Status: Suspended

After much deliberation I have decided that I am going to suspend posting in this forum. While reintegration may be a future goal, it's not currently my main concern. In the future you can find me in Disposition.

"30 (thirty) is the natural number following 29 and preceding 31."

It's been 30 days now since I've used any mood altering substance. No slamming or clouds, no boozing and no pot. I took Tylenol once to help with a fever I had two weeks ago. I believe I've now reached the longest period of complete sobriety that I've had in over twenty years.

I'd like to think that it's nice in some ways but it's not. What benefits I gain from my brain starting to clear are completely eclipsed by my brain starting to remember. The worst part is all the things that I don't fully remember. I was walking down a crowded street downtown recently. I don't know if it was the scent of someone's cologne or a certain combination of sounds in just the right pitch, but I was overwhelmed with a flood of flash images. I couldn't even say if any of the were even real or if they were just still shots some from one of my many terrorscapes.

Some nights I'm afraid to go to sleep. I don't think this is something new in my life. I can remember many times in the past when I would make attempts at sobriety only to have it thwarted by an inability to sleep or because I couldn't handle what I'd see when I did sleep.

They didn't all used to be as terrifying as they are now. I actually used to enjoy dreaming to some extent in the past. Desomnia in Drull is full of dream accounts, some beautiful and some not so much. At least then there was a chance for something good when I closed my eyes. It's been a long while since I've had a nice dream.

I've been revisiting the notebooks I took with me to Ollala back in June. They are incredibly difficult to read in parts. However there are two excerpts that I think are worth sharing. The first is journal entry that is a prime example of the kinds of dreams I've come to expect each night, without anything too explicit. The second is a description of my out of body experience while receiving Reiki, the closest thing I've had to a good dream in years.

*****

June 8th, 2018

...One of the dreams from last night I was lost in a town. I believe it to be Longview, but I’d never been there before. I was separated from my group, constantly checking messages on my phone for clues where to find them. 

It was late at night and I wandered the streets, all under heavy construction, til the sun had risen. I remember them telling me to find the clock tower, but it wasn’t on my map, I assume because the construction wasn’t just to upgrade the infrastructure but completely alter the framework. 

I found the tower as the clock struck 6 am. I t was the focal point of a new town square. One of the only buildings already completed was a library. It wasn’t open to the general public but an NA group was gathering in the children’s section. There was as many toddlers as there were addicts. 

They questioned my right to be there. I exposed the insides of my elbows, they were worse than I had seen before. They are how I’d imagine them to be if I left treatment today and slammed dope everyday for the next 26 years. The other addicts gasped and one of them motioned me to the circle. 

Various people talked as the children ran in corrupt figure eights around the chairs. The room began to contract, slowly at first. I looked over my right shoulder towards the clock. 6:48 am. 

As I was rounding my vision back to the group I noticed a young girl, no older than four, walking hypnotically toward the glass entrance., On the other side of the door was a man, I’d guess late 30s. He was coaxing the girl closer, while also trying to pick the door lock. I screamed, “Hey!” And ran to the child. 

The room had shrank considerably at this point and we were stumbling over each other from lack of room. The man had over come the lock, but there wasn’t room to push open the door through all the people. I grabbed the girl and moved into a fetal position with her securely at the center. I told her, “You’re going to be okay. I won’t let him take you.” 

I could hear the man’s voice all around me, “She’s not the one that needs protecting.” 

Two police officers arrived outside of the door., One of them placed a bracelet on the man outside the door. The other slapped a cuff on my wrist through the narrow opening. “I’m not doing anything wrong!” I yelled, “It’s that guy!” 

This was the first time I could clearly make out his face. His cheeks hung from his bones like they were three sizes too big. There was a smile on his face reminiscent of Heath Ledgers death. He was laughing hysterically. 

The cop who cuffed me spoke, “You think it’s funny selling heroin to children?” 

“What are you talking about? I’m clean. I was here at an NA meeting for Christ’s sake!” 

The maniac, now free, came up to restrain my other wrist. “Hahaha! You’ll never be clean!" 

It was then that I realized I’d seen that face before. It was the most horrific face of God.

*****

June 12th, 2018

I was alone on the shore as an orca approached and called me into the water. We glided across the waves, the sky above us. We passed inlets and isles, bays and rivers. My guide moved closer to the shore of a small island. As I reached the densely forested beach my old dog approached me and called me forward. As I entered the foliage a swarm of bees attacked my abdomen. I could see a salmon in the distance just before it was devoured by a bear. The bear then turned to me and bit into my crotch and stomach. The orca, in an apparent state of suspended animation, swirled around me and then disappeared. I followed my dog further into the woods, him happily looking back and panting at regular intervals. We came across a wolf who immediately lunged for my heart. He feasted on my chest but I felt no pain. Completely distracted, I failed to notice a man come forth. He slit open my throat and climbed inside. The orca appeared again. I could see a light through the trees. A large eagle landed upon my head, one foots talons piercing into my skull, the other the right side of my face. It began to eat my eyes from their sockets. The dog barked and I could see the orca in the water in front of me. I’m unsure if I crossed the island or simply walked in a circle. I went into the water again. I could feel all of the animals enter into their respective wounds. The orca was dancing around me. The various creatures became one inside of me and formed into a sort of dragon. It moved in exaggerated s forms back into the forest and my dog followed. Alone with the orca again, I climbed up on its back. We left the water and began to swim through the air. This is the first time I realized with certainty we were in Puget Sound. We soared past every peak of the Cascades from Baker to Hood. We circled back around and Seattle was burning. Not actively aflame but more smoldering an eerie glow of red light. We moved at an incredible speed across the Pacific, but the image of Seattle burning moved along with us. We reached the shores of Kailua beach and I dismounted from my guide. I sat on the sand and watched my family burn as the orca swam away into the darkness. Lava flowed from a nearby island. The noxious vog finally obscuring my view. 

*****

I need to rediscover what I'd found in Drull.

Island Perspectives

It’s now been 13 days since I’ve last used. I’m starting to think that I should wear a name tag that says, “Hello, my name is Desomniac and I’m emotionally dysfunctional.” I’m not sure it would help though.

I’ve been spending a lot of my time over the past two weeks on Vashon Island. I decided to first go out there in the middle of last week, partly to go to a meeting, but mainly to get away from the city. Today will be my 6^th trip in 8 days.

