The Deranged Diary of a Labmonkey Drug Fiend Inasane

By Heretic.Ape. · Jan 27, 2011 · ·
  1. Heretic.Ape.
    I don't know if monkey would call it fate: that's not quite his thing. But he's always had a sense of it. A sort of gravity-well in the space-time of his life. A vector whispering the vague outline of the twisted order created by his fall through chaos; dark bulbous gestalts glimpsed through the glimmering flecks of poignant moments.

    A ghost born at his own conception, his own self-destruction stretching before him.

    Coded into his DNA.

    Of course there's the epigenetics of the scenario: ways to fudge the protein-folding of fate. There are always ways to try, try and try to choose some other way through full-time hard work and miraculous methods and luck.

    Doomed is far too absolute a word, but it tends to spring to his mind.

    He is wondering about the practical differences between constantly needing to be juggling hard prescription medications--in order not to be constantly sick, exhausted, unstable, depressed, delusional and severely anxious--and being a drug addict of any other stripe.

    It is a maintenance regiment. Trying to survive. And it isn't very effective. He can't hold down jobs or manage his finances and life. His cognition seems to be deteriorating. His memory is almost non-existent. He is frequently incapacitated.

    And so, having tried more combinations and cocktails of anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, anti-epileptics, mood-stabilizers, and this-that-and-the-other-izers than his chemical soup of a brain can count, he has come to the conclusion that these drugs don't seem to be helping him too much.

    At best, anti-depressants give him a short-term boost due to slight hypo-manic reactions before simply making him feel too apathetic to work up to a proper suicidal avidness. He's fine sitting staring at the wall rather than doing something with life (or ending it).

    The anti-psychotics seem to scramble his mental processes and sedate him. Effective if you need to sleep off some delusions, but hardly conducive to helping him have the energy to overcome the apathy and anxiety.

    Anxiety. Most of what monkey has been thrown for anxiety have been peanuts, having no effect. Only alprazolam has proven effective, but he was not allowed to keep taking them due to his history of drug use.

    Which reminds him that perhaps being honest with his doctors is not in fact the best policy. Those little questionnaires with inoccuous questions about past drug use (please list...). But when they read that list, oh my, the pens and pads go in the drawer.

    He needs regular blood tests to make sure that his internal organs aren't falling apart and liquidating under the barrage of noxious prescription chemicals, each with an appended arm-length list of side effects that read roughly like the symptoms of some plague.

    His sleep is erratic at best. His appetite is sparse due to constant nausea. His weight fluctuates, losing and gaining 30lbs in months. His head aches with sparse remittance.

    His girlfriend would always have a hassle getting her prescriptions refilled. She would go into horrible physical withdrawals worse than any of monkey's withdrawals from time abusing opiates.

    They are at the whim of lackadaisical and seemingly idiotic doctors, who have full monopoly over how they are allowed to find suitable medications.

    It is a sin to want your medications to make your life pleasant rather than just not absolutely horrendous.

    They just want to feel good. To not be swept down in the undertows of sickness, despondency and despair.

    He just wants to wake up and have something to look forward to. Something to pick him up and sweep him off from the webs of neurosis and psychosis and physical sickness that hold him tight to his small space, his dwindling circle of acquaintances, his fading mind.

    He wants to get high: that spinning, high-wheeling, free-fall, drop-top, fizz-bang, silver surf down some 3rd eye groove; skating ice-cool, weaving and waving through the loose thread stringing together the moments, faces, smiles, wide-eye wonder and jive-skeleton times beaded like rain drops on a spider web.

    The shoe-shine on the shit-kickers of life.

    Is that really such a crime?

