can't believe i'm making this post but fuck i have to. i've been gone for a while because i ended up getting devoured by the whims of shitty circumstance and aka i just got royally fucked in every orifice, oozing blood wish i was dead. also this post is like physically painful to type but i need drugs.
So, for a while, I was living my life as some type of modern Jack Kerouac/Neal Cassady drug-fueled aimless unstable romance but without the art and everything else came after that and everyone else besides Brett was a simply a footnote or an unwanted accessory. I always accepted the fact that the order of things within my dominion would be endlessly tormented with the threat of instability and/or total defeat, this just keeping in with the order of things, following some natural trajectory that I've always subconsciously anticipated and dreaded. But for some reason, I didn't see any of this coming. I swear, it seemed like he obliterated every preconception or doubt, all of the hard to break patterns were trampled, all of those silent monsters were permanently banished from the light. I really thought I was going to be happy. But instead, I was horribly miserable, crying every day, haven't done that since uhhhh high school. I really don't know what happened.
When we moved in together, we started shooting up heroin everyday. For the past month, we've been on it every single day. I would get really sick, I threw up all the time. I lost 10 lbs and I wanted to stop even though I enjoyed it. But it wasn't something that I craved or felt that I needed. Sometimes it seemed to me that withdrawal or "dope sickness" was a myth because I had never experienced it (of course I feel differently now...). It got bad to the point where Brett was constantly belligerently drunk, didn't remember things, did something horrible, and of course in this span of time and after, could not recall anything that had occurred leaving the burden of having the capacity to remember on me. He started constantly begging me for money and I always gave it to him. When my funds were quickly starting to dwindle, I started resisting. But he would take my purse/wallet and tell me I could either give him the money or he would just take it, so I let him.
Last Friday, I suppose was a day of particular and agonizing dope sickness for him because that is the only way I can rationalize his behavior. Argued over $30 for an hour, got berated for "crying on demand", he told me all he wanted was $30 and he didn't give a fuck if we were together after that, all he wanted was $30 and a slew of other awful and hurtful names/comments that I would rather not repeat. I called Sara this day and begged her to come get me because I didn't want to be around Brett because of how terrible his behavior was getting. But instead, we went to go buy more dope. He was still extremely drunk at this point, shot up right after we picked up and nodded out for 10 minutes. The ride home was fucking terrifying. He drove onto the sidewalk several times, almost hit people, and swerved uncontrollably with heroin in the car right behind a fucking cop. I don't know how we didn't get pulled over. We made it home, he ended up with two flat tires, lost the rest of the dope, and then passed out. He woke up and I was still crying, he tried to drive somewhere and I begged him not to go, he didn't but he got into a fight. He asked me if I still loved him and I told him, still sobbing uncontrollably. Earlier, he locked me out of the house for 20 minutes because I wouldn't sit on the same couch as him. Then he starts shoving me calling me a bitch and a piece of shit, telling me to get the fuck out of his house. He pushed me really hard and I fell over a chair and hit my head on the closet door so I started threatening to leave again and he began to cry, somehow we made up and went to sleep.
The next day was better. He stopped asking for money for drugs and we were very civil with each other, it felt beautiful to the point where I thought things could be salvaged and we could get better. I left on such a good note. Sunday, I started calling him repeatedly to remind him to feed the cats but he never answered because he misplaced his phone. I thought he was doing it on purpose and left him angry messages. I came home earlier than I had expected to and good thing for that. I came home and he was in bed, could barely speak or move. He had gone through almost an entire handle in less than a day. My cat was starving and completely spooked. I opened the bathroom door to see blood covering everything (his blood, he hit his head), cat shit smeared on the walls somehow, and a dead kitten behind the door. Like, what the fuck. It was so surreal it felt like some joke scene out of Gummo. He admitted to attacking my cat in a drunken rage because she was "making noise" and didn't remember hitting his head but there was blood on his forehead. I don't know exactly what happened with the kitten, it was behind the door and I think he opened it too hard and didn't notice.
Our approach to everything has been unintentionally nihilistic. We've been miserable from the start with sporadic beautiful sparks in between. In fact, we bonded over depression and drugs. Its all we knew before and all we had when we were together. Drugs seemed like the solution to everything, even on a good night or on a blue Monday. All day I begged our friends for help, I knew something awful was going to happen. I even contacted his old roommate who apparently hated us asking for his father's phone number because I expected the worst. We planned an "intervention" of sorts for the next day and things continued to get worse. He threatened to kill himself, drop out of school, hurt me, anything. He was still black out drunk and continued to drink. When he passed out, I hid his booze, like he always asked me to. An hour later, he gets up in another drunken rage, remands his booze. At first, I'm like fuck no I'm not going to do it, he'll get over. He has that retarded look on his face attempts to choke me out, stumbling and all, this ends quickly before he grabs me by the hair and doesn't let go until I finally tell him it was under the sink. I call Evan, who lives fucking far away, he insists on coming over, picking me up and taking me somewhere else. I say no because no one will be here to make sure nothing happens to Brett or worse, he would do something to the cats again.