While I’m on the island I don’t have the overwhelming sense of dysfunction that I carry with me throughout Seattle. Instead of a chaotic tempest of emotions, cycling far too quickly to even attempt to identify them, there is a calmness within that I have not felt since leaving Oahu.

I’ve been told before that I’m all fire and air, which is something that I could very much identify in the past. I avoided the grounding effects of earth at all costs and only went in search of water when I could only communicate in waves. I allowed raw emotion and intangible thought to control my life.

I’ve come to find that the moments in which I feel most grounded is when I’m surrounded by water. Looking out across a fluid expanse, incapable of supporting even the softest of steps, instills a greater appreciation for the earth beneath my feet.

It would be no surprise to anyone that I lack balance in my life. Given my obsessive tendencies to hand over my willpower to the phases of the moon, you could easily argue I’m the definition of a lunatic, but I’m trying to be better.

I’m regularly attending meetings at this point. I’ve fought adamantly against them in the past. Every time I would go I’d sit and listen to what everyone had to say and focus only on the differences between us. It became a futile effort and made me hate the idea of them even more. Since the first meeting I attended on the island I found myself seeing only the similarities and it’s kept me coming back.

I’ve never done step work, or at least I never realized that I was doing it. The more that I read about the program and hear other people share I’m starting to think that this blog in many ways has been my fourth, eighth and ninth steps. It lacks one essential element though, social interaction and the experience offered from others who have suffered the same as I have. There is a value in that I didn’t understand in the past.

I’m not okay, but I can honestly say that I am getting better. I just need to remember each time I look up at the moon, as beautiful as it is, to look down and appreciate the ground for giving me the perspective to even consider something else.

Sometimes things just are

It’s been a while since I last posted. This blog was intended to be a place that I could highlight my aspirations to live a healthier life. Unfortunately, over the course of the last year I lost that ambition in many ways.

The last ten months of my life have been repeatedly plagued with relapse, homelessness, and, a word I’ve grown all too familiar with, trauma. I have been diagnosed with complex post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s both terrifying and comforting.

Methamphetamine is still a huge problem in my life. I last used on July 22^nd. The events of that weekend are still difficult for me to fully process. I have never felt so horribly alone and broken in my life. But through all the pain and kaleidoscopic broken memories there is still something beautiful about falling apart. I hope someday I can show you that.

I never quit writing. I’m not exactly sure what I want to do with most of it, so for now it stays where it is. There is a piece I started about a month ago that I’ll share with you now. It’s the story of when I was eight years old, reconstructed and viewed through thirty-six-year-old eyes.

*             *             *             *

Original Trauma

When I was eight years old I was run over by a Ford Econoline Van. Sometimes things just are.

My siblings and I were cleaning the van in our driveway. I was in the back, with both doors open, while they were in the drivers and passenger seat. They began to fight over something highly trivial. If my memory serves it was over which one of them got to sit behind the wheel as they removed trash from between the seats. During their scuffle they managed to release the emergency brake and then displace the gear shift into neutral. The incline of our driveway was enough to cause the van to start rolling backward. I thought that by bracing myself behind the vehicle I would be able to stop it from rolling further. I was horribly wrong. My eight-year-old body was no match for the weight of the vehicle. I tripped over my own feet while moving backwards. I was then swept underneath the passenger side of the van where both tires rolled directly over my pelvis. I would later be told that two inches lower would have paralyzed me for life, two inches higher and I’d be dead where I laid. By some strange hand of fate, it ran both tires directly over the one part of my body that would be able to withstand the crushing weight. Sometimes things just are.

Much of my memory around the incident has been dissociated. I remember catching a glimpse of the van as it rolled into the neighbor’s yard, veering significantly to the right and narrowly missing their house. I remember screaming, everyone screaming. The neighbors were shouting directions to my location as the ambulance arrived. The paramedics, two men in their early 30s, told me not to move. They cut my pants off me, a new pair of jeans I’d only worn once before. I remember my mother crying and my father trying to maintain control. They were both in shock. It was summer time and we had a garden in our front yard, near the shed. The rhubarb was doing especially well and took over a whole quarter of the plot. My sister was crying, and my brother tried to hide. I imagine he was crying more than everyone else. My mother wanted to punish him, not because he was at fault but because she needed someone to blame. I don’t remember crying. Sometimes things just are.

They carefully moved me to a board, each small motion flooding my brain with so much pain that it was difficult to remain conscious. My mother rode in the ambulance with me. There was a disagreement about where to take me. The paramedics were insistent that we needed to go to Harborview, dispatch was directing them to Highline. I remember one of them yelling, “I’m not taking a child to Highline!” The next thing I remember I was in the emergency room at Highline Hospital. I was surrounded by doctors. There must have been 12 or more people in the room around me. The lights were bright and hot. They had begun to medicate me for pain before rolling me onto my stomach. One of the doctors then explained that he needed to check my internal organs and determine if anything had ruptured. He then inserted most of his hand, or at least what felt like, in my rectum. It would be nearly thirty years before I realized that my brain processed this as a form of rape. Sometimes things just are.

“Miracle” was a word that I heard frequently. The doctors told me that I would have to relearn how to walk. I hated the walker and even more the crutches. I remember moving on all fours out of my parents’ bedroom to the makeshift room they made for me in the living room thinking that I didn’t learn to walk on crutches the first time. So, I started to do it the way I did the first time, I crawled everywhere.  Everyone was surprised at how quickly I was recovering. I never missed a day of school. I don’t think it was a miracle. Sometimes things just are.

*             *             *             *

I spent a lot of time thinking about this event and especially the words I used in describing it during my last relapse. I originally went to Honolulu with the intention of running to my problems, not away from them. I needed the experience I gained there to start the process of realizing I carry my burdens with me everywhere I go.

The last year has been hard on me and equally hard on those that love me. Despite how things may seem I have been getting better. I know it’s not easy to see that. I still want to be healthy again. I want to move beyond a life where every phase starts with re- to a place where wounds heal, and I can look down on my scars as victories, each one screaming out “I don’t think it was a miracle.” I haven’t given up.

Please, don’t give up on me either.

Embrace the Psychosis Part 2

“Visiting or checking in?”

