I think my subconscious is trying to force my throat shut so I can’t keep downing these pills like fucking skittles. Haha, jokes on me, I’ve spent my entire life forcing bullshit out of my mouth, so forcing some more shit back down? It’s easy as 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, I’ve never taken this many before, 13, 14, 15, it got kinda high fairly quickly, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, I feel like bad things happen at 20, so I better keep moving on, 21, 22, 23, 24, 24, 24, 24, 24, 24, 24, ah now my hand decides to shake. It’s not the pills doing this though, enough time hasn’t passed. O, so I finally let it sink in, that this is stupid, that I can’t turn away, huh? Well good, a fucking coward like me can’t leave himself anywhere to run…
Your heart starts to race really, really fast after about an hour on 5 pills. Sure, it kind of sucks because that’s not what these pills are supposed to do, but with my heart racing my mind doesn’t seem able to keep up, and so I can just sit and not concentrate and feel no fear, no anger, not even my own skin as it attempts to crawl away from the edge of the dull knife I’m using to saw away at my upper arms, a pathetic decision made in poor lighting to give myself pause in the shower so I can remember why it is I want to drown in that warm water…
You lose a bit more of yourself with pills 7 and 8. See, before it was like a cloud was hanging around my head so I couldn’t see very far, but I could still type, still get out a few words, still walk up and down steps, aka I could “act” normal if need be. Pill 7 and 8 get me very, very close to losing that ability. It takes intense focus for me to talk and control my breathing, because I feel like my lungs won’t work if I’m trying to talk and breathe at the same time. I have a thought enter my mind as I’m walking up the stairs, and I slip and hit my knee, hard, and think ‘ouch!’, then think about why I fell, then think why was I thinking about falling, then think about where I was going, then start the cycle all over again.
Pill 10 is my bread and butter. Pill 10 is what slips me over the edge and keeps me from seeing the bright screen I always keep in front of my eyes. Pill 10 let’s me forget about those nightmares I have about having my old life back, about my friends coming over just to hang out with me, my teammates piling into my Dad’s car for some Sunday funday bullshit, that cute girl kissing me in the back of an Olive Garden whilst we battle with breadsticks like real fucking adults. Yeah, pill 10 let’s me fucking forget all that shit, and then I can lose all other thoughts, like why I’m breathing so hard, or why I would ever want to move, and it leaves my mind so…so empty of everything but the thought of wanting to start over..
Pill’s 11, 12, 13, 14, fuck! And especially pill 15, holy fuck! They start to hurt!…they start to make my stomach turn, and I’m stuck on a toilet seat, and I have no idea where I am or where I was 5 seconds before that, and I leave the water in the faucet running because I need sound! And I can’t get a grip, both figuratively and literally, and I strangle myself as I strap my headphones on to my fucking face, and my arms are covered in cuts, my white shirt ruined from a blade I can’t even tuck back into hiding in a drawer, and those dixie cups I keep by the sink are fucking everywhere and I can’t cry because I have no liquids in my body and my mouth can’t scream because it’s so fukcing dry and the darkness is somehow too fucking bright! So I’m forced to close my eyes! And my clothes are too fucking hot! So I try to rip them off, but holy hell they have become sown unto my skin by sticky, unsightly sweat, and it suddenly hits me; THAT’S WHERE ALL MY BODY’S FUCKING WATER WENT, TO MAKING ME A FUCKING MERMAID OF RAGE AND SQUALLS AND!!!….and, and, and…and just like that…I don’t have the energy to continue any rage, and I forget why my shirt is halfway over my face, and I look up at a computer screen that has 888 repeated over a half dozen pages, and I hate all things numbered, and I can’t recall why I hate, but I can’t think of a reason I shouldn’t hate, so I start to hate everything around me, which at the moment happens to be all things numbered…and me…
Pills 16, 17, 18, 19 and 20, they erase my ability to correctly interperate the information being displayed on my phone, and suddenly I can’t recall why I even need such a thing, since I don’t deserve nice things, like friends, or life, or a second chance, or this first chance, or change, or kindness, or forgiveness, or, or, or, so many fucking “or’s”!! Because I can’t keep a thought, or hold a candle in the wind, or fight this demon without a flashlight, without a reward, without theme music and good songs and common sense and rappers named Common, and all this leads me to a conclusion that even when I can forget the world, my world, my skin, I still can’t forget my failure that is me, all of me…
Pills 21, 22, 23, 24, they are taken in a mad rush, well after the others, so in the back of my mind I know they won’t add to this downward spiral, but in that moment I just wish, I wish, I use all 3 of my genie wishes from the lamp I have broken by my bedside table to wish I had kept going so these pills would rush into my blood, turn it boiling into an overflowing pot of shame with a dash of salt for flavor, olive oil for keeping the pasta from sticking together, and ultimately lead to a hefty serving of “FUCK ME AND EVERYTHING I’VE EVER BEEN, EVERYTHING I’VE EVER SAID OR DONE. ERASE ME FROM THIS SHIT. FUCK. DO YOU HEAR ME GOD, YOU FUKCING ERASE ME! I DIDN’T ASK TO BE BORN, ASK FOR ANY OF THIS! I DIDN’T WANT TO FAIL YOU, FAIL ALL OF MY FRIENDS BACK TO BACK TO BACK, FAIL MOM AND DAD IN SUCH A COMPLETE WAY, I DIDN’T WANT…..I….I didn’t…I swear, I’ll do better just…please…wake me up God…please make this all a dream, something I can cry about later and cry it all out…why can’t I cry this out, scream this out….why….”
