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?