Checking in.

“What’s the problem?”

I’m experiencing a break with reality and I’m a danger to myself.

“Have a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”

I didn’t expect to be at Harborview. I thought we were going back to Northwest as it was much closer and we were traveling in rush hour traffic. It didn’t matter. The only reason I’d wanted to go back to Northwest was to show them all exactly what they had caused, but it wasn’t their fault, it was mine.

I sat down in the waiting room with my father and sister. He was on the phone with the psychotherapy clinic across the street. I had already had a phone interview scheduled to get enrolled in their dialectical behavioral therapy program. Unfortunately we kept losing signal throughout the hospital and the call ended without resolution.

My sister sat next to me trying to understand the gibberish I kept spewing between falling asleep.

“So who was harassing you?

Jubel! From the radio. They have an office upstairs.

 “I don’t understand what you’re saying they did.”

They have me under total surveillance. Cameras in the office, listen devices, they followed me everywhere.

“Why you? Did someone call them?”

Yeah! It was the nurses at the hospital. They felt bad for me, so they decided that instead of helping me they’d put me through a traumatic experience to break me of my addiction. Didn’t go quite as they thought since I just kept using.

“When’s the last time that you used?”

What time is it?

“7:30 am.”

Seven and a half hours ago. I made it through the night though.

My name was called by the triage nurse. I explained everything again as she took my vitals. She was kind and efficient, which we all appreciated. I believe that I’d met her before, the last time I came asking for help.

It was two month prior, during my first relapse since returning from Hawaii. I’d recently become homeless and alone. I didn’t stand a chance.

I’d called an old friend who had offered me sanctuary in the past. It had been nearly 24 hours since my last use and all I wanted to do was sleep. I’ve found that when that’s all I want, it’s the last thing that I’ll be doing.

I tossed and turned on his couch for three hours, becoming increasing afraid that there was something seriously wrong with my body. Abscesses have become a signature of relapse and infection a signature of abscesses. I could feel my addiction killing me slowly with every pulse through my arm.

I have to leave.
“I understand. Where are you going?”

To the hospital. I need a medically supervised detox.

“I’ll drive you.”

I’ll walk.

“I have to insist.”

So do I. I have far too much energy I need to burn off. I’ll be okay.

“I trust that you will. You’ll beat this.”

I will.

I slapped the pavement with one foot after another for five miles across the heart of Seattle. I didn’t stop for water. I didn’t stop for rest. But I couldn’t stop myself from using again.

It was 4 o’clock in the morning, when the city runs on methamphetamine. I knew anyone online was down to party, I just had to find someone with a clean point, which only took a moment. From the time I decided to use again and the time I pushed the plunger in only twenty minutes had elapsed.

There were countless excuses for doing it again. I wanted one last time before I quit for good. I wanted to calm down before going into the hospital. In the end I wanted to hurt myself again.

I arrived at the hospital just after 6 am, to find that it was largely abandoned.  

 “Visiting or checking in?”

Checking in.

“What’s the problem?”

I am addicted to methamphetamine and I need help.

“Have a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”

I went through the whole process completely disillusioned that they could help me. I wanted to believe it would be like when I first detoxed on Oahu. They would send me to a forgotten place in the hills that I could go for a week away from all the distraction and temptation. What I wanted was thousands of miles away, just where I left it.

“What exactly would you like us to help you with?”

I am looking for a medically supervised detox.

“Where do you think you can get that?”

This is how I got it in Hawaii.

“Well, even if there was a bed available at any of the facilities here, methamphetamine doesn’t require medical detox.”

It doesn’t? Because having experienced it I’m pretty sure that it does.

“Not according to the state of Washington.”

Is there any way that you can help me? All I want is help.

“I wish there was something I could do.”

They didn’t even give me antibiotics for the infection in my arm.

Regardless of any previous encounters we may have had, the triage nurse was friendly enough. I should acknowledge that at this point my interpretations of what transpired is likely far more askew than normal, which is a far cry from fact at best. I remember everyone having a lemon tint to their aura and features that bubbled and popped in the light. It was like living in a candy commercial.

They asked about any changes to my insurance. I started to rant about how any of my expenses should be forwarded to Movin’ 92.5 care of Jubel in the morning. Luckily my sister was able to get them the necessary information.

I can’t thank my family enough for all the help they gave me during this time. 

I was moved to a bed in the ER. They took my vitals and a variety of doctors came to interview me. I was falling in and out of sleep. It reached a point where I was given the impression that they were not going to be able to help me and my disposition changed dramatically.

I could feel my mood shift immediately from cooperative and even jovial to pure rage. My lips pursed without warning and everyone was against me.

See this is what I was telling you about!

“What are you talking about?”

You see how the nurses move to where they think I can’t hear them and then all start laughing. They’re mocking me.

“I don’t think they’re making fun of you.”

Why did they all look over here and then get very quiet after I said that? I can hear you!

“Calm down, these people are here to help you.”
These people have never helped me before. They sit me here only long enough to get a few laughs. ‘Look at the lowly addict, can’t help himself. Hahaha.’ There isn’t help for people like me.

“I hope that you’re wrong.”

Something I said or did was different this time, or maybe it was my sister. I was transferred to Psychiatric Emergency Services (PES) in a surprisingly short amount of time. They moved me into a small room that appeared to made of metal and echoed sounds furiously. At first I was alone so I slept.

When I awoke there was sound all around me.

My back is cold.

“Your back isn’t cold.”

“Twitter twat, dinkle damp.”

“Has he ever been diagnosed with schizophrenia?”

I’m not schizophrenic, wrong personality.

“So you’re saying there is a family history?”

“Not exactly.”

I see you.

“Oh, he’s a smart one. He already found the cameras.”

 “They’ll feed you Crayola and kindness.”

My back is cold.

“Your back isn’t cold.”

You can’t change my reality so easily.

Time moved in a circular pattern, unhinged from the gravitational pull of the sun. I fell in and out of sleep. Or maybe I was awake the whole time. I don’t remember the doctor coming in.

“Good morning.”

Is it still morning?

“Yes it’s 10:30 am. Do you know where you are?”

Psychiatric ward, Harborview hospital.

“Do you remember why you’re here?”

I had a complete psychotic break with reality. Judging by the number of echoes I’m hearing I may still be.

