'm a lonely, self-important and likely schizophrenic egomanic who constantly narrates her own life in an attempt to make it both less boring and more something that doesn't make me just a junkie whore with some serious egomania issues. I really don't know how to express the way I felt when I realized that the habit I've had the longest; that is, writing these long and pointless diatribes that barely make sense to me and probably terrify the general public, brought some of you more than just disgust or a(nother) reason to laugh at me..well, that is besides saying THANKS, ASSHOLES. NOW I BOTH WANT TO AND FEEL THAT I SHOULD, IN FACT, WRITE MY DAMN BOOK. I'd long convinced myself that I wasn't a good enough person or narrator to do so..but now I feel justified and accountable. And so much less alone. Y'all fucking floored me, offers of all sorts of advice and support and help and friendship (including a pending meeting with a fellow city-dwelling redditor who might have restored some of the faith I used to have in humanity, simply through being fucking awesome). I owe it not only to myself, but to you guys, to keep on fucking talking. About everything. About nothing. Just do me a favour, eh? If I off myself/otherwise cease being alive, could you guys please make sure that these dispatches get published? I just wanna confuse the normies and give junkiedom a little taste of non-Hollywooded fame. I might not be that interesting, but our weird little tribe as a whole sure is.

Anyways. Fuck you guys in the nicest way possible. I have something I enjoy doing to look forward to and feel accountable for again. I guess I'll have to agree to fall on that grenade -though my rubber arm might need a twisting.

I'm on day 2. I once again decided that jib and bullshitting was a more attractive option than sleep and normalcy. I'm not even gonna bother apologizing for taking you all further down my rabbit hole. The truth is, day 2, jib, sarcasm, self-deprication, all of it - its all smoke and mirrors. When Alice falls down into the pit where I keep the things I actually think and feel and try my fucking hardest to conceal from myself (and to convince everyone else that they do not exist, error 404: emotion not found, thought process corrupted), that's when I'll apologize to y'all. This is nothing for my junkie tribe, we are all running from truths and memories and expectations and realities that we cannot change, but can ignore entirely through chemistry and arguably irresponsible life choices.

What's frustrating is that I had a good day, nay, a fantastic one. On paper. In papers, I have enough jib to make being awake less work than it usually is, enough heroin to sedate the hamster in my brain that's recently decided to clock world-record shattering speeds on the broken record of my mind...conveniently and consistently and solely when I decide that I need to catch the 26th letter a few times.

I am clinging to you guys. I am drowning in a sea of uncertainty and groundhog like days that are making me undoubtedly more unstable, less human, more machine; and yet, revealing the humanity beneath my programming. Help me Junkie Wan JibDopie - you're my only hope. I'm stranded in a sea of questions I can't answer and things I can't have; I'm drowning in my self loathing and wallowing in my self pity. I need my Junkie Jesus fix to come to me today in ways it never has before, at least, not at my direct request - I need the right combination of substances and sleep deprivation to allow me a moment of clarity, addict style. Let me make that a little more clear - I don't want a justification, carte blanche; rather, inner peace in regard to who I have become (have I let myself become this person? Was I shaped and moulded at the hands and pipes of others? Is it both or neither or some permutation of all of my guesses?), and some kind of absolution for the time I have recently wasted. If I'm gonna do this writing thing, at least I get to look forward to more time spent high and less time spent sober; although, that likely means more money spent that I don't have and less money hidden away that junkie math has already spent, despite having earmarked it for things that matter - on that list, shoes that don't make my feet erupt into painful and immense blisters all along the soles of my feet. We all know I'll never , ever make good on that purchase, and that I will, instead, walk up and down the DTES and the downtown core and the neighborhood I live in on painful feet that make me want to cry, but cry so much infinitely less than the notion of spending a quarter gram flaps worth of coin on anything other than a quarter motherfucking gram.

