i’m gonna keep this short. i don’t have any funny/sad stories for today. i’ve been sick with some kind of flu for two weeks. and couple that with the crushing manic depression that smothers me like this down comforter i hold like a security blanket, and you have a complete human mess. you could mop me up with a bucket at this point. i feel so empty and alone…my brother may be part of the new Afghanistan shit, and that will really kill me. (i’m not allowed to speak to him cuz his cunt wife thinks i’m a bad influence. even though he’s never even seen me do drugs, i’ve never sold him drugs.) i made that mistake with my cousin and i’ll never make that mistake again.

so every day jesse goes to the clinic and sells his pills to make money for crack or whatever we can afford, because without something in me i fall apart at the seams. and i just had another therapist tell me i’m too fuct up, i reach “beyond her scope of treatment” so funny in such a pathetic way.

i’m crying now as i write this. just before i got sick i was in such an upswing. i was cleaning OCD style, going to the clinic everyday just to keep jesse company. i was going to the library, doing all my wiccan rituals, calling my mom. and then smash, you hit bottom like you feel down a well. and here i am. i honestly haven’t gotten out of bed, showers minimal. it’s reminiscent of when i was bipolar untreated in high school, and i used to cut. that sweet release right after the pain, the warm blood. it’s like having bulimia, which i am also cursed with. not to be gross, but that 30 seconds after you finish purging, there is so much relief, a precious moment of peace that doesn’t exist in real life. the same moment you get after slamming a huge speedball. like none of this shit matters. just me  and this fucking needle. it doesn’t matter that my family chooses to pretend i don’t exist. it doesn’t matter that my ptsd keeps me from riding the T alone. it doesn’t matter that i can’t get or keep a job, because of my head, i’ve got no habit. i kind of wish i did, cuz that pain is sure,  certain, and you can make it go away, if you work hard enough. this head shit has been around since i saw my father stab my mother in the neck when i was 5, and it’s only gotten worse.  so maybe i have a bad attitude. but i won’t get into what else made me this way. i’m to weak and tired, and i’m quite sure no one really cares. i’m just gonna take some pills and go to sleep. i like sleep alot now, no dreams with the meds. it’s the best part of my “life”.

why i started doing drugs in the first place. life is a trainwreck. it always will be, drugs just kill the pain while we all die slowly….real slowly.

jese sits on the bed, i lay in my pj’s, tears rolling down my face. the sun is not even up yet. i love starting the day this way “so what you’re saying is  you wont get back on the clinic?” he asks, for the millionth time. “no, i don’t want to. i don’t want to get up at 545 and catch a bus in the middle of winter to go see my  dealer, the Commonwealth.” i snap. “so what, are you just gonna go on another run when you get your own money???”  (whatever happened to all that “our money” bullshit you pull when i hand over all my cash?)  “i dont wanna get strung out again, but yeah, i’d like to get high every once in a while.” i pull the covers up, its fuckin freezin in this hellhouse. “kaia, you know that you WILL get strung out again with that attitude.” he says, playing with his knife. i know he’s right, but: A. i won’t tell him that and B. i really don’t give a fuck. “so what do you want, jesse? you wanna get clean? how you gonna kick the benzo habit you got?” “detox.” “yeah fucking right, you don’t wanna stop with the pills. you already got me strung on them again, and there was no problem with that shit, what the fuck is the difference?” there is no goddamn difference. “you took the sixty dollars i made cleaning houses and made me pay you for that script of johnnies, and you doubled the PRICE!!!!” you won’t give me 40 bucks for a bag of coke, not cuz you want me to get clean, you see those dollars as pills in the hand, kid.” “i’m gonna miss the bus for the clinic.” he stands up. “better not miss that one.” i mutter, rolling over to try to go back to sleep. the door closes, and i roll over and grab this god awful machine and start looking for work. ha. that’s funny. i don’t know what jesse is thinking. being on the clinic is the furthest thing from being sober, i see it every day. that’s why i can’t go down there, i see wasted people, i need to be fuct up too. and he’s constantly on the nod cuz of the pills he mixes with it. he falls asleep smoking, eating. we ate so many pills last  night, we fell asleep at the bus station for an hour, missed 2 busses. then once we get on the bus, we fall asleep again, and have to wait at the OTHER end of the line a half hour to get home finally. and he’s clean……are you fucking kidding me? so i say, you can’t have it both ways. you can’t say your clean, and get fuct up. you can’t be fuct up in front of me and not expect me to not want to get high. you can’t push me into something i don’t want, and not expect a fight. there is no easy way out of this one, kids.  but when was this shit ever easy, right?