Earlier that day, I contacted his friend who is studying to be a nurse. I barely know her but I told her everything and asked her for help, even though I don't like her. Brett finds his missing phone and there's a text from a kid he rips off saying he has $100. He's still really fucking drunk and we take the bus the liqour store. I tell him to call his friend and she picks us up and then takes us to get the drugs. We get home, all the drugs are in the syringes, we all planned to shoot up. Brett did it first, nodded out, turned purple. It seemed like something was wrong so I called 911. I knew what to do because I've been through this before. When I heard the operator I had a flashback from when Keith overdosed on GHB. I walked back over to where they were and Brett started having a seizure, just like Keith. His friend yells at me to call 911 so I call them again. They get here, he regains consciousness and tries to fight them off. They took him away, he yelled at me from the gurney asking me to kiss him, asking for a cigarette. I go into panic mode and for some reason everyone keeps calling asking HAY WHAT R U GUYS DOIN??? wtf. I felt like an asshole because the entire time, I was pissed I didn't get to do any because that would have made me feel alot better. Because at the hospital I was surrounded by Brett's friends and Brett's parents who don't fucking know me, all I get are dirty looks, creepy half-assed apologies, and accusing glances. He was fine in a few hours and went home, but I could tell he was still drunk.
This past week has been completely shitty. My entire life I have struggled with a unusually elevated level of awareness, literally I'm constantly painfully aware of everything around me to the point that it becomes exaggerated and everything is just terrifying. Thats how its been this past week. Atleast I have been able to do drugs several times since his overdose, which I guess can be considered insensitive or horrible after I saw that. But I don't care. After all of this shit, I'm entitled to obliteration. This hasn't happened yet but believe me, it will. He's going to rehab for 6 weeks, which I consider both a relief and a burden. The only other person who knows what I'm going through and can possibly help me live through this more comfortably is going to be gone while I'm still here out in the wild, next to the bluff with a replenished checking account and a giant bag full of syringes and endless access to pills. I know most likely I won't stop and I'm also not ready to but I'm terrified of what will happen between us now they we are having to cope without each other.
I remembered that one trip, the one I thought was the worst, where someone's body appeared like a holy artifact, like a seraphim ideal. Each eye and every eye on his body cried, kept telling me endless stories, ones I couldn't bare to hear, ones that should have developed an end at this point, leaving streaks of blood and tears on the tiny pieces of flesh. Erasure is a fantasy. There is no such thing as closure, there is never erasure. Nothing ever ends. All evidence of pain is resounding and doesn't stop. After I tried to close every door, aching slivers of light stretch out from underneath them, every incidence of suffering or trauma repeats over and over again behind them. They breach out into blood-soaked ribbons that don't end, cackle like maniacal insects in the night, when you seek sleep, when you get high, and when you turn to the stars. They never go away no matter how much they dull, they're still there. And all I want to do now is go blank, seek oblivion like I never have before.
Before, I probably couldn't tell you whether or not I was in love or not because previously, I had no real concept of what that meant or what it could grow to mean. Now, I feel that I did have something special that few other people experience, naive or not, and I didn't care. Of course, I blame myself no doubt. For being an enabler, for not saying anything, for doing everything he said, for not telling anyone. But I felt that in this instance, I was all he had so I had to do anything I could to work around his bad habits, to work with him to protect him and keep him safe, to give him everything he wanted. And his parents think awful things about me for it and that is what hurts me the most right now. Big fuck you to everyone and I don't care what anyone says, they simply weren't there and can't comment on anything like that. Every mistake that I made, they made too. Fortunately for them, a large part of the picture had been obscured but they obviously had to have an idea that he was troubled. I trusted him too much, I wanted to believe in what he said so bad that I ignored certain specifics, but they all did the same thing, to a lesser extent. But I still do love him, even after we reached a point where alot of our individuality had become dull, we had essentially become parodies of ourselves and lacked any substance we once had. I'm completely, blindly, madly in love though and I know this now. I want to renounce all of my former preoccupations for it, I want to destroy all of my mythology and submit to complete carnal servitude. I know, I might sound insane but I suppose you all are used to that. That will never go away. But I consider my love precious now because I've learned how fragile it is and its so amazing sometimes, I just want to abandon every trace of nihilism in my heart, grow stupid obscure plants, get 10 more cats, dedicate myself to some sick religion, just so I have more reasons to keep going, to be around longer, to experience this love for as long as possible. I'm enthralled by the idea of a new start for both us but I'm also miserable because it will take so long. But I'm willing to wait now.
I disabled comments, not because I think I've heard it all before or because I don't care. I just wanted to tell you all where I've been, all the places I have visited, physically and mentally. My absence isn't too important but I thought just maybe you would care to read.