Except maybe an eighth of a gram of truly bomb cocaine. I miss good cocaine miss chipping pieces off the keys we used to get before we hacked them up into so much more product than we had prior. Those cocaine memories are a lame allegory to my existence. I have become so much infinitely less by allowing myself to become so much infinitely more than I used to be. Conversely, i used to be so much infinitely more when I was okay with being tangibly less substantial. If that sentiment makes sense to you...either I phrased it wrong or you're a woman who moved up high in the business rankings - and not as a strawberry, an old lady, arm candy, but a soldier.

Likely, I am alone in that sentiment, that particular feeling, and the vast majority of all else I have ever said or anything I have yet to say. I'm pretty sure I am completely insane in ways that can be neither fixed nor understood, that I speak a language that doesn't exist, and that everyone I meet either placates me because I'm funny, fascinating in a weird science way, or too fucking pathetic to leave on my own in the wild. I have no one but myself to blame - they tried to teach me to be normal when I was still a malleable specimen of somewhat worthy and sound constitution. Those days are long past me. I am no longer trainable, never to member of productive society whether users or sober, never to be the kid that fits in or the adult that knows how to pretend well enough to be assimilated into friendships, working relationships, romantic partnerships.

As much as I want to let myself wallow in the sorrow and confusion and pain and anger associated with my own romantic soulmate man i love more than myself and my small part in his world, I can't. I can barely admit to myself what I'm not sure of but know to be true. If I say it here I'll have to admit to my written word gospel of nonsensical truth that I am not only in pain, but that its affecting me this much.

Fair trade: get higher, be surprised that it isn't yet 4:00am, and write with some feeble and unimportant attempt at structure, at content that flows and matters, whatever the fuck that means. Let me tell you about my workday, but let me first smoke some amphetamines out of a lightbulb and revel in the fact that I will never be able to put my most impressive skills on a resume: creating smoking utensils out of household items, bucking rails in moving cars, concealing pupils that do not make sense in their environment, rolling joints of all shapes, creative ways to extract the most of any substance from its original method of containment.

I'm like the fucking McGuiver grand master flash of the upper world with merit badges in opiate usage and honours credits awarded for excellence in perseverance in copping multiple substances 201 as well as advanced theory of success getting oneself high when one is dry...and yet, I'm both overqualified to flip hamburgers at McDonalds and under qualified to perform neurosurgery. Where's the justice, truly? Those are carefully honed and valuable skills that will never be recognized at a corporate picnic, let alone invited to accept the corner office and a massive pay raise... And yet, I'd still Rather know how to roll a cross joint than how to list my references in APA format, still prefer sleepless nights spent turning 60w bulbs into amphetamine puddling pipes to all nighters that result in term papers. I learned a veritable fuckton at uni, just very little that I've ever shown off to my dear old ma and pa. I wonder if the chemistry behind producing shake and bake meth would be enough to woo my straight edge dad to let his hair down and just embrace the weird ride out to day 9, wonder if the ritualistic obsession that preparing both my heroin and my cocaine would be enough to distract my mom from liquor long enough to fall out of love with being wasted.

Part of me is so upset at the rest of me for staying up way later than. I said I would. Again. The rest of me is legitimately enjoying the pull of the jib down smoke melange enough that staying awake and continuing the party until we are back here exactly again tomorrow (today?) , making the sane wrong decision for the proper inhumane but politically correct-ish reasons. I promise myself and my sanity to get at least some sleep tonight. As long as I am out with in the next 2 hours, tomorrow's budgets for both amphetamine and opiate will be plenty. As long as I don't hit day three, I can skirt weirdness that I think I'd honestly prefer some uncomfortable time with my sleeping consciousness than I would with sleep-deprived waking hell avoidance tactics.

I miss the days and days and days I used to get to spend relishing days and days and days awake with my love, but I'm cutting myself off right there, and digressing, much too late but right on time.

Junkie Jesus was kind of an asshole today - none of my DTES peeps were around, the jib I got was alright but burns kinda fucky; the dizz I got is of my favourite sort, but my points were light as air, which is both annoying and heartbreaking to a true opiate fiend. Heartbreaking because you will never raise the hell in your heart; rather, you will accept them for what they are, swear to buy off someone else next time, then end up with more disappointing same same same, regardless of how steely your resolve and how certain you are that you could of course cop a sweet deal if only patience decided to make an appearance rather than the dope sick gremlins, forged themselves of hellfire and Shania Twain music.