“Yes, it can be a bit chaotic in here. Do you remember how this break occurred?”

They changed my meds, then they wouldn’t call me back. I told them I was uncontrollable. I told them.

“Told who?”

My therapist, they won’t let me talk to the psychiatrist.

“And what exactly are they treating you for?”

They won’t say. Current working theory is Borderline Personality Disorder, I fit all the criteria.

“Do you find comfort in that diagnosis?”

Yeah, I guess I do. At least then I know how to start to solve the problem. Everyone has been saying I’m depressed, but I don’t feel depressed. I cycle between anxiety and anger, but not depression. Good thing too, more motivating this way.

“Anger can be extremely motivating. Where do you want to go from here?”

I want to go to ATS, out on the Pali Highway. They helped me before.

“I’m not familiar with them.”

They’re on Oahu, they can’t help me here. I just need a place to be for a few days. And I want my old  meds back.

I fell asleep again at some point, possibly mid conversation, I didn’t care. When I awoke there were two chairs being brought into my room. I had visitor, my sister and brother in law as I was told. When they walked in the door I realized that was merely a ruse to sneak in an old friend of mine. I was grateful too, I didn’t really feel that I needed to see my brother in law.

“Hey man, how’s it going?”

I’m delusional, in a psych ward, after a week long meth binge. How are you?

“Haha, yeah. You hanging in there though?”

I’m here.

“Well, we wanted to talk to you about what’s going to happen next.”

“We think you should considered going back to inpatient.”

I’m not going to have this conversation here. I’m just going to blindly tell you no.

“Okay, we can talk about it more later. We need to go talk with the doctor for a moment. I’ll check in with you before we leave.”

I was asleep when they left.

Unfortunately, I have to wrap this up quickly. I was discharged from PES after receiving a round of IV antibiotics to Crisis Solution Center. They were then unable to help me with anything more than a bed for three days because I already had a mental health provider. Once out I connect with my medical clinic and they were able to get me back on the medication that worked.

The reason for this hasty synopsis is that I just found out that a bed is available for me. I decided that going back to inpatient is the right choice at this point. Hopefully I have a better experience than last time.

Thank you again to everyone who’s helped me along this journey. It’s far from over but we’re starting to make progress again. I’ve told you all along that I’m going to be okay, I still believe that. 

Embrace the Psychosis - Part 1

It has been months since I’ve updated this blog and much has happened, far too much for me to relate in a single post. I have relapsed, twice. I’ve also become homeless, twice. It’s impossible to deny a connection, though one doesn’t always happen first.

Last Friday I was admitted to Harborview Psychiatric Emergency Services. It’s unfortunate that it took a complete psychotic break before I was able to get the help that I needed. It was a week ago today, Wednesday, that I first went to the hospital for help.

I had started using the day after Thanksgiving. The holidays are never a good time for me. They used to be, but something changed when I came out. They went from being a time for friends and santa suits and merriment, to the time that reminded me most of what I’ve only wanted to forget. I find that instead of being surrounded with friends and family, I’m isolated or seem as baggage.

There were a number of reasons why I relapsed for a second time. I was struggling with a change in medication, there was conflict at home, etc. But what it all came down to was my reality became uncontrollable and I made the decision to use again.

The problem is when I start using I don’t know how to stop.

I went through the weekend thinking that everything was completely under control. I had nothing to worry about, I’d only slammed once, I’d just ride it out and life drops back to normal. But soon enough it’s on to the next scene and everything is starting all over again. The sex is as hollow as the head of a rig and just as necessary to achieve the full desired effect: self-harm.

I am an angry person.

There are times in which my anger erupts, much like you’d imagine a volcano. I can feel this pressure building over time and have yet to find a way to release it in a healthy fashion. It is a rage so incredible I cannot pretend to control, and I am afraid of what might actually happen if I just let it out. So instead I hurt myself. It has nothing to do with getting “high”.

It then feeds into itself. Compounding the pain with fear and shame. I remember realizing that I’d lost everything I’d been working towards and that hurt so I used. I couldn’t face my sister because of what I’d done and that hurt so I used more. I didn’t know how to stop and that hurt so I kept using.

After five days of this I had enough and wanted nothing more than for someone to help me. I had told my family the night before that I wanted to go to the hospital and be admitted to a psychiatric facility. As the situation stood I was an imminent danger to myself and as such needed protection from myself.

I arrived at Northwest Hospital around 9am, walked up to Emergency admissions and said, “I am a danger to myself.” I don’t think I ever fully admitted that before and I found it comforting.

I had done a hit just 3 hours prior, in an attempt to sustain the euphoric effects long enough that I wouldn’t change my mind. They had determined that while my pulse was slightly elevated, the rest of my vital signs were admirable. Much to the amazement of the nursing staff, I lied down and calmly watched TV while I was waiting to speak with the social worker on staff.

My dad arrived but was kept outside of the room and the social worker asked to speak with him before coming in to see me. I don’t know what was discussed, but I assume it was explained that I relapsed after having complications with a newly prescribed med. I would also guess that they discussed that we were no longer working under the presumption that I am bipolar, but instead suffering from a personality disorder. If nothing else I’m sure it came up that I’d been injecting meth for five consecutive days. In the end, it was enough that the social worker decided not to come back and speak with me personally.

Another half an hour or so passed by and I could see that he was apprehensive to come speak with me. Northwest is a small hospital and the ER isn’t much to write home about. From any of the room you could see the entire unit. I remained calm and waited, though I was getting increasingly agitated.

He then came into the room and, in a move that still confuses me today, asked my father to leave. I wish that someone else was there to hear this conversation:

“What are you hoping to get in coming here?”

I need help, I am a danger to myself.

“You’re going to kill yourself?”

I can’t stop using and that is going to kill me.

“There are lots of people who don’t know how to stop using and they do it everyday. Maybe you’re just one of those people?”

I don’t want to believe that or I wouldn’t be here. There has to be somewhere I can go for help.

“There isn’t your insurance won’t cover it.”

But I’m a danger to myself.

“I don’t think you’re going to walk out of this building and kill yourself. What means do you have at your disposal?”

I’m not trying to kill myself but I am doing it.

“Unfortunately there isn’t anything we can do to help with that. You just need to stop shooting meth.”

