Blacked Out

[From BLACK]

Blacked Out OR 100 days

I remember that time I drank until I couldn’t walk, couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do shit—

all the times, every time.

Dissociating til I forgot my name, forgot where I was, forgot who I was, forgot I was human.

I remember all the sunrises I watched. Powder wars. Bloody noses. Drip. Drip. Drip. Yayo.

Never gonna sleep, never gonna feel bad again, never gonna stop, never gonna stop.

Speed it up. slow it down. more, more, more. nothing.matters.nothing.matters.

Another sunrise, another sunrise.

YET ANOTHER FUCKING SUNRISE.

I remember all the nights I swallowed the pill, licked my finger and put it in the bag.

Take a dip. Pop a molly. Parachute it.

Pressies–dirty gritty pressies. 

G’s Up Hoes Down. Pink Stars. Blue Dolphins. Triple Stacks.

The warm fuzzies. The I love you’s. All those nights of finally connecting, finally belonging, finally feeling loved. Finally forgetting.

I love you/ I hate you/PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME

Teeth grinding, pupils popping, lips smacking, eyes darting, flittering, crossing, jittering around in my skull. Melting, buzzing, disappearing. Needing and Needing.

I remember all those timewarps. All the summers wasted away. psychedelic-c-c. The Czech. The Fluff. The Swiss. The Needlepoint. The perforated white-on-white. The brilliantly colored patterns, the textures, the colors, the particles that shimmered in the air. The objects that came alive, the breathing of it all. The disintegration. The breaking down.

Fuck it had all made so much sense at the time.

The mushrooms. The crunch of the mushrooms.

The fear that was always present no matter how many laughs and smiles and pretty things to look at.  The looped thoughts, the fleeting revelations, the transient self-confirmations. The “I finally figured it out”. The scribbles in the journal. The paranoia. 

Faces I can’t see/Names I don’t know/Bodies I don’t want touching me.

I remember not remembering all the Xanax benders. All the forget-me-nots. All the misinterpreted dialogues, the interpersonal sabotage. All the convenient amnesia and shitty excuses. 

Lies and naps. Lies and naps.

All the dizzy confusion. Avoidance of what is. Refusal. Hiding. Denying. Lying. Stealing.

Robbin’N Mobbin’

The wreckage the morning after. THAT THERE WAS ALWAYS A GODDAMN MORNING AFTER.

I remember that time I smoked PCP and got stuck.

I remember all the nitrous hallucinations. All the balloons, all the tanks, all the womp womps. All the escapes. 

I remember dissolving black tar heroin into warm water and drinking it in a rural village in India. I remember all the weekends in high school when we couldn’t get real shit so we stole cold medication from the local CVS. Coricidin Cough & Cold. Triple C’s. And we’d eat a pack of 16 each. It always felt like I was gonna suffocate or go blind.

I remember being blind.

I remember smoking DMT out of a crack pipe. Out of a lightbulb. Until my lips were singed and blistered. 

I remember all the times I mixed them all together just to see what happens next.

Alcohol with everything. Weed. Cocaine with everything. Weed. Xanax with everything. Weed. MDMA and psychedelics. Weed. Keta-molly-caine.

Weed.

Up down/up down/up down/nothing matters/nothing matters/untz/untz/untz

All the games we’d play at 9am at music festivals—everyone toss in whatever you have left over from last night and see who could last the longest. I ALWAYS HAD TO LAST THE LONGEST.

Doing bumps, doing lines, taking shots, slapping the bag. Throwing up, shaking, sweating, crying, passing out. More, more, more.

All the times I thought I might not make it. All the times I didn’t care if I died. All the times I just wanted to feel different. All the times I couldn’t stand to be me.

I remember all the aftermaths of all the times, every time.

After the party was over, when I had to start cleaning up the mess, picking up the pieces. All the confusion, all the tears, all the guilt, all the shame, all the drama, all the conflict, all the self-pity. All the whoops my bad’s, all the sorry’s, all the complications, all the pain. All the times I felt like I didn’t even exist anymore. All the times I felt abandoned, felt rejected, felt unseen, unheard, felt unwanted, unloved, unlovable. All the times I felt like I didn’t matter. All the times I punished myself, harmed myself, let my body be used. Let my value be questioned. All the times I gave my heart away and my body away and my dignity away and my power away. All the times I gave it all away….

All the times, every time.


written on my 100th day of sobriety

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