Its always the same. Even on the good days. I made $280 for 150 minutes of work. MY rent is almost paid. I came home with drugs and I don't have to share.

Its a weird moment in true junkiedom when you look at your stash and realize that you'd happily go with less in order to have another junkie of choice - in my case, my SO - there with you in that exact moment, that you'd be okay with the fiendy blues for the friendly use that used to drive you fucking crazy. Yeah, I have all the jib, but I also have all the time in the world (seemingly literally) to wallow in my solitude. It is a truth that carries from my personal to professional life and manifests in me hating the fucking g a johns even fucking more than I do by default. They'll never fill the void, though the proverbial space between was indeed less than empty today, thrice over - the truth is, being filled only makes you emptier inside. The realization that there are no others, no substitutes in life for certain things - pure(as it can be in north america) cocaine, any vegetarian permutation of a dish originally containing butter or bacon, good coffee, great sex - that realization makes everything else not only pale in comparison, but make you long for the real thing with both melancholy and rage that don't seem either real or rational, but consume you all the same. That's why I hate the John's, regardless of how okay they are in theoretical reality.

That, and the fact that sometimes they're really fucking weird, and then I'm forced to remember and accept the fact that these bizarre, usually somewhat hilarious, and always needlessly tedious perversions are in fact your problem, as you are actually the woman that they are paying to pretend not to mind the things their wives won't do and judge them not so secretly for with the rest of the bored housewives that they pretend to give a fuck about. At least I have the common courtesy to continue the charade of not being completely perplexed and turned off by the retarded and usually nowhere near dirty and way too close to tasteless things I do to pay my rent. I may laugh behind closed doors, but I maintain that laughter is a coping mechanism for the dozens of times I have heard some variation on the theme of my attractiveness being primarily to blame on the fact that I can, rather easily, pass entirely convincingly for an underage girl. How many times have I masqueraded as a cousin, a daughter, a student that was off limits, not even to be p privy to the truth myself?

I hate the johns. I hate them all.

[contd.] do however love it when I go from stressed as fuck over to relatively confident about my rent in one day...because of said johns.

While I only need one more to pay the rent I'd love it if I could cringe through another three tomorrow - justify taking the rest of the weekend and the holidays off to hide in my room with all the crack, jib, pills and heroin that $240 and some secret junkie math savings can buy. Junkie Jesus, I need and deserve you in my life. Bless me with the good fortune of well-mannered johns with generous tipping habits, lost and found by me drugs the others donated in kind (and in their own junkie tithe for the more deserving..well, me), and dealers who feel like hooking me up for being "cute." In the name of the foil, the straw, and the butchered bic pen, get high.

Anyways. Its getting dangerously close to day 3 and the only thing keeping me from embracing it and fucking the initial scheme in favour of the most responsible irresponsible choice is both a lack of and a stash of jib. Though I don't ha e much, I have enough to make he morning g not hurt as bad as it should. Conversely, I don't have enough to make it through the night and morning g and whenever until I copped it next without the disclaimer that I would 9/10 likely smackahoe.. Just because.

And I simply cannot afford an assault charge. Junkie math says sleep is the better option financially - an assault charge buys me a moment of anger management. An assault charges worth of drugs? Well now, that's enough to make the proverbial rainbow yours with baggies of sunshine to mitigate reality for much, much longer.

I wish it weren't my fucking like groundhogmonday tomorrow. Wish the rent were pre paid and that NY stash was fat. I do not want to work, even less for money that is barely even mine, as its a all rent in a week and a half. I want to lay in my bed and nod all day. I want to get high as a motherfucker on whippets and crack and fuck like a fairy on acid. I want to do all of the cocaine and plan the coup d'etat I'll stage when I make it over to the meth stash. And finally? I want to eat oxys that I wash down with heroin shots, chase with fentanyl patch night caps.