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  1. stone420
    that was acttually really touching, is this something that is true in SWIY's life? or is this a story about someone else?
  2. Heretic.Ape.
    This is monkey's real life.
  3. Moving Pictures
    Sometimes it isn't a good idea to be completly truthful about your drug history with doctors. It can prevent you from getting needed medications if those meds happen to be abusable.
  4. Heretic.Ape.
    "there is a collect call from"... "abby", her voice came through the operator's switch; small and defeated sounding. "will you accept charges? If so press 1 now"
    "I'm sorry, we cannot charge this phone account, you may pay with a credit card. If you wish to do so, press 1 now"
    "I'm sorry, we cannot charge this phone account, you may pay with a credit card. If you wish to do so, press 1 now"
    "I'm sorry...."
    "fuck!" monkey yelled, tossing his phone at the wall and watching it ricochet off in 3 pieces.
    Quickly, cursing, he put it back together and prayed it wasn't totally fucked.
    It still worked.
    He called the number back.
    "What the fuck is going on?" he said into the receiver.
    "Excuse me?"
    "Who is this?!"
    My name is..."
    "Is this a hospital?"
    "Put Abby on the phone."
    "I'm sorry I don't know who that is."
    "She just called from this number for fuck-sake, find her!"

    A moment later her broken voice was back. She was crying. She wasn't making sense.

    "Try to pull yoursef together baby. Breathe, ok?" he said.
    After quiet sobbing and ragged attempts at relaxed breathing she could speak enough for short responses.

    He established that she'd been admitted by her shrink. She didn't know when they would be letting her leave. At least a few more days. Most likely longer.

    "Sweetie, you need to pull yourself together and get the fuck out of there. Focus. Calm down. You KNOW this will pass in a while. You KNOW that!"

    Crying. Jumbled words forming some message about not being able to do it any more; not being able to live. Something about meds not working. Something about her doctor.

    "It's going to be ok. Just breathe, remember? Be Here Now. Be the sky." He knew the words would mean very little to her right now. Nothing could penetrate that space, he knew that place too well. Nothing could make it through the roar of the ocean of horror that she was drowning in.

    He had found out yesterday she had been committed again. She had been there for a few days and he had no way of knowing until someone he didn't even know told him on facebook. Fucking internet age.

    Her doctor arrived and she had to go. He said he would call back later.

    Monkey wished his alprazolam and tramadol had arrived. He wished he had more beer. He wished he didn't have to be strong and lie: "everything will be ok".


    She had said she was just so tired. Just so tired and couldn't do it any more.

    He knew what she meant. He felt tired to the core of his being. He hadn't left his room in weeks. He couldn't manage to give a fuck about life. So he hunkered down, borrowing money to lie low and weather the storm.

    But the storm never passed, he knew. It just kept spinning and whirling and tearing apart everything in it's path.

    I picked a bad time to quit smoking, he thought.
  5. Heretic.Ape.
    Monkey smiled like some child at his first day of school. He poked his finger again into the quickly coagulating gel of blood pooling on the bathroom floor. He was finger-painting. It was a smiley face. There was a lot of blood.

    Monkey laid on the bathroom floor admiring his little work of art. He loved watching his blood drip, drip, drip and collect into some Pollack-esque abstract painting of splattered crimson.

    He thought the smiley face was a nice touch. He appraised it a moment, decided to add a "weeeee!" caption above the smiley-face. Let's have a sense of excitement, he thought. Content with the cartoon, he laid down and waited to see what he'd feel like doing next.

    He listened. She'd threatened to call 911, but so far he hadn't heard anybody come to the house.

    He felt very relaxed now.


    After some time laying about he decided it was time to start cleaning up a bit. He threw some hydrogen peroxide on the cuts spanning his wrist and watched with some amusement as the area became a red frothing sea-foam on his arm. He couldn't feel anything. It must have worked.

    He rummaged through the closet, clumsily spilling out various packages of band-aids. He tried a few of them but found the blood was going too quickly to stick them on.

    He found a nice big on, slapped it across the deepest cut, put pressure on it for a while, and taped it in place.

