I didn't fully escape from my tendencies to
turn to substances of various kinds when in trouble with my thoughts, feelings
and bleak, bleak outlooks on things concerning me in my life. In fact, my
depression worsened over the years. The only thing that changed was that I was
put on heavier pharmaceutical medication for my apparent bipolar disorder. Which
dampened my mood for the worst.
There came a point where I was stoned daily on street alprazolam after the clonazepam
I was buying had stopped working. I couldn't handle being sober. On days I did
not have alcohol, this was my first resort. I found something about blacking
out for hours to be enjoyable. Not knowing what the hell I did or said, and not
finding out until later through friends that I acted like a whore for attention
lit some intrinsic need to keep doing it again.
I could ignore my problems easily. Be gone
as my parents fought. The dysfunctional wreck of a family never registering to
me. Being under an impression everything was all right because I couldn't care
for the life of me.
That was until one night I took things too
far and went out on my sleeping pills and Xanax with two men. One drink later,
I was gone. I do not remember a single detail of my first and last threesome.
What started off as harmless sending of nude photos to men ended in a downfall
I do not forgive myself for getting into. I still look back and feel like the worst kind of nymphomaniac for being such an addict I didn't guard myself.
This addiction fucked me in so many ways.
Humiliated me. Left me hurt by men. I will never have their full respect and
will always be seen as the low self-respect candy whore in her early twenties-piece-of-meat by men I've known who have seen this careless side of me.
I don't know what to blame. Between myself? The drugs? Mental health? It all sums up to the same line of self-harm and
sabotage brought on by horrible decision making at the peak of an awful
moodswing. Anything but responsible. Immature. Shallow. How I could be those
things and make it worse by spending my life's savings in a summer on
benzodiazepines doesn't surprise me, it is that the addiction to using them
becomes so strong I truly don't regret losing it all that does.
Another feature of borderline personality
disorder includes impulsivity. Thinking for the long term did not serve me at
the time. I wanted what was self-damaging; it was like the substances steered
the defective ship I snuck on knowing it would end up sinking with me on it. Asleep.
How I could be at such a distance from
caring about myself, was purely the doing of benzodiazepines and too many
antipsychotics at once. My conscience was rendered by the medication alone, and
the drug use exacerbated this. My real self a ghost outside of my own body
watching horrifying mistakes be made.
I eventually kicked this habit after being
unable to breathe. Subsequent to this achievement, I began seeing my partner. A
person who had a worse history of drug use than myself. I already had a strange
fetish for men who used drugs. Easily I developed feelings for this one and
proceeded to, well, manipulate my connection like the person I tried to avoid
being.
By that, I mean, cause him to relapse on
hard drugs including meth and cocaine and administer IV hits on me until I
learned how to do them myself.
It took between a one to two years to stop
using needles together. Three years for me. One abscess later plus a skin
infection convinced me to stop attempting to put needles with syringes filled
with coke water into my left arm. My conscience did have the ability to show
up. Occasionally.
However, nothing; no use, or overdose of
fentanyl, could prepare me for the strangest drug-induced psychosis I'd had. I
should've known my paranoid behaviour after my first two tabs indicated what
would've come later if I didn't listen to my boyfriend.
I was not wise. He kept advising, and
advising, that I left my LSD alone for the rest of the night and cut my losses
with not being as high as I wanted to be. The moment he was gone from the room
I took the remaining four tabs at once, together, and hoped for the magical
high to expand into a breakthrough experience I could never forget.
I tripped in my dream and woke up sober.
Eventful. I don't remember this, but my partner said I slept for two weeks. I
only have clear memory of being psychotic. Oh my god, I still remember the
delusional state my mind escalated into. Every thought I had that was
unparalleled with reality. I must have been in a blacked out state when I was
sleeping all day.
It was the first time I had experienced drug-induced psychosis. It was one of the worst times of my life, begging to come home from
the hospital phone to my mother, pleading my case of being more than sorry for disturbing
her with my mental health issues; having to stay a whole two months in there as
my partner emotionally cheated on me.
As much as I deny it in my head, I was
abandoned by everyone I loved as I sat lonesome in that dejected headspace.
Nothing feels worse than this. Being betrayed in such a fucked up way by
violating you using your ultimate weakness. I remember crying on the phone
every night over how cruel my drunk boyfriend was to me. The psychiatrist
advised me to go to therapy if I insisted on staying with him. The staff did
not allow him to drive me home. It was more humiliating anything I could
imagine already not having my shit together and having that as my only adequate
support.
My family let me down as well, in different
ways. They wouldn't allow me to return home and lied to the team that I had
done things I hadn't. Like any people trying to keep you away for as long as
possible would. Sometimes I cannot fucking believe I never took it upon myself
to cut these people off. They are far from basic human beings who feel remorse.
They are righteous. This, in my opinion, is wretched humanity at its finest.
A support system couldn't sink lower.