Keep your raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. I'll raise you Valium and xanax and endless legal prescriptions.

Ho hum. My back hurts. I need a cigarette.

If anyone actually reads this in full.. They're either insane, bored to tears, or they're actually me, having a psychotic snap due to a much too harsh reality.

Regardless...if someone actually reads this in full...get that motherfucker a psych eval and an apology that makes sense - stat.

Even I gave up on making sense of myself a few dozen paragraphs back.

More eventually. Jib and heroin too, junkie brain , promise.

 

 

Dispatches From The Rabbit Hole #4: Poof! Vamoose, Sonofabitch!

Yesterday was nearly over before it even had a chance to begin. I try to be as honest as I can handle in my writing; however, I have been grossly under stating the depression that the recent and relentless bullshit that has been plating me as of late. Naturally, sleep deprivation doesn't really help, but I did manage a truly glorious sleep last night, and today I am feeling pretty amazing. But we will get there, I digress. Yesterday morning, I got ready as quick as possible because ye old creepy MC landlord was trying to get all up in my pants again and I was grumpy and had plans to meet up with a fellow bropiate for the first time, which was indeed the highlight of my day. I kicked myself for letting myself leave the house looking so utterly wretched (he turned out to be a fuckin cutie, which us, of course, a bonus), but my sallow face and pouffy hair didn't seem to completely ruin things. We had a short but sweet wander through Gastown before he had to work and I acquired up and down and decided to go sit at my favourite cafe, get out of the rain, and call my unholy trinity of girlbros to get some perspective and advice on the SO situation. A couple or hours and too much espresso later, I finally got the call that I had a John. Got to the in call. Cancellation. Rinse. Repeat. I said fuck it and went to McDicks to continue dribking coffee and utilising free wifi. The SO was supposed to be on a no phone, no internet ban for the nxt 30 days, and for the umpteenth time sine November, I saw his Facebook messenger icon light up, watched the activity pile up in his news feed, and felt the sick certainty of knowing that I was being lied to. Freaky timing when one of my girlbros texted me with all the truth and proof I needed to make the nagging decision I wish I would have been strong and certain enough to make the last time I saw his face. He went off the rails a few weeks ago, stqyed in our old flop house, made time to either see or call all of our old friends. Except me. I knew then. And yesterday, I had that corroborated. What really hurt was the text he had sent my girlbro, pretty much telling her that he kept me around for leisure, for sport. That I loved him way too much, much more than he loved me, and that he found it both tragic and hilarious, that he enjoyed ignoring me, imagining my pain.

Yeah fuck that. I very publicly broke up with him on Facebook, then let myself feel all the feels on the skytrain ride home. By the time I hit my driveway, I felt like myself again for the first time in a very, very long time.

There are very few people that I like in this world; even fewer that get the grace or my love. To have that mocked, to have my affections and efforts and honest, true love taken for granted? I do not fucking think so. Single feels right, right now. There is no shortage of attractive males out there. Bropiate is proof positive of that. I won't lie, it hurts that someone I have had in my life for a decade changed that profoundly that quickly, but it really is just not my motherfucking problem anymore.

I really just don't want to be anyone's anything anymore. I want the freedom to live or to die with absolutly no owed explanations. I miss having sex (apparently, he lost interest because, get this, my being short makes me automatically a bad lay), I miss being flirted with, I miss dates and having excuses to get dressed up and be young and pretty and appreciated for such - outside of the realm ot Johns and hooking.

I slept like a champ. Woke up to a pile of texts from old flames and friends. Decided today that I'm going to go back to Calgary for Christmas, see some of the old crew that is still in my good books, revisit some old hqunts, whatever.

I hate the fucking keyboard on this thing. I do not have enough fucks left to give to bother with fixing my messy typing.

I'm downtown killing thw day waiting for more work and waiting for my phone to charge. I need to go cop, then I'm gonna rinse and repeat.

I feel like myself again, for the first time in w really lng while. I feel pretty, happy, light and I'm enjoying it, for now. Hypomania, or side effect of losing 210 pounds of ginger haired dead weight without even using a diet pill?