So you’re just going to discharge me and that’s it.

“That is all I can do.”

I have had hospitals tell me no before, repeatedly in fact. Each time it happens it builds on all the anger from the time before. Mix that with all the methamphetamine and my blood was boiling through my skin. They quickly returned my belongs and as soon as I had my shoes on I turned and walked out the door.

It was dry outside, cold but not quite freezing. There were skies pock marked with fluffy white clouds just beyond the evergreen trees in the parking lot. The glass doors slid shut behind me and I couldn’t help myself from clutching my sides in a sort of backwards hug. I held that position as I could feel every muscle shake and every nerve scream. Then I ran.

I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be as far away from that place as I possible could get. I stopped briefly to clutch myself again upon leaving the hospital campus. I could hear the voices of the nurses laughing at me. I could see their faces mocking me. I cried. Then I ran.

I was nearly a mile away when my phone rang. It was my substance use counselor, Rae. Of all the various professionals I have been seeing on a regular basis they’re my favorite. They kept me on the phone and tried to calm me down. I recognized that my body had made a distinct shift from being controlled by the clear to being controlled by panic fueled by clear. It was a terrifying experience and I had trouble focusing on anything.

They kept me on the phone long enough for the initial wave to subside. I then realized that I had left my father at the hospital. I called him to tell him that I’d left, which he had recently been informed by the staff.

I had no idea where I was supposed to go. I knew that I needed to stop but still didn’t know how I was supposed to do that. I went to the only place that I felt like I could hide, the office my father shares with a lifelong friend of his.

The office was empty when I first arrived. I locked the door and lay face down on the floor and I cried. I cried so hard that by the time I realized what was going on I was in a pool of meth polluted tears. And then I slept.

It wasn’t long before I awoke, maybe twenty minutes. I tried to compose myself the best I could, which wasn’t very well at all. My determination to quit had meant that during the entire course of my relapse I never had more than what I was going to do immediately in my possession. I knew I had to find it so I sat at my desk and then immediately began my ritual for locating the next hit.

It didn’t take long before I got in contact with an old dealer with whom I had spent a fair amount of time with a year prior. He was looking for something to do and that meant one thing. I threw a couple of things into my backpack and left as soon as he gave the confirmation.

The bus ride there took me just over an hour. The whole time I was trying to convince myself that I should just go to sleep, but that argument was always met with a voice that said, “You don’t have anywhere you can sleep.” And it was right.

I’d been staying in Kent with my sister before the relapse. Things weren’t perfect but we’d been making it work. I knew that when I choose to use again I jeopardized that situation and wouldn’t be able to return until I found sobriety again and even then it would take a fair amount of grace on their behalf.

My best option for a place to sleep was the same floor that I had been sobbing on. There were no pillows, no blankets, just the tightly woven carpet that you find standard in most offices. It would be hard to find sleep there without the abundance of ice in my veins, with it was impossible.

I was encased in a reality of pain, anger and anxiety. There was only one option that I could see and that was to use. So I continued on to the house that I was all too familiar with and proceeded to make a series of terrible decisions.

The worst of these decisions happened very shortly after arriving. The place was a total mess. I could tell that we’d be cleaning for at least an hour before anything happened. He received a call and the focus shifted from cleaning to finding. Somewhere in the chaos was a vape pen that needed to be found immediately.

After twenty minutes of searching I located the desired object.

Is this it?

“My God! Yes! That’s the one.” He took in a long drag and passed it back to me. He spoke in a way to minimize any exhaling, “You should hit this. Hold it in too.”

Okay, sure. What is it?

I was mid toke by the time he replied, “DMT.”

I’d had one experience with the drug in the past, shortly after I gave up meth in my youth. I was at a party in Thurston County and to say I was drunk would be a gross understatement. I took one long breath off the pipe that could have just as easily been filled with meth. I then lost consciousness.

I’m told that I immediately stood up and ran into the wilderness that surrounded the house. I disappeared for twenty minutes and when I returned had no memory of what had happened to me.

My experience this time would be much different and last days not minutes. It came about in such a way that it wasn’t until days after my psychosis that I even remembered the ill fated decision. For those of you that don’t know, DMT is a powerful hallucinogen, one that makes LSD seem more like marijuana. As can be expected my memory becomes incredibly hazy at this part.

I know that we slammed, three times, in the next six hours. With my brain reeling and my vision less than reliable I made what would become my second great mistake of the evening. I hit an artery.

It wasn’t just any artery either, but the one that serves to provide the majority of the blood to my right arm. I remember a light red colored dragon shooting up the syringe and thought it strange in color but was not able to process that I should stop and reset. I plunged the hit in and could feel it bulging under my skin immediately.

Fuck.

The pain was all I can remember. The other two people in the room chuckled slightly,

“Aw man, you missed.”

I didn’t miss, I hit an artery.

“Well you’re going to need another one…and a doctor at some point.”

So I prepared another shot and promptly hit my other arm. This time with the desired results. I lost control. I’m not even sure what I was doing but it must have been thoroughly bizarre as both the other people started laughing hysterically, which only fueled my growing paranoia. Flight filled my thoughts and I ran again.

I didn’t want to get on a bus, so I continued north on foot. From every passing car I could laughter and fragments of conversations all mocking me. I fled into the darkness of the park at night in hopes of escaping, but the tree themselves took up chorus and continued the ridicule.

Soon there was music. It was coming from everywhere. The cars on the highway. The shrubs and roots. The very walls within my mind all echoed the same maniacal circus music with the words, “You are covered in poop!”

This continued all the way from Greenlake to Shoreline. I was convinced they were following me and had established themselves outside of the office, where I was again retreated to in hopes of sanctuary. I was terrified and crying. I wanted only to make it all stop. I called the police.

Now many would thing this a bit extreme, given the amount of drugs in my body you might think I’d want to avoid any kind of police encounter. However I didn’t have any drugs outside of my blood and I figured that if nothing else the police could answer a question I desperately needed to know, was I really covered in poop?

Three squad cars arrived, one of which seemed to be in charge.

“Good morning sir, what seems to be the problem?”

I’d like to start by saying I suffer from mental illness and addiction. Unfortunately I am in a relapse phase after having my meds changed.

“Thank you for your honesty, it’s rare.”

All I want is help, it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

“How can we help you?”