i put some jail letters up on my “postin up behind the wall” page. there is like 2months more to come, all the dirt’s coming out……

i started this draft in december 2008. i wonder what i was thinking then. i really wish i had written, but i was most likely too spun or whatever. but lets see what i feel about the phrase now.  “meet your maker” like god? like drugs? like yourself? what makes you? it’s funny, because that’s just 2 months before my cousin hung himself. do you think he met his maker? or was it his maker that drove him to that? (poor kid was strung hard, my heart still breaks every time i think of him) i guess if you are a semi-healthy person you would say your maker is your god. the creator of all things, breathing or not. recycling energy and souls like we are just one big endless spiral, spinning out, then spinning back in, meeting the center and starting the spin again. maybe that’s not what normal people think-after all. ha. but it is what i think.

but i also think of drugs as my maker, because since i was very young, they have made every decision for me small or large. “will i go to college?”  “will i go to this party?” “will i hang out with these kids or those ones?” “will i go to work, or school?”  “will i keep this appointment?” “will i go to court?” you see what i mean? even now, i do drugs every day, even if its not stickin myself, which i still do occasionally, so i suppose i’ve met one of my makers, cuz narcotics have made me who i am today. sad statement.

i like to think i’m not that bad a person. but i also compare. the people around me are homeless, living in shelters, hookers on the street, disabled people who will never be whole again, drug dealers, and clinic kids. so i’m not so bad. it’s funny, in a really sad way. okay, i’ve got a bed to sleep in, and my rent gets paid, and i’ve got clothes, and make up and jewelry (all stolen) and i have all my limbs. i’m not jumpin in and out of cars with the taste of a lubricated condom in my mouth. those are all good things. but i’m still a liar and a manipulator. i’m still selfish (what about me?????) i’m still self-serving, i’m still a little bit of a backstabber, still a thief, and still a full blooded junky, alcoholic mess that does and says completely inappropriate things at the wrong times. this is me. yes, i have met my maker.

i hope my other maker understands all that at the end of my run. i mean well, it’s just part of the game. i could choose to go through years of therapy and meetings and painful torturous memories and try to change it. but the longer i stick around, the less success i see. so i don’t know. i do my own thing with my god (goddess) and i feel like we are on good terms. i know i’m breaking rule #1 “an it harm none, do what thou wilt” and i’m harming myself. but She knows i’m trying. so i am not afraid to meet my maker at all.

i faced the drugs, and they molded me, now i have to find a way not to get thrown in the kiln. even the bible says we’re just lumps of clay. if we don’t come out right the first time, throw a little water on us and start the hell over. i heard that in a detox. ha.

so meet your maker(s) and see how you feel about it……

i  cant seem to decide if i’m actually physically sick, massively bored and annoyed, or just good old clinically depressed.  when i was in jail the headshrinkers wanted to label me like i drive for nascar….clinical depression-this; bipolar-that; PTSD, etcetera. i thought it was a load of bullshit when i was there, cuz i was on meds for one, and all i had to worry about was jail shit, which isnt real shit anyway…so why stress it.

but now i’m out, he’s on the clinic, and i’m not, i’m chippin, and he’s bitchin, i’m self-medicating with pills and a lil dope here n there. little coke, little meth.  but nothing much makes me feel better. i’ve been takin johnnies (neurontins) like TO HELP, not to fuck me up. i guess sometimes they use em as mood stabilizers, and i guess it helps. it would be better if i knew a good dosage or something.  it’s not like i’m not on the “shrink list” (the wait list for the psychiatrist @ my primary) but i can’t wait that long. so i do what i can. to keep it together.

but lets face it, there’s no putting humpty dumpty together again. I remind myself alot of my mother these days. very eh, very “poor me” very “staying in bed all day eating benzo’s hating life” it’s not a good feeling. i don’t know how she’s done it for so many years….i’m pretty much through with this feeling. i’m doing what i can to keep my spirits up.  i look for work all day long on fuck-all craigslist, i try to improve my typing time on practice websites. i feed my fish on happy aquarium(yes muthufucker, i play happy aquarium on facebook) i’m hardcore.

the truth of the matter is, i stil  use and use to live.  i just fiend more now…it’s not like being dopesick, it’s like a deep, tearing ache in the base of my spine.  it’s always there, although it comes and goes in waves, it is always there. i look forward to my once a month, and a i hustle every “unearned” high i can get, cuz  i’m still a junky. and i’d rather be focused on one problem “what about the next one” than the hundred thousand problems, pains, nightmares and memories that haunt me these days.  i don’t even sleep anymore. just stay up watching zombies cannibalize screaming virgins.

if this is life, maybe i’m missin the point.