Who knows? Who cares?

Hastings awaits and I wanna get this done before the rain starts.

I'm alive. I'm getting better. I'm sorry for the concern for my wrllbeing that the last dispatch caused. I apologize in advance, because the truth is, I always have been and always will be a trqinwreck.

I'm just taking it a little slower and more enjoyably than normal right now.

We will see where this goes. I keep hoping that I haven't entirely trrified bropiate. Getting fucked up with like minded folks is always grqnd. Which reminds me - i need to cop enough to get me through my calgary adventure, as being dopesick at family dinner at my best friends house on Xmas is not fucking happening.

More later. I need to get myself up and going again - i can feel myself losing momentum.

 

 

Dispatches From The Rabbit Hole #5: First It Giveth, Then It Taketh Away.

Tonight has been the most unbelivably and profoundly fucking painful, difficult, and frustrating of my entire goddamn lifetime. I have a fucking lot to say, but before I do, I'd like to preface this with the moment I realized that from there on out, I was going to be forever changed, and at this point, I am relatively certain that this is the beginning of the veritable end of my days; at least, the ones that might have some small amount of who I am or was or wanted to be in even the most slight attendance. I can feel myself starting to just allow the slow and inevitable suicide of who I am, who I was, and who I was supposed to have become.

It is a small but important detail of the downward spiral this evening rapidly became to note that this is the second time tonight that i try to take the mess in my head and put it out of myself - the first draft was the most well written and honest and truly fucking good thing I have authored in a long motherfucking time. This tablet has never once crashed on me. Today, when I hit save, the fucker froze. That was the most speechless I have ever been - and the moment when i realized that perhaps, I am not completely insane in the notion that I am just not supposed to be allowed to bare this part of myself, that it wasn't just a case of technology being technology and failing for the first time in a year of having this thing without a single glitch; rather, genuine and tangible proof that i am, in fact, being punished by any and every single thing that possibly can cause me anyfuckingmore frustration. Then, it came back for a minute...and then, it was gone again, and I sat silent and beyond broken. As with every fucking single other good thing I have ever had in my life, I get close as close can be to the outcome or thing or whatever that i would like - and then it is gone, out of my grasp, unless to momentarily and even more brutally give my a glimmer of hope that always leads to the conclusion that i should have just never attempted doing the thing that would have made me happy. Sometimes, it really is just slightly easier not to fucking try. Even more proof of this? A fellow bropiate had been counting on me to help with something. I did, in fact, get it finished; however, I could not have even tried to have failed so miserably at the simplest part of the task - and as it stands, I am a complete and utter fucking disappointment. Even my body is failing, I fainted coming downstairs, and it fucking annoys the fuck out of me that i am fine. Well..physically. I am so far beyond the limits of mental and emotional and even embarrassment...I should have never even tried to help that bropiate. I am well intentioned, but fucking supremely more of an issue than the original issue itself..in fact, I could not feel more wretched about the whole thing if i tried. I'm to the point of paralysis. I am so completely terrified of being a part of this subreddit. You're the best and safest place I have ever found any sense of belonging and community within...and at this point, I am starting to fear that I will somehow fuck it up completely and to the point of disrepair.

I am rewriting this solely because I feel incredibly certain that this may very well be the most important and the most intimate thing i have ever managed to put into words; the revelation/conjecture/attempt at explaining the way that it feels to be tinfoildragon which I have ever managed to even remotely translate from the place inside myself that has been begging, screaming, kicking, dying to be heard, helped and understood for the entirety of my existence. The vast and truly profound depression into which I have been forever inducted this evening is at once the most ludicrous and the most obvious explanation for the purpose of this, the life that i cannot claim to have truly lived; rather, the person I am that is unworthy of existing outside of my inner monologue; in these dumb diatribes, the musings of a deeply disturbed and dumbfoundingly irrelevent junkie whore. The point is, I have been raised and conditioned to accept the fact that who I really am, the woman I know myself to be, is never going to be the woman that gets to exist. The revelation came last night when i realized that my mother was not kidding when she told me that i was not hurt by her actions, because the sick and inescapable reality I cannot find a way to accept is the fact that I exist in her life solely when i accept her version of the things she cannot know, but somehow always will hold the rights to control.

