Tuesday, May 10, 2016

"Wan't Born To Follo" by the Byrds

So, I'm just sitting in front of this computer, gritting my teeth, and preparing to summon the energy to describe the manic episode I just experienced. Should've given up trying to resurrect my own computer and started this an hour ago, when my brain engaged my body with an impromptu faux meth high. And there it is. If only everyone in the world, for the purpose and ease of the explanation, had all done a big fat sloppy hit of methemphetamine so slippery and deathly shrine-like yet innocuous in sight. My legs tingle as that sentence's finished. For the sake of this explanation- I wish every potential reader had just overcome their own love affair with the Leviathan of Uppers, so fresh and recent they could taste the gasoline on their lips still, leaving each breath hot in your throat as your body tries to reconcile such a fucked up conception that you ever could have invited. Meth. That's a touch of its likeness. And I fucking hate that shit, so I must add, that as much as I would like to have thrown y'all in a time machine to experience a tweaked out downfall at light speed just to bring you back to me, stroke your cheeks letting you know it WILL be okay-it WILL, and be able to follow with the surprise condolence that in FACT, YOU now know how I feel sometimes, it would be an impartial truth in fact. I would be looking into your eyes, stroking some wrecked string bean's hollowed festering cardboard face, and turning the truth into a lie. Because the fucking truth is: I hate that shit, and as much as I fucking hate the uncalled for unabashed body high trip-fest which my mind pulls me into every so often- parts of it, I love. I love in a way so scary it makes me cry just letting my fingers emit, admit, forfeit that information.

How do I explain this to anyone NOT in my body? My mind? I imagine the pathetic confession above, jesus, ESPECIALLY to a group of tweaker/meth heads, going the worst of all! HA! Can you fucking imagine THAT- crumbling in front of a group of bloodthirsty seekers, who delegate ruin and cause pain because they so deeply and secretly hurt the most...Going to THEM? And shaking as I try to spit out all my fear, and astonishment and terror at the fact that the sensations that they sacrifice ALL for, are arising within my own body without touching a single drug. How would that go over. They might roll me up like a flavorless piece of gum, and waterboard my symptoms into their twitchy, emotionless hands. Part of me would give this away like a tired whore tick-ticks her life way. Part of me has feared this possibility, of mania, and psychosis, in every way possible because it has always been so fucking close. Possibly fucking imminent. And it's been 5 years no that I have felt like a free prisoner. Or a shackled dove.

It has been 5 years that my body has randomly plagued me with what I can only assume is the mania that haunted my mother as well. With what have finally been professionally described as manic episodes. Like the fucking meth. If you have graced my life in the flesh, and I yours, then you know already (maybe..) that I have struggled with drug addiction since I was 12, and forever on ad infinitum. Till' the day we die, we addicts die as such. This is an existence possible to be lived with the absence of judgement from ourselves. We are not REQUIRED to take the SHIT of others, nor do we have to bend to the ignorance, but...WHATEVER.

iiiii'm...fucking rambling. Manic rambling. Christ. Point being, I Dallas McMackin have floundered in the abyss, both beautiful and crude, in which drugs lead you and leave you. I've done a lot, and through THOROUGH "taste-testing" if you will, I discovered that uppers (such as aforementioned METH) were NOT my jazz. Nah uh. Slipped some hits into a short period of my life and fucked like a banshee, yes, but I of all people was not made to mass produce those chemicals for myself. Heroin was my cruel cool crusade. Uppers ere a trip I'd gladly leave by their lonesome along the side of the road somewhere.

Spoiler alert: I may NEVER get to the part where I wrap this all neatly together in a pretty bow; all points relating, buckle up.

My evil, obscene charade with uppers consisted of nightmares of such reality, they are not even spoken of with the survivors left who were their with me. When you survive people and things like that, they're easily fragmented into enough pieces in forgotten caverns within the mind, they never have to be real again. Heroin was different, but not much.

But as much as that is all one in the same, and worlds apart all in the same moment, all I can do is try to relay the wavelength in which my mind is rattling off at this very minute. *Mental shrug* <- a="" boy..="" for="" haha..="" my="" now-="" ohhh="" okay="" p="" sake="" that="" thing="">