i did meth for the first time in 9 years today. it was good. really good. i smoked it, cuz i have never shot it, and i want to be more informed. it’s not a trial and error type thing. we can get now whenever we want, but since i got out of jail, jesse’s been dead set on not going balls out with drugs (for now) so he keeps me in line. i mean, i could just be making excuses, justifying, etc. but it was fun….i don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. when i get the rest of my journals, i’ll put some of my crystal writings on my “back in the day” page. and to think, i almost didn’t go out today. ha

Your hand on his arm
Haystack charm around your neck
Strung out and thin
Calling some friend, trying to cash some check
He’s acting dumb
That’s what you’ve come to expect
Needle in the hay
Needle in the hay
Needle in the hay
Needle in the hay
He’s wearing your clothes
head down to toes, a reaction to you
You say you know what he did
But you idiot kid, you don’t have a clue
Sometimes they just get caught in the eye, you’re pulling him through
Needle in the hay
Needle in the hay
Needle in the hay
Needle in the hay
Now on the bus
Nearly touching this dirty retreat
Falling out 6th and powell, a dead sweat in my teeth
Gonna walk walk walk
Four more blocks, plus the one in my brain
Down downstairs to the man, he’s gonna make it all okay
I can’t beat myself
I can’t beat myself
And I don’t want to talk
I’m taking the cure
So I can be quiet wherever I want
So leave me alone
You ought to be proud that I’m getting good marks
Needle in the hay

so it’s about 4 days after i got out of jail (a tale i’ve still yet to tell) and jesse and i decide i can wait no longer to get high. so we cop from our usual guy. but it’s been so long, i miss both coke shots and loose my fuckin mind. (if you read this at all you know i’m a speed freak by nature. so i’m rubbing the numb spot on my arm where all the good cocaine is hiding, hating myself, actual tears coming to my eyes. jesse hands me a shot of dope. “you might as well do the whole half gram, cuz i felt nothing ( the fact that he’s on 110 ‘done a day and i’m eating benzo’s for the first time in two months must’ve slipped his geeked out mind) cuz of course, he didn’t miss.

so i don’t think anything of it. do we ever, really? but for some strange reason i still can’t explain, i went into the “shooting up backpack” with all our needles, cookers, biohazzard cases and shit, and took out the narcan. “what did you have to go and do that for, it’s fuct up” jesse said. “like setting yourself up.” he was frowning. “hope for the best, expect the worst” i smiled. “learned that one in jail.” and with that  i stuck the shit in my arm, thinking i’m gonna miss half this too, and have to wait that fucking extra five minutes to feel good.

not so much.

i did the shot…took the needle out of my arm…..blood started to stream down…but i didn’t seem to notice.  i put my hands on the floor, as the world around me started to fade out, blacker and blacker. very dizzy, kaia, very fucking dizzy was all i could think.

next thing i know i hear jesse’s voice as if it were far down a hallway.
“kaia, wake the fuck up!!!!! wake the fuck up. the kid had that narcan inhaler so deep in my nose i could feel it in my brain. (now remind you this is like the sixth time i’ve od’d and it’s been  jesse’s sole responsiblity to bring me back. he was scared and pissed and relieved all at once. i just felt groggy, still a little high, and like it was no big deal. after so many you expect em, i guess.

now i know what you’re thinking, another dumb junky thinking she can shoot a half gram fresh off the block and live to see another day…i guess there’s no getting around it. it was shitty dope before i went in, i was missin shots like a drunk archer and i thought nothing of it, and almost died. so kiddies, take it slow. learn from me, even if i can’t learn from myself……ha.

At the center of the world
there’s a statue of a girl.
She is standing near a well
with a bucket bare and dry.

I went and looked her in the eyes
and she turned me into sand.
This clumsy form that I despise
it scattered easy in her hand.

And came to rest upon a beach,
with a million others there.
We sat and waited for the sea
to stretch out so that we could disappear

into the endlessness of blue,
into the horror of the truth.
You see, we are far less than we knew.
Yeah, we are far less than we knew

but we knew what we could taste.
Girls found honey to drench our hands.
Men cut marble to mark our graves.
Said we’ll need something to remind us of
all the sweetness that has passed through us
(fresh sangria and lemon tea).
The priests dressed children for a choir
(white-robed small voices praise Him)
but found no joy in what was sung.
The funeral had begun

in the middle of the day
when you drive home to your place
from that job that makes you sleep
back to the thoughts that keep you awake

long after night has come to claim
any light that still remains
in the corner of the frame
that you put around her face.

Two pills just weren’t enough.
The alarm clock’s going off
but you’re not waking up.
This isn’t happening, happening, happening,
happening, happening. It is.