It is completely and utterly dehumanizing. It is also the way i have allowed myself to be treated by countless others who have slowly but surely left me with nothing but the void that has become the most incredibly and infinitely depressing fact that in 24 years of being here on Earth, I have yet to convince the people who are supposed to know me the very best that i exist outside the confines of the things I did not do the way they wanted me to do them. Nothing I have achieved on my own, none of the things I like about myself, not even the manipulation and the abuse they put me through exist, as far as they are concerned. I exist to be convenient, to corroborate the evidence of the life that they want to project - not to be a facet of the reality that isn't a figment of the fucking imaginative and perverse ways that my mother was always ahead of the Joneses...so long as the world her daughter learned to live in was nothing more than honing the skill of pretending not only to be someone else, but to pretend to be happy with the fact that the person I am was never going to be good enough for who and what I always have been.

Tonight, I am dumbfounded and beyond the point of even attempting to pretend that i have even the slightest remaining interest in living anymore, period. My parents have, for the last time I will allow and in the most incredibly and deeply cold, calculated, and cruel manner, hurt me so profoundly, intentionally, and deeply that I am to the point of no return. I simply do not fucking care enough, do not have the strength left over after a year of having been used so completely and without even the batting of an eyelash by my ex-fiance, by my ex-best friend, and in the cruellest iteration, by ma and pa. The fact of the matter is that at this point, if life doesn't hand me something truly and spectacularly fucking miraculous.....I will, instead of paying my rent for January, instead of pretending t believe that i still give a fuck about being alive after the way the people who were supposed to love me used me and threw me aside, I will instead buy enough heroin, Meth, whatever I can find and in quantities that will take me to Hell with a smile and be so infinitely more peaceful than trying and failing to ever be more than a scapegoat, than another year spent broke and lonely and under the constant pressure of wondering who is going to be the next person that crushes you for sport; how much more you are actually physically capable of having your heart broken, how much infinitely less of yourself is still alive beneath the layers of lies they tell you about somebody they can't even try to pretend is worthy of knowing, let alone, even really there, since they know so infinitely just how much your worth is completely based on the things they can be congratulated for, not the ones which they couldn't claim.

Trust issues. Daddy issues. The fact that between perfection and bullshit, your parents exist in a realm so fucking retarded that it is infinitely less than even worth fighting for, but the way they use your simple and mature desire to believe them when they lure you in with the promise of making new memories, of letting you into their lives as a grown woman with a lot to offer...and the instant and deafening sound of your final fuck for them disappearing quicker than the fleet ing instant you actually believed that your life might actually have a happy ending, that you didn't fight so hard for absolutrly nothing but a suicide pact that involves a junkie who is so much infinitely more, and at the same time, the way that I would literally prefer a monkey to bite my tit off and jizz into it for crack money than allow them to ever convincd te me to have the complete and utter lack of any respect for myself in ever signing a power of attorney with even so much as a stray fucking hair on my head being under their fuvking supervision.

I know that i should care, should fight, try, whatever.

Truth be told, all I want, is to die, and now. I am at a complete and utter loss for the next logical step. I am so unbelievably and wholly exhausted that at this point, I am just completely fucking broken, and so unbelievably fucking angry that those two fucking evil, vile pieces of shit cannot even pretend to even care at all about who the fuck their daughter actually is. My mother and father are the two most profoundly egotistic, delusional, narcissistic and completely fucking chickenshit losers I have ever had the misfortune of being related to.

I am so profoundly confused and so thoroughly discouraged that at this point, I am for once completely speechless. At this point, something truly fucking miraculous is really the only way i would even consider entertaining even another week without taking the pain away forever.

Merry fucking Christmas. Seriously, fuck it, this year was truly just too fucking much.

