Waking up

It was 2015, & the downward spiral of my addictive personality had fully taken form. I was slingin haircuts at Supercuts, taking multiple breaks every hour or so to pound down a few shots of whisky to steady my hand, or after a while it was to lock myself in the bathroom & try to find a vein to tap in the low light to ease the pain. My path of self destruction started very young, around 11 or 12, after a few traumatic sequences took place, but it wasn’t in full beast mode until I was well into my 20’s. At the time, I didn’t plan on surviving through it, so there was no “plan”. I already lived a fast life, I was surprised to even make it to 25.

I always had a thing for Ravens & Crows, they’re always around me in times of need, & I find solace in them. I was a weird kid, & grew up reading Lovecraft, Anne Rice, whatever other weird shit I would find in my brothers expansive library that caught my attention. Reading the Necronomicon in 5th grade during “reading period” was probably super weird for the teacher, but my point is I was weird & a dark spooky bitch. But when I stumbled upon Poe, that shit changed some wiring in my brain. I began writing my own weird, dark shit. He inspired me to take to the page whenever I felt myself being overcome by indirect emotions that I couldn’t understand; I let the pen do the work for me in creating an understanding.

Any time through my teenage years, into my early 20’s, I would often get far too “off the deep end”, & would forget the refuge I found in writing. I would always circle back, back it was very inconsistent. Now, in 2015 & age 25, the downward spiral of my meaningless & incredibly self sabotaging & selfish existence was a force to behold. That force kept my writing stagnant, for years. Three full years, I hadn’t written a single sentence for myself, or my demons. Enter stage left; a whole bottle of prescription pills & God only knows how much Wild Turkey. Everything that was suffocating me slowly, all came alive on this fateful summer night. There was a tipping point, but he doesn’t really matter in my story anymore. He was just a pretty boy that used me as a placeholder.

In a blur of dark shadows & brilliant highlights, I recall being wasted at “my bar”. I recall being MAD at “my bar”. And then I recall downing an entire bottle of prescription “sleep meds” (they were antipsychotics but my doctor was a vague asshole). The next thing I knew, I was nursing a drink, I couldn’t keep my eyes from rolling back, & had no cognitive control over my entire body. This was not the first suicide attempt; but this seemed like the last.

In flashes of fuzzy scenes, I was carried out of the bar by the bartender’s husband, thrown in his pickup truck, I struggled to smoke a cigarette while he flew up the hill to the nearest ER. He tossed me over his shoulder, slammed me down in the first chair inside the ER, & I heard pixelated conversation, with “overdose” & “unstable” bouncing around. Darkness. On a table, surrounded by doctors & nurses, jamming a tube down my throat (for what felt like the millionth time at this point, honestly. I knew the “routine”). Darkness. One doctor with a clipboard asking me questions I don’t remember answering. Darkness. Waking up in a tiny, curtained off 10x10 room in a hospital bed with a nurse in a chair, just watching me. “Suicide watch”.

It wasn’t the first 72 hour hold I’ve had, but I was flipping out. I never wanted to end up in another mental hospital again, a vast portion of my traumas live there. But my rights as an “adult” were stripped from me just as my clothes & belongings in my incoherence.

Cut to a week & a half later, & one of the most fascinating weeks I’ve ever spent in a mental hospital. The withdrawals were still persisting, but they were draining in severity upon release. All I wanted was to see my cats. My ride dropped me off at my apartment, & I collapsed on the floor. Everything I had dancing around in my head, was now all in bold, capital letters. I sat up, & I found an old notebook, & I let every single thing just pour out of me onto these pages. Some of it was beautifully macabre & eloquently pieced together; some of it was just complete nonsense from the crypt of my psychosis & newly peeled open recovery. But I wrote, & didn’t stop until those demons left my body.

That was my waking up. That was my rebirth. I’ve been sober ever since, & when I begin drowning again, I write. Shortly after the incident, I got a large, negative space “Poe” blackwork piece on my hand. He’s there any time I forget the power behind my pen, & he’s there to commemorate my awakening. I dug with my bare hands through bone & blaze to get to where I am now; he hangs out & reminds me that the monsters I think live inside me are just as temporary as ink.