Do you hear music? Carnival music?

“No, sir, I’m sorry. I don’t.”

It’s followed me all the way back from Greenlake.

“I’m sorry to tell you that I think it’s all in your head. Do you hear it now?”

No, actually I don’t. They must have seen you arrive.

“Where did you hear it coming from?”

Over in that direction and around the corner here. It also seems to be coming through the vents in the office.

“Are you able to consider that it may not be real?”

I’m not sure you’re real.

“Sir do you think you would benefit from going to the hospital?”

I went to the hospital, they couldn’t help me.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I was too.

“Well we are going to stick around and see if anyone comes back here, however I think that you would do well to just ignore whatever it is that you’re hearing and come morning make an appointment with your mental health professional.”

Okay, thank you. I really mean that. I appreciate your kindness and understanding.

“Well, I think that some people really do just want help. I think you’re one of those people, or you wouldn’t have been so upfront about things.”

You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that…from anybody.

I went back inside and tried to calm myself down. Now instead of hearing music I heard people talking in the room above me. It was a man and a woman, the woman was screaming about me. There was a malice and hatred in her voice that could not be dismissed lightly.

“This is fucking absurd. He’s just running amok in the building, completely unchecked.”

“Honey, there isn’t anything we can do.”

“We can talk to the building manager, this is bullshit. Stupid tweaker trash is calling the police here now. He’s probably shooting up in the office right now.”

“You don’t have any reason to believe that.”

“What about all the needles around?”

“You can’t blame him for that.”
“If he’s going to be here at all hours of the night, they need to pay more rent.”

“You can’t determine that.”
“No but I can tell the police he’s down there shooting up and just have him arrested.”

This went on for four hours. I wanted so badly to go to sleep, but whenever I closed my eyes I could just hear them even more clearly. The vile and lecherous manner in which she spoke of me convinced me that it had to be real. Why would my mind be so callous and hurtful to me? But it wasn’t real.

I spent most of that Thursday attempting to accept that I was experiencing a complete break with reality. By this time my experiences had caused me to forget I ever took the DMT. Simply remembering might have helped me to understand why it all was happening. As it stood I was forcing myself to accept it all as my new reality.

I slept for a few hours in my fathers car, while he went to physical therapy. Then I went to the Northgate community center to make use of their shower facilities. It had been days since I’d had a proper shower and it would be longer as I failed to remember soap, though even a hot rinse made me feel somewhat more human.

I tried to sleep at the office again. The voices all returned. This time I was the target of a bad joke 

perpetrated by a local morning show. I believe that someone was leaving the radio on up stairs which was the origin of all my auditory hallucinations.

This is when the details all get very cloudy. As best I can tell I started to have an extreme panic attack. I wanted nothing more than the sounds not just stop and that caused them to intensify. Sleep was the only thing on my mind and the furthest thing from reality.

I knew that using would only make the situation worse in the long run, however I was very close to putting my head through a window and needed some way to calm myself down. I just had to make it through the night, til I wasn’t alone.

I spoke with my old roommate from Honolulu on the telephone. It reminded me why I miss her so much and why when faced with the same problem a year ago she was the one I turned to. She kept me alive long enough to get me out of the office and away from the source of all my current torment, or so I had believed.

I reached my suppliers house just before midnight. He was far more apologetic than I would have expected, I suspect he remembered the DMT I was forgetting at this point. I was there to recover a phone charger that I’d left, at least that’s lie we both allowed.

I wasn’t there for ten minutes before we were slamming. The scene was rudely interrupted by a pair of junkies who needed a place to fix their black. I am little respect for heroin users. Not because they’re bad people, but because they allow their lust for the drug to consume their character. I wasn’t surprised when one of them attempted to rob my supplier shortly after they hit.

I wanted nothing to do with any of them and they weren’t going anywhere so I left. I made the same trip home I had the night before. I was afraid it was all going to happen again, and it started to as I walked through the park. I stopped moving, took three deep breathes and said aloud, embrace the psychosis.

Embrace the psychosis.

When I heard a whisper in the distance, I waved toward it. When I heard voices criticize me, I took a bow. When they recoiled at the foolishness of my behavior, I river danced. I became all of the things I was afraid of becoming. It was liberating.

I danced and waved and bowed the whole way back. Laughing into the darkness at the absurdity of myself. I hadn’t had so much fun being high in years.

By the time I arrived the voices had named me their king. I was able to anticipate and own every attempt they made to crush me. I had embraced everything around me as I perceived it and in doing so I had won. They even admitted it and that’s where my victory turned to defeat.

The more they cheered on my embrace the more convinced I became that it was all real. I found a loop in the logic that forced me to believe that I was the target of a morning radio talk shows attempt to exploit the mentally ill for the sake of a few laughs. That angered me. And as I had embraced the psychosis, my anger embraced me.

The next two hours were filled with frantic running through the halls, where of which I’m not entirely sure. I was determined to catch the ones who were out to humiliate me. I ran upstairs, outside, in circles around myself. I knew that if I could catch even one of them that my reward would be the return of my sanity.

Such a reward was nowhere to be found and finally at 5:30 am I sent a text message to both my father and my sister.

I made it through the night. None of it was real. I just want to go to the hospital.

Relapse - Day 50

I couldn’t tell the cause of my violent awakening. Both of the dogs were curled up at the foot of the children’s beds, still unaware that they weren’t the only ones awake. The cats purred in unison from opposite ends of the couch I found myself already seated in when the dream broke. The clock’s metronome brought me back, counting seconds solely for my benefit. Oh yeah, I’m an addict.

It’s been fifty days now and still catches me off guard at times. Mornings are the worst. My routine is anything but normal. It does serve to pass the hours of the day in a way that makes me forget that not even two months ago I couldn’t as much as use the bathroom unless it involved a tourniquet.

More frequently now I’m forgetting about my addiction. It doesn’t haunt my every waking moment as it did in the first month I was clean. This is the point where I actually am in a state of emergency, most likely to relapse. I’m far enough away now that it’s getting harder to remember the horrible state I found myself in at the end.

Even when I look through the horrible images I forced myself to take, my body ravaged and hollow, I don’t see myself. There is no way that I’d let myself be reduced in such a way. I know how it happens now, I won’t let it get that far. But it has happened before and it started the exact same way.