 

 

Dispatches From the Rabbit Hole #6: Flux Capacitors Would be Preferable to Flux Itself (However, I'd Even Settle for a Quick and Painless 88 MPH Collision)

Despite all of my best efforts and good intentions, stillness, calm, and the capacity to take a breath without feeling like I'm being either strangled by reality or facefucked by the hundreds of ugly truths and unpleasant consequences of actions that weren't even mine; and yet, ended up as crosses on my already broken back seems to be fruitless at best; spirit crushing regardless. How I manage to constantly and consistently find myself at lower lows and rockier bottoms isn't even a question I allow myself to entertain anymore. There was, in fact, a short lived but somewhat critical chapter of my life that was defined by the cosmic game of truth or dare that I semi-consciously undertook as player 2 against the dark mistress known only as Life and her bedfellow, the Eternal Footman. A strange pair to stare in the eye without even the desire to finch, but for about a third of a year, i reveled in the certainty that only uncertainty can provide. Fuelled by caffeine, the thrill of chasing deeper holes to crawl into, more impressive opportunities to disappoint the then captive and naïve audience of family and friends that marveled at the freakshow I call life, the adrenaline that came with knowing that odds were good that not only could my story get infinitely more interesting, but cut short at any wrong turn, i took risks so risky that i look back with both disgust and a sick sense of respect and awe for both the recklessness and the sense of infinty that i still had t the time. I still do, to some degree; however, it is defintely becoming more measured and less reckless as the days go by. Dont get me wrong, i am still batshit crazy with a reckless abandin that few even try to understwnd; however, in writing this passage, i find myself both mourning and rejoicing the days of my youth that are starting to be replaced with a (mild) thirst for stability. Im by no means ever gonna be the housewife kind; however, having a savings account and perhaps one day a mortgage are notions i am warming to; tangible waye in which i see myself metamorphosing yet again - growing old might be inevitable, but growing up is optional. Im getting there. Slowly. That is a bizarre thing to finally want to admit. I digress. I look back upon the days of delusional and false immortalty and cant help but miss them. The sheer lack of regard for myself, the insane air of bravado...it was, at the time (and arguably still) the most impressive and potent drug with which I had let myself truly experiment, purposefully dangling myself at the precipice between more and more intensity and overdosing on reality. The fact that my life has resembled a choose your own adventure novel for so long makes it hard for me to feel comfortable with the things that normal adult relationships are based upon. Plans made more than a day in advance? Not happening, cap'n. Social gatherings where I'm expected to bring something to share always trip me up - when did that start to mean ambrosia salad instead of pot brownies and mushroom tea? Basically, I am sucking at this whole social thing, unless we can call into consideration my comsiderable skill at cold copping on Hastings. It is, in fact, a skill. Learning how to gauge who the best person to ask for what drug and in varying qualities, quantities and varieties is a testament to the hoursminutesdaysmonths I have spent bothieties ane buying and selling drugs from all varieties and sorts of people and places. Driving around in the passenger seat keeping the boys company on three day crack drives taught me about desperation; importing bricks of cocaine taught me how bribery and politics work, dealing dimebags of ganja in university taught me how it feels to be everybody's best friend, and my recent adventures copping points and flaps has left me grateful for the street knowledge that a truly rare and bizarre few of us can say that we have honorary doctorate degrees in, at this point. Like I said, the most truly impressive of my skills are never going to make it onto my curriculum vitae; however, at this point, the fact that I am this non chalant in cracking jokes about the things I learned to do in the cover of the night, the things that we shrouded in so many layers of half baked security that looking back, I am relatively certain that we sometimes only made the whole task both more tedious and no more secure, but the junkie mind is a curious and silly beast. As both usage and time spent with both junkies and their various substances increase, the behavio urs and patterns become their very own code. This is not a skill nor a habit that is easily forgotten - to this day I can spot a crackhead mile away, determine with near perfect accuracy whether that opiate high is pharmaceutical or horse. These are the skills you don't start out noticing yourself honing; however, it comes in handy; in particular, for avoiding dope sickness, finding your crowd at parties, and in starting new phones.

