Where the fuck am -I- at the moment.

By DocBrock · Apr 30, 2012 ·
  1. DocBrock
    Things haven't been good for some time. I -should- have a life that is held in envy, but a little bastard called manic depression paid me a visit.
    MD had some friends to bring to the party too.
    That was years ago, and I cleaned up, went straight, it came back.
    I'm an addict. Let's face it. I am an addict. There. Done.
    I have been addicted to or substantially reliant on mind altering chemistry most of my life. Sometimes prescribed, mostly not.
    I got damn near clean!. Off the anti-depressants, which held me depressed.
    Off all opiates!. Fuck me I'm proud of that one. I was in way too deep when they drove my life.
    Damn near off benzo's too.

    Then the mania came back.

    Addiction. Planning. Hallmarks of a psycho, the planning.

    Since 25th February this year, when part of me -knew- I needed help for a couple of weeks before hand, my life has been shit.

    I have hit new lows in my head, and new highs. I have faced decisions which would torment even Sisyphus in his labours.

    I have been through Serotonin Shock -twice- since then. Once very very nasty, once tolerable in comparison.

    No more aMT!, although I -did- buy some, just in case. I should tip it down the toilet really.

    AM-2201 came next, mixed with my odd reaction to Seroquel.

    I have never tripped harder in my life. Or as frequently.

    I have been lost. Hopelessly lost. I have played crunch guitar in my own metal band in my head for hours. Switching to bass for some sub-sonic rumbling.
    I have soared so high and been offered so many choices. Stay here in this trip. Stay and play. HEADRUSH. Who are you really?

    I have been offered a life spent in sweet musical delirium, wrapped up and warm. Playing mellow. I have been offered a life as a crunch lead guitarist. In delirium.

    I have hit the race track. A four lane neon racetrack, like a playstation game. Crunchy-metal-burn-machine music and a life of racing. Racing forever. The lead changing. Excitement!. Risk!. All in my trips.

    I choose my wife. I choose my children. I choose my cat. I'm having a psychotic episode brought on by using Am-2201 whilst otherwise deranged.

    RockMetalGrungePunkRaceWarm or this cold reality where I know I'm a muttering nutter. Face your life choices. Talking to myself I told myself that the entwined mix of MD, Psychosis, Anxiety, overdose was offering this. My real life is my beautiful wife, my perfect children. My pussercat.

    I have tripped harder on AM-2201 than on anything else. I feel I know where to go next, but must get this monkey off my back.

    I know I've had fits and seizures whilst tripping, and I know only the feel of my sweatshirt and that choice has restored me to allow me to come down. Once again, drugs have let me let them put me through hell to realise what is the best part of my life.

    It isn't drugs. It isn't mania. It isn't drug fuelled mania. It isn't the beautiful highs, the visuals, the audio, the monumental rushes.

    It isn't the induced clarity and insight as to what brought me down, drove me over. It isn't the ability to think 1000% faster about multiple things. It isn't the accelerated learning rate, with little retention but total understanding internally.

    That lot is fun. A lot of fun. I would like to live there. It's warm and I don't hurt. I can race, I can play.

    Here, now, it is different. I'm groggy. The memories of the tripping are fading. I'm scared again. I'm cold again. I'm lost again. I hurt again.

    My stiff, arthritic fingers can barely grasp a bass or guitar neck now. I love the music, but can't play it. I can see it sometimes, but to get there extorts a terrible price.

    I will not ride my motorcycle until I feel well and full of proper concentration instead of being distracted trying to work out a character flaw of minuscule proportions and importance, or going over the meanings of internal discussions held between aspects of me, my psyche. My Id. My Ego.

    Self consumption, self loathing but yet I am driven to kick this phase. I want to get better. I want to be a good father. When I am clean, I am. Clean life is slow though.


    Are you OK?. Life seems slow. Seconds drag. Hours jerk. Want to redose, ride that racetrack. Play those monster riffs?. No I don't. My daughter is still a daddies girl, and long may she be so. My sons are all intelligent lads, doing well. I love them. I love their company. They know I'm not well, but it confuses them. When I need them most, that is when I scare them with my needs. These are the nightmares of a five year old, seeking that love. That comfort. That touch. I scare my wife. I love her more than she will ever comprehend. I worship that rock, that anchor, that goddess who gave forth life made with me. I need her, I don't need drugs. I scare her with my neediness sometimes. Sometimes I offend her because I cannot show how much she or the children truly mean.

    I don't need drugs, I need my family. I chose them, and I still choose them. The temptations are strong. All this excitement, or humdrum familial existence.

    A crunchy riff, a surgical overtake, a change of neons on the track doesn't go back to being a giggly five year old when tickled by their dad -just so-, as only a daddy knows how. Roll back the years!.

    What brought you out of the overdose?, images of the children. What is better than the laughter of the children when you're OK?. Nothing. Drugs cannot replace them. So what hole are they filling?. Why do I need them when I know I don't. Why do I scheme in order to trip, get stoned, get out of it whilst they can't see me.

    I am an addict. I am having a bit of a rough time. I have kicked so many things in to touch and now, AM-2201 has a hold on me.

    It was good. No arguments there. Very fine value for money, but too much for me. Too strong. Take under supervision with a straight sitter, preferably a psychiatrist if you have -any- mental health issues. I had some, now I feel I face many, but I also feel this is my time to turn my life around. Always so fucking dramatic. No easy, sloppy choices. STARK. Face what is real and love it for what it is, or lose your mind forever. You've tasted it. You see the attraction of the Faustian bargain offered to spend most of your life tripping, racing, crunching.

    Cuddle the wife and it is so much more satisfying on such a deep level, but not instant.

    Appreciate her. Appreciate the children. Appreciate the cat, for he is cute and purrs in a sing-song way.
    The purr of a cat, the hug from another person is so much more filling than the aerated sugar snack drugs can offer.

    I want to take on the world again, but really need a hand to hold. There is a hole in my heart where there once was a flame. Snuffed out inside as my walls of delusion crumple. I don't need drugs.

    Lets rekindle that flame with love, life and learning, not belch forth a miasmic cataclysm of drug fuelled mess. My mind map may be that of a Mandlebrot regurgitated in the cold hours, but take time to study it.

    I don't need drugs, I just need a holiday from them.
    I choose this life, I chose those steps. I now try to choose a little more carefully where I place my trust in chemistry with each footfall.

    I do need to find me, and find what nurtures me. I must start learning again. I must warm up again. I hope this episode is over. I want a fresh start, new clothes, new haircut. I want joy, not chems.

    Wonder where -I- am at the moment?, still rather reflective. Hmm.

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