If I had to narrow it down to a specific month in which I relapsed the first time it would be May 2016.

In April of that year I decided I would make another attempt to stop smoking cigarettes. I’ve tried every few months for the last six years. It’s like a lot like quitting meth, if you don’t really want to quit, there’s nothing that can help you. I never made it more than a week, usually just three days. I wanted this time to actually work, so I ignored my better judgement and got a prescription from my doctor for Bupropion.

Apparently it was my second attempt to quit using pharmaceuticals. I have no memory of the first. Alcohol is the perfect drug for me, if I’m trying to forget.

There was a time I had sworn I wouldn’t take smoking cessation drugs. Friends and coworkers told me about the success they had using Chantix and the like, but I was still concerned of the potential side effects.

Underneath it all I was terrified of being a sociopath unfit for society, just waiting for a chance to fulfill some horrendous act I’d yet decided. Every time I considered it one potential side effect stood out in my mind more than any other, “increased thoughts of homicide, suicide and rape”.

I had harbored a fear of myself for as long as I can remember. There were insomniatic nights where I would just lie in bed and think of all the horrible things I might be capable of doing. Cannibalism, mass murder, serial killer, you name it, it crossed my mind at some point. I never understood how I might be capable of actually doing it but just considering the potential was equated to inevitable guilt.

This was only amplified by the apocalyptic dreams I experienced on a regular basis. I still haven’t been able to identify their origin. Looking back it seems that they could all be metaphors for what I was doing to my life. Then again it could just be a result of misfiring neurons from years of distilling my brain. I’m not sure there is a difference.

In a strange way I have to thank the most horrific face of God for solving both of these problems. The day I became an IVDU is also the day that I ceased to be an alcoholic. Just as the sun can expunge the moon from the sky, so did the dragon eclipse a decade of alcoholism.

It wasn’t until my November death that it broke me of my greatest fear though. At this time I did everything I wanted, when I wanted. If I was hungry I ate cheesecake. If I was horny I went to a sex club. If I needed to get high I went to a dealer. If I didn’t feel like doing something I ignored it.

While there were countless crimes and acts of sexual depravity, the majority of my time was spent devoted to more admirable ventures. I would drive across town because I wanted to make sure a friend wasn’t’ left alone with his psychosis. Countless hours were spent in conversation trying to absorb all the experiences I could from other people. Often times I would just stare out across the water wondering “Why?” without ever actually understanding the question.

It was when I forfeited my life to the unknown that I first saw I was living the full extent to which my demons were capable. Where I expected to find the demented soul of Jack the ripper instead sat an autodidactic vagabond in the depths of an existentialist crisis. The person I was most capable of hurting was myself, and those close enough to suffer from the collateral damage.

What once felt like an endless abyss of self doubt vanished in a moment. No longer did I need to process every action through a series of filters. I was finally free from myself, unfortunately I was taken hostage by an equally formidable adversary in the process.

There was so much going on in my life that spring that affected the chemical balance of my brain that it’s difficult to blame any one factor. I quit, more dramatically reduced, my drinking to avoid complications with the prescription and having just bought a car further emphasised the need to be sober. Meth wasn’t seen as a problem yet, though it presented itself as the solution.

Only three days after I started taking Bupropion I started experiencing severe insomnia. I was lucky if I could get three hours of sleep a night. I would lie in bed replaying every mistake I’ve ever made in my life in fast forward. Without alcohol I didn’t know how to get my brain to stop and it ran wild all night long.

After just a month I had started to use meth frequently to combat the constant fatigue. I was smoking before I went to work and gut bombing a parachute to get me through the eight hour shift. There was nothing recreational about my use. I blinked and before I knew it the summer was almost over.

I’ve spent two months now excavating the recesses of my memory in an attempt to gain a better understanding of the events that transpired. There are flash images but nothing more. Countless hours were spent parked along Lake Washington Boulevard in the afternoon just smoking meth in my car because I didn’t wantt to go home. Every lunch break rushing to my car and driving to the arboreteum to smoke a bowl, hoping that no one would notice the billowing clouds. Driving and parking and smoking and driving. My car was my home and the windows were coated in ice.

I was about to lose my new job. It wasn’t that I was bad at it, actually I was one of the best, I was just a bad employee. I would stay out all night spinning around in circles, then when the time came to go to work I’d fall asleep and not even an act of God could roust me out of bed.

While still in the probationary period of my employment I was late or missed work more than eight times. It was grounds for termination. The human resources department had begun to process my separation despite protests from management. My director wanted so badly to keep me there he found a loophole in the system.

While the paperwork was already moving along they couldn’t finalize my termination if I applied for medical leave of absence. I had four days to get all the forms submitted before things were finalized. Luckily I already had a perfect excuse with medical backing: bupropion.

The three biggest factors affecting my employment could all be explained as side effects from Bupropion: insomnia, rapid cycling mood shifts and increasing dissociation. They also could be attributed to an anxiety disorder. One might even propose methamphetamine use as the cause, but in the mind of an addict that was quickly dismissed.

I wasn’t able to get an appointment with the doctor who originally prescribed me Buproprion. Time was the biggest factor and it didn’t matter who I saw as long as they agreed that my situation was such that a medical leave of absence was necessary. It was surprisingly easy.

I met with the doctor and explained I was only sleeping 2 or 3 hours a night. He was reluctant to diagnose it as a medicinally induced chemical imbalance. We went over all of my symptoms, my sleep patterns, diet, etc. He then asked for more details about what had changed in my life recently and specifically for anything that caused stress. I told him the truth about everything while casually neglecting to mention my drug habit.

It was impossible to deny that stress had become a defining element of my mental state. My living situation was such that just being at home instigated a fight or flight response in my brain. I had no idea what was happening in my life and in an effort to control something, anything, I was taking on far more than I was capable of handling. I was working over sixty hours a week, often going two weeks without a day off.

It was during this visit that I took my first anxiety test. It was a single page of questions asking you to rank the frequency and intensity of different sources of anxiety in your life. I read each situation carefully and circled “5 - Extreme” on every line.

“Based on what I’m seeing here, your life exists in a perpetual state of anxiety. Would you agree with that assessment?”

Yes.

“Well, we can treat it as an imbalance from the drugs, but that’s going to mean more drugs and to be real honest it’s a guessing game to find out what might be effective.”