    Then, he set about mopping up his artwork from the linoleum, and watching the shower floor go red as he repeatedly squeezed the soaked mop. After about 4 rounds with the mop, his masterpiece was gone. Oh darn, he thought, I got blood on the carpet.

    He put on one of his long-sleeved shirts (which he'd started wearing to hide the scars marching up and down his arms from years of self-destruction), threw away assorted band-aid wrappers and blood-soaked tissue paper, and went back into hhis room to call his girlfriend and apologize for being an asshole on the phone earlier. He hadn't quite been feeling himself, but now he felt back on top.

    As he sat down he noticed that the bandage had completely soaked through already and fresh rivulets of red were slithering in their serpentine way down his hand. Darn.

    He went bck to the bathroom and peeled off the red-soaked mess.

    Hmm, he thought, looks like I cut a little too deep this time. One cut was till pouring blood. He began to wonder how much blood he'd lost between his now gone paint puddle, the soaked bandages and tissues, and this continuing flow down the sink he was watching; transfixed.

    I may need stitches, he thought. Fuck it, it will stop sooner or later. In the meantime he busted open the first aid kit and tried a few methods to slow and stop the flow.

    It was going too fast, he couldn't slop the stuff out of the way quick enough to put liquid skin or other small products on it. He settled on a large, post-operative dressing, wrapped it tightly around the area, taped it with as much pressure the scotch tape he was stuck with would manage, and went to the kitchen to scratch up some grub.

    After thoroughly enjoying some crackers, cheese and bits of leftover turkey, he took a multivitimin and an ibuprofen 800 (though he felt no pain, it seemed like a good thing to do) and texted a friend back and apologized for not getting back to him earlier like he said he would.

    You feel like hanging out tonight, his friend asked.

    Monkey said he wasn't sure.

    The blood had soaked through the dressing so he covered it with more scotch tape so it wouldn't ruin his shirt (it was his favorite long-sleeve).

    He called his girlfriend and apologized for his caustic attitude earlier. He told her he was sorry for making her feel bad just as she was starting to feel a little better. She asked why he cut himself again. What was he thinking?

    Thinking? It seemed laughable. What was there to think about? The blood makes thoughts go away. It was purification. It was skating on the edge of peace.

    There was nothing left to think anyway.

    He looked at the growing red spot under the scotch tape. It's still soaking through. He wondered briefly if he could just bleed slowly, oh so slowly to death; not even realizing that he was dying. A flickering thought of calling an ambulance, quickly dispelled by the notion of all the bullshit surrounding such incidents. Cops, sedation (he was calm as can be, he didn't need sedation), being strapped to a gurney and taken to the ER, stuck there for god knows how long while people in white coats decided whether he was fit for leaving the lovely little hell that is hospital life. He thought of days standing around in hallways, dressed in little gowns that left your ass showing, going to stupid group sessions where people spouted off the same shit he'd heard a thousand times. Act good, take your pills, share your feelings. Play the game to earn your freedom.

    Way too much bullshit, with zero payout, he concluded. Best I just lay low. Besides, this way it's like a very steep gamble. Will I die before I wake? More thrilling than anything else he'd had come his way in some time.

    Though maybe going to the hospital would be a good thing, he paused. It could result in something helpful. Such flukes did happen from time to time in the circus they call the mental health practice.

    At least he had the alprazolam that girl had given him last night. He felt very calm. In fact he felt better than he had in some time.

    He felt cold though. How much bloodloss did it take to start feeling cold? He put on some sweat pants and turned up the heat a bit.

    HE tried to call his girlfriend back, but was told by the nurse that she was asleep. This was annoying as she was the one who told him to call back. Seems she wasn;t too worried after all.

    Oh well. Monkey eyed the pillbottles standing like a rank of soldiers, spanning the entirety of his sink, winding around the corner. Too bad they're all fucking worthless, he thought. Apparently some people get high off of these, but he couldn't relate.