It’s the questions that arise so quickly, back to back, rapid fire, that doesn’t allow me to forget them fast enough, and so the only logical answer is more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more. But my bottle only has 1 left.
And it won’t be enough.
I swallow it without a drink.
It sticks to the back of my throat.
I cough it back up.
I try again.
I taste vomit.
I cry a little.
I choke on the pill again.
I turn my head in the bathroom and empty my guts all over the porcelain seat.
I keep falling.
I hit my head, so it starts to bleed.
I regain some focus.
I look in my hand and that pill is still there, clutched through it all, and I look down and see my own vomit everywhere, and I turn the bath water on and fall face first into the tub and it hurts but I’m so numb and thirsty and I’m drinking this lukewarm, bloody, soiled, contaminant laced backwash, and I’m still holding that #25, and I keep my head under this tide of disgusting reality until I can’t breathe and I’m forced to come up begging for air, and I swallow down this stale apartment oxygen with enthusiasm unexpected from a fool who was just moments ago trying to keep all the carbon dioxide in this tiny space inside of his body in hopes that it would knock some sense into him, or knock some of the guilt out of him, and #25 has just won the MVP award for its ability to stay nestled calmly in the palm of my hand, and I trip getting up; water covers my bathroom floor and my nice bath rugs are now a mess, ruined to the point no person could tell they once were quality bath rugs from Bed, Bath and Beyond, and now I know everybody who will ever come visit me will think they are cheap Walmart knock-offs, and I decide to keep my streak of 0 visitors going, and I use all the hand towels I can reach from my knees, all the toilet paper left on the roll, to clean up the water and put it back into the tub where the drain is, and it’s very slow going because while my left hand is going as fast as it can, my right can’t hold onto anything because it is being kept prisoner by that fucking #25, and I start to hate all multiples of 5, and I think of shooting the old me who liked the #5 during baseball and basketball seasons, and I start thinking of ways 25 is the worst, like 25 cents is a quarter, and a quarter sucks because it’s not a fifty cent piece, and that actually sucks too because it’s just like 2 #25’s, and suddenly my revulsion for all things money turns me into a Monk on the spot, and I think I should bow my head and place my body and soul in front of God to feel his love run over me, fill me to the brim, and I bow my head so low it hits the floor that I swear was 3 more inches away, and I begin to rub my stupid forehead with a balled up fist because no amount of anything ever can pry this pill #25 from it, and I feel dizzy and drowsy and I plead with my eyes to stay awake because this pain in my bathroom is so much more bearable than those dreams that I would rather stay in this hell on Earth over having another one of those dreams, but fate is never kind to those who blame their circumstance on it, and so I feel the high wear off, feel my fingers and toes and bloody arms and head, taste the awful vomit water on my teeth, begin to slightly comprehend where I went wrong, and before I can lift my right hand to my mouth to take #25 I shake and shake and cry and cry, and I want to stay awake, keep fighting, keep struggling, keep on pushing, breaking until I don’t have to dream, until I don’t have to remember anything…and I pass out…and I wake up and it has turned from light to a very pink sort of light, and I register a sunrise landscape, and I realize I am capable of thought and logic and I realize it must be Saturday morning and I realize I have to get ready for work, and I realize I’ll have to clean up this fucking hurricane soon, and I push myself up and feel my knees wobble and fall and I put out my hand to stop myself and I find my right hand open, open as if it were a well lubricated door hinge, and I see that #25 in the corner of my eye right next to the now wrecked bath rug and I keep staring from my hand to that pill like I was working out some sort of advanced mathematical equation that I was only just beginning to grasp the concept of and I tear my eyes away to look at a broken clock because of course it’s broken, this is the metaphor for my existence, and I leave the pill on the floor and curse all things 25…
So I finally let it sink in, that this is stupid, that I can’t turn away, huh? Well good, a fucking coward like me can’t leave himself anywhere to run…