And, since we are on the topic, holy FUCK am I ever glad that I took the day for the sake of my mental health and my Christmas stash acquisition. I have another couple of folks that i need to see tomorrow to make sure that I'm covered, but I'm actually pretty sure that I'll be able to forget the crushing depths of my loneliness - i should really slow my Meth roll...but its so cheap, and i can already see the weight falling off. This..and the high is secretly one of my top three. It really isn't even that intense, it just adds and extra layer of..more, somehow. Like.. reddit, vs. Reddit gold.

On that note, it is high time (lol) to acquire another lightbulb, and to dim my reality.

 

 

Dispatches From The Rabbit Hole #7: in which she accepts the extent to which she does not, in fact, matter - to herself, or otherwise.

For someone so wholly at a loss for words, I have entirely too much to say. The complete and utter lack of fucks I have left to give for myself or anything else, to be perfectly frank, is met only with the complete and unshakable truth that my life will never amount to more than a ceaseless collection of fuck ups and failures so pathetic that the sum total of my broken pieces is nothing more than a hilarious and nearly unfathomable waste of human flesh.

I haven't the slightest of a clue what I'm doing anymore. Not that I did in the first place. I slept through the last appointment with a John I was supposed to pretend to give a fuck about, the appointment that would have paid my rent in full and allowed me the luxury of a few days rest. Of course I'd fuck up to that degree, manage to screw myself over that vastly. I spent 36 hours in my bed, writhing in the most excruciating waves of pain - my body ablaze with searing shockwaves that rendered it impossible to do much else than bawl and whimper - that I can still only attribute to the fact that at some point, I must have run out of the capacity to contain the emotional Hell in which I have existed for the past...fuck if i know. I don't really remember a time when life didn't just hurt. It was terrifying, and it led me to be more prepared and comfortable with the decision to end my life than I ever have been.

I think that at some point, we all flirt with the idea of suicide. I have certainly entertained the notion more than I would like to admit, and i have thought that i meant it before, but I was never as truly ready as I was about 8 hours ago. I prepared the shot, more heroin than necessary to kill a horse, let alone a 100 pound human female, wrote the note, enjoyed a final cigarette.

And then, my best friend called. I didn't even have to say a word - he knew, somehow. Called to beg me to try, to hold on just a little longer, to not be such a selfish and cowardly little bitch that I didn't fight just a little bit harder.

I hung up on him, livid and broken beyond any depth of which I ever have been before. I shattered into an infinity of the things I have never been, lost in a void of the things i fear that i never will become. Is it possible for someone so insignificant and infinitely subpar to become more than a lifetime's worth of suffering, both undeserved and self induced?

For better or for worse, I am giving myself one final and painful attempt to become someone who truly exists. I am sitting in the airport, awaiting a flight back to the city I despise almost as much as i loathe myself. I am resigned to the fact that I don't deserve to exist, and though everyone around me sees this as the first thing if ever done because I give a shit about myself; the very opposite is true, I am allowing the hatred I have for who I am to become the last ditch effort to find meaning in a meningless life. In handing over the rights to my existence to the two people I hate the very most in the whole fucking universe, I am truly committing the most complete suicide imaginable.

I have never truly existed. There is a person deep inside of me that stopped trying to escape into the realm of the living long, long ago. There are only so many times a person can be told that who they are is unworthy before they cease any attempt to be anything more than completely invisible.

I know now with absolute certainty that i never will truly exist. In allowing the rest of the world to "fix" me, to decide who and what I should present to the world, what pretty little fake facade is an acceptable enough version of the infinite lie that they want me to tell, the falsification of who I am not, but will forever be resigned to pretending that I am, I sign not only the rights to my existence but the death warrant that will be the infinite and ultimate punishment upon which I myself bestow.

Death would have been too easy. I do not deserve such a simple out. No, for me, I will forevermore cease to exist, except for the inner voice which will scream perpetually into a void, never to be more than the subhuman reminder of the person I was never allowed to become.

Farethewell, o cruel world. In my continued existence, I find my true ends.