I was at the tail end of a crazy night.
All of the powder was nearly gone and my usual running partner was missing for some reason. This had altered my usual routine. Instead of commiserating with my partner, I found myself home alone with a substantially large amount of cocaine that was either shoved up my nose or cooked and smoked in a glass-tube pipe. This was early summer, 1989.
June if I’m not mistaken.
There I was
. . .
lost in a field of tall grass
I was out of my head
and drifted in a field that stretched
beyond anything I could ever imagine
So with nowhere else to go,
I sat for a while
and slipped into the warm cocoon
of an afternoon rush
On the way
in, I never knew what to expect. Each trip was different and nothing was ever guaranteed.
But this was part of the ritual. This was part of the rush and part of getting
high. There was the act itself and then there was the ritual that goes along
with it. This is the romantic part everyone relates to, which is the crazy
because the romance is not only poisonous —it’s also contagious.
There were two glass buildings that were twin-like and tall at the border of town between Hempstead Turnpike and Merrick on Earle Ovington Boulevard. These were the two tallest buildings in our town, except for the hospital and the other glass building on Earle Ovington. But come Christmas, the two glass buildings put up a huge Christmas tree right in the courtyard. There was also a small ice skating rink but I have no real memories of the skating rink. I remember the tree though. I remember wild teenage nights when we in the rebellious crowd took to the grounds around it, screaming out loud, and running around like the local maniacs we were.
I had my share is what I thought to myself and then packed up my things and closed the door behind me. This was my last day, I thought to myself. This is the last time I would ever find myself at a place like this. It was enough for me to feel determined. I had finally found it within myself to move on. It was clear tome, however, that my fears would lurk behind me like a strange impending ghost,which I would always attribute to the tales of my insecurity and the wreckage of my past. I was young in most ways but too old in others. It was a fine time to be me, I suppose, although in fairness, I found the promise of my future and the benefit of my new beginning to be intimidating. There was no one around answer to. There was no more rules which I would be made to follow and no more counselors, no more reasons for meetings, no more trips to the hospital in an ambulance and no more suicide watches, no more doctors in white coats with clipboards and questions, and no more dish crews or sub par meals, cooked in a kitchen of an institution. No more bad coffee. No more room checks in the middle of the night and no more walks to the pond just down below the hill at the back of the property.
Please excuse the rant but writing helps me feel better. This is for two men who are special and dear to me. They are friends but more they are both soldiers of their own battles:
I would like to address the overdoses
Two different men from two different towns told me about two separate events but both with the same outcome. And to both I said this we need to use this to sharpen our pencils because the rest of our life hasn’t been written yet.
And yes, this is sad. Yes, this hurts to see. And yes, there is an entire world out there that has no idea what’s going on.
And they’ll talk about the issue in Continue reading
What people don’t seem to understand most is that compulsion defies logic. It defies sanity. Compulsion is what makes an otherwise unthinkable idea become thinkable. But there’s more to it than this.
It’s like this:
There is this little tiny voice, which speaks in the third person. It piques interest, like a diversion, and then exploits the ideas of a ongoing compulsion. Some have called this voice, “The monkey on my back,” and some have call compulsion “Diseased thinking,” and me, I say it’s the beast in me. And the beast in my knows me well. Continue reading