    He briefly tried to estimate what combinations and quantities might be good for death in sleep, but dismissed all of them as most likely ending in simply waking up having pissed himself and with internal organ damage for his effort.

    He picked out a few that had sedative effects and decided it was time to go to sleep. Time to go to sleep. Time to sleep.

    How long had he felt this exhausted? He couldn't remember when he'd last had any energy. The last time he hadn't felt physically ill and mentally despondent.

    "If I could sleep forever..." he hummed to himself, wishing he still had the Dandy Warhols album that contained that lovely song.

    He took 2 tylenol pm pills, decided to add a melatonin for good measure, threw in a dvd, and was asleep before the first episode of Dexter had ended.
  6. Crazy Insane Sanity
    sorry to hear about your troubles...I just wanted to chime in to say Dexter is an awesome show.! :D
    Can`t agree more.
    Partially I see myself while reading ape`s story...
  8. Heretic.Ape.
    Touching in. Labmonkey seems to have made it back to what passes as a coherent clear state that seems to gel with peer-reviewed consensus sanity.

    He went a little bananas in frustration with the whole medical system that he ordered a bunch of methylphenidate, tramadol, and alprazolam; deciding to either try for a decent pseudo-self-medicating or, failing that, crazy pill-popping was always alluring for that little fiend--delicious to both his epicurean and self-destructive elements.

    The choice was partially made by simple desire to avoid the dysphoric mania at pretty much any cost, the pain augmented after finding one of monkey's main droogs had hung himself. He was a beautiful fellow, but was taken by his sickness. The winter is hard and there's always more shit to deal with.

    The methylphenidate was snorted in days. The alprazolam and tramodol were consumed like candy. Monkey fell into a fog, little remembered. When he came out it was to an intervention. His parents and girlfriend had taken control of all of his drugs.

    Monkey was outraged at first. He felt paranoid and persecuted, sure his girlfriend was an evil narc bitch who had given control of his meds; doused him out of his numb nod womb.

    Really he's amazed in retrospect she put up with it. He had a couple ugly days. But monkey and his girlfriend are extraordinary arguers. Monkey learned from a relationship gone bad in the past that communication was essential. One thing monkey so cherished in Abby was her ability to maturely communicate. We could throw our temper tantrums, fight, whatever. The last thing to do, he firmly believes, is to let shit well up unexpressed. Then you build up this little underlying bit of resentment for that person and it will go on accumulating mass until it warps your vision and you are doomed. So after an afternoon of yelling, talking, followed by a morning of good solid make-up sex, they set off on an adventure. But such random misadventures would be digression here.

    Currently monkey is on his meds as prescribed along with .5-1mg alprazolam 3-4 times a day. He has an appointment with his new shrink to talk getting on a longer-lasting benzo.

    Today Abby flew away south. Monkey is getting ready to smoke a bowl for his lost friend who's creative, flamboyant and sincere character will be missed on the rest of this long, strange trip. But even in the sadness of loss, monkey is happy to have barely made it through another winter himself and looks forward to spring.

    RIP Dave
  9. Rainbowzz
    HA, Im here for you mate. I am so sorry you have to go through this - but let me share something - you and I , we are not so different dearest. I think the same. Kitty became addicted to opiates because quite frankly, they just simply work so much better on ALL her issues than any other psych med ever has. Every psych med she has tried is a temporary fix. Considering some of the labels thrown at me have been Depression, anxiety, chronic PTSD, Borderline personality, Dissasociative Identity, Panic Disorder, blah blah blah blah....medication is kind of necessary in order for me to not, "ape" shit. But opiates do it so much better. Many hugs and I know where you are coming from. Kisses.
  10. Heretic.Ape.
    A day. A moment. A word. A twist in the center of you set in motion.

    A wish. But not a penny to give the well.

    A new understanding that something has been lost.

    Space becomes void. A garden burns.

    A new day born of this new logos, and all has changed--bringing cold fires to fill the emptiness left by yesterday's dreams.
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