Antidepressant roulette essentially?

“Yeah, I don’t really want to go down that road unless we have to.”

I don’t want to do that either.

“The amount of anxiety you’re describing is very concerning though. It’s also hard to tell exactly what it is stemming from. However you had said that it all began with insomnia. Many of your other symptoms could all be attributed to sleep deprivation as well. I think we should start there.

But I can’t sleep.

“That is a problem that we can solve.”

He wrote me a prescription for Ambien and wanted to follow up in two weeks. The goal was to normalize my sleep schedule enough that he could get a better idea of what was actually causing my problem. He filled out my FMLA paperwork and told me the one thing I needed to do for the next month was relax and avoid any situations that might cause stress.

I was familiar with Ambien, but had never taken it before. There were endless stories about the “walrus” and people waking up in dangerous situations, like driving. I was certain that any potential side effect would be a part of my experience with it and decided I should only take it when there was someone else in the house to watch out for me.

I was well aware that my life was completely out of control. Getting the option to take a leave of absence and save my job was a gift from a saint who chose to remain anonymous, likely out of fear of being made a fool. Whoever it was looking out for me, was right to be skeptical. I immediately left the doctor's office and went about preparing for another sleepless weekend.

I wanted to stop but didn’t know how. I told myself that I had to keep using through the weekend because my roommate was going to be camping. I couldn’t start taking the Ambien without supervision and I couldn’t sleep without it, so I did drugs to keep me awake. In hindsight the logic is maddening.

Despite continuously smoking dope, I was still set on getting things in order so that I could quit. In the past I wasn’t able to just stop using, I had to make sure that absolutely everything was perfect, even the things I couldn’t control. The first order of business was to establish my sense of home.

After I left my job of thirteen years in March I had decided that it was finally time to update my possessions. My furniture was a hodge podge of hand me downs from various sources, mostly my parents. My clothes were all six sizes too big for me. My dog had been slowly dismantling my mattress into bite sized pieces and relocated them all over the house. It all had to go.

I’d taken a sizeable withdrawal from my retirement fund. It was more than enough to replace all the things that brought me unhappiness and then some. When I got home that evening I realized that part of why I didn’t feel at home was because nothing in my room had value to me. It was all new and soulless, a fitting expression of how I felt about myself.

I started by finding anything I had left from before I had moved in two years before. It began with an old ikea TV stand that I bought when I still lived at my parent’s house. I remember seeing dirt caked into the cracking wood and wondering how long it had been there. In what many would see as trash I found a symbol of every place I’d ever lived.

There was no question about what came next. Since I’d moved in the portal bell had been downstairs in the living room. It was always the first thing people mention when coming to my house and I had wanted it displayed in a prominent location. I positioned it atop the TV stand in my bedroom and turned it til it was at just the right angle. I then fell to my knees, spoke unknown words to faceless ideals and rang the bell. That was the last time I rang the bell in Seattle.

Everything else fell into place naturally. The once dead aralia plant I took when moving out of my house in Columbia City. The monkey lamp left to me by my oldest friend. Various religious symbols from across the globe.

It took me about four hours before I stepped back and said aloud, “Perfect.”

Very pleased with myself I just laid in my bed for two hours lost in thoughts and clouds of T. I don’t know how much I smoked. A lot. This was before I took my first plunge and actually getting high took a considerable amount of time due to the tolerance I’d built up.

Once I felt like I’d had enough I loaded another sizeable amount into my glass bubble and melted it into place. I made a habit of loading a good size bowl before leaving the house so I didn’t have to expose how much dope I had on hand.

Once everything was in order I hopped in the car and headed out. I was spending most of my free time at a park down on the Duwamish river. It had the reputation as being the most active cruising park in all of Seattle and was just down the hill from my house. At any hour of the day you could show up and it was pretty much guaranteed that someone was down there looking to get off.

Overtime it became less about sex and more about the social elements offered. If I didn’t know anyone there already I’d walk a couple laps and then sit in my car to wait. I’d been doing this for a few months at this point so I knew all of the other regulars. It wasn’t that much different from a neighborhood bar, only instead of drinking beer we did meth.

It was set to be one of the hottest days of the year. I took my usual spot in the crowded parking lot and put the sunshade on my windshield before taking a couple more tokes. I was already ridiculously high, but the thick clouds of smoke billowing from my sunroof would make it clear to everyone else there my intentions.

I recognized a few other cars and a group of people loitering near the picnic table. We chatted while a couple of the guys played with remote control cars. The next few hours are foggy at best. There was sex and dope and miscommunications. Nothing tragic or memorable seemed forth coming so around 4am I parted ways with the two guys still hanging around and drove around to the other side of west seattle.

When I found myself in a more introspective mindset I would usually retreat to Mee-Kwa-Mooks. In the early hours of the morning it was the perfect hideaway from existence. I spoke to the sound in the darkness and reflected on my life as the sun's first light casted back from the Olympic Mountains.

How had this all happened again? Why did I not see it coming sooner? Was I really so good at hiding it that no one seemed to even notice? Will I really be able to make it out again? Or had I unknowingly made the choice to live out the rest of my life in clouds of devastation?

Everything was a mess. I couldn’t place the pieces in an order that made reasonable sense of how it all had gotten so far. I stared into the rearview mirror at a face I didn’t know and wanted to cry. As soon as a tear formed enough to begin cascading down my cheek, Wes dog woke up from the back seat and stopped it’s decent with one motion of his tongue covering the whole right side of my face.

There are many times that dog saved my life, this was one of them.

Despite knowing I needed to find a way out, the next nine months would be devoted to my addiction. I wanted nothing more than to be free of it, but it didn’t matter what I wanted. I would try to fight and as soon as the face stared down upon me I would prostrate in surrender. Mine was a life of servitude

I wish the past offered itself more freely. I have felt that in order to prevent it all from happening again I need to understand how and why it happened again. I’m starting to think that the how may be irrelevant though.

I could spend the next decade reverse engineering the constructs of my dissociation. While certain aspects certainly require further investigation, I think I’ll leave the majority of the experience in the past where it can exist without my continuous interaction. I don’t need a detailed outline on how to relapse when what I should be focusing on is drafting a roadmap to reintegration.