Xanax. Liquor. Zopiclone. My holy trinity for the summertime. Something about the option just being there made me want to empty my pockets. Money wasn't an issue yet. I was already compulsive shopping on top of indulging in my drug abuse. Life was good. I was finally free from my ex and I found… happiness?
I'd say I was living my best life unfortunately. I no longer cut my wrists let alone thought of it; I was instead amidst cherishing moments of bringing blunts to the beach after having taken a dose of Xanny, embracing the warm weather and intoxication. Going under the fresh water and coming back up to meet the bright sun on shrooms, occasionally, feeling magically connected to the very essence of being. My pain invisible to everyone including myself. Soon enough beginning to wish Quaaludes were still in existence.
It never is enough, what you're getting, unless it's H. Honestly. You get tired of the same thing over and over. It always escalates. It always leads to a well-crafted mess, that, yes, you did, make on your own. There is nothing on Earth that makes you indifferent more than the sheer inevitable ungratefulness that comes with being an addict.
Distasteful behaviour was a part of being on a bender, it came to a point of that, at least. I was relying on feigned affection from strangers, whilst high, dating morons and cons who didn't live up to the means of changing — I don't even think it was a word known to their vocabulary. Such people brought me down and I didn't even know it. I acknowledge with open eyes how little I meant to myself in such moments I strived for the brain-injured providence of clear disturbance to my mind.
Shock.
Dejection.
Trauma.
Anything else that felt too fucking familiar.
I do not know what came upon me to expose myself so close to the core. Like a rockslide, my actions of my apparent lack of self-love continued to down spiral, as though in a competition, one event after another, to accumulate together an ultimate confirmation of how disgusted I would make myself in coming years. I shiver as I think of myself, dancing on the edge of a mountain, eventually falling, whilst completely unaware, blinded by what I thought was zest when it was truly just deep, deep depression I fooled myself into thinking I didn't have.
Come to think of it, no drug on Earth knew depression well enough to undo it. Not even active deliriant ingredients in pills I took in my teens could make me see better through the supposed brain damage it gave its users. Shrooms only lasted six hours. Weed, a joke at this point in my life, was only an answer for those who refrained from going further into exploration of substances; those content individuals with morals so congruent to their radiating self-belief and confidence. Lucky bastards.
(I remain bitter to this day.)
These people who roamed freely in the pure lacking of concern and self-hatred weren't in the system as a bipolar burden. It wasn't ever an internal notion of mine to fix myself alone; no, I was in the care of a psychiatrist all the while I tore my life apart. Acting like I could do no wrong during appointments as I sat there, hungover, if not gone already that early in the day.
It was for the best. I only learned being honest hurt my cause. Many years before, I had been diagnosed as a patient with "cannabis use disorder" for admitting I smoked a gram in one day, once. Months later, a schizophrenic, for admitting reality had bent itself into delusions I couldn't recognize were not real, not possible, and not taking place. Two years later, a bipolar for not just letting up over fabricated police reports. Like a poker game. One in where you know nothing of poker, no strategies, no luck can come across you, you are alone in the dark of assuming there is a chance you can find yourself laughing.
But you won't. There isn't a chance.
Borderline highlights the great, proud depths of what it means to be a broken human forced into interactive stoicism. Where you find the answers are backwards to any pursuit that sounds remotely right alongside the wellness of mankind. Self-doubt is your guide. Suppressed anger is your enemy. Hatred is your light. Walking behind you are your family, not demons latching onto you and dragging you from under your skin, showing you flashbacks, contributing to endless upon endless reasons why you are stupid, naïve, blind, always hyper-vigilant of the environment, and never enough of yourself, why you are unprotected by your own means thus to never look at a human and trust them once.
Because people, when you get too close, show you hardships, some you just cannot withstand. In a way, borderline knows this. Predicts it before it even happens. Everyone leaves. Everyone creates a void in the heart, in some way, through their own, or maybe even my own, selfishness by nature.
Downers at least let me live with this.