So, I said that I was going to post the story. There are too many trigger warnings for me to really highlist them all, so please bed aware that this might be a triggering story for you. It's... a lot. It's what has made me who I am, and more recently, why I was hospitalized. But, I'm still here. Still me, though, after everything.
when i was 6 years old, i broke a plate in the kitchen. i was trying to put the dishes away, but the plates went up on the second shelf- it was too high for me. so i grabbed a chair, climbed up on it to put the plate away, and it slipped. it was a corelle plate.
i don't remember much of what happened next. i know that my mom started to scream at me, and threw another plate against the wall. she paused after that, and told me to clean everything up- so i grabbed the broom, but she wrenched it away from me and told me to do it by hand.
i still have scars from that, picking up little tiny shards of ceramic with my tiny 6 year old hands. coincidentally, this was also the first time i was actively suicidal. i used to skip across the streets with my eyes closed when i walked to school every morning, too. 6 years old? 6 years old.
when i was 9, i threatened to kill my mother and my younger brother zachary. for a long, long time, I could not remember why, exactly, i wanted that. i felt terrible about it- like i was this monster, just ready to lash out. but, a little over two years ago, i had a flashback and rememered why i was so angry.
she would spank me. most of the time, it was fine. i do something wrong, i get a spanking. but for whatever reason, this time was different. i couldn't sit without putting pressure on my bruise for over two weeks.
when i threatened my mother- telling her that i would stab her in her sleep, she called the crisis line. people came out to our apartment, and tried to console me as i laid under my bed, kicking and screaming. eventually, they got me out, and brought me to a children's group home- it was in central phoenix, and called tumbleweed. i was 9 years old.
when i got there, i was shown into my room with my bunkmate andrew- he was 13 and playing on his gameboy color- a cool game called "Power Quest", where you fight with miniture robots. i didn't know that until a bit later, because i just cried and cried and cried and cried- it felt like hours.
eventually, andrew just cracked. he yelled at me to shut the fuck up, and said that i could play his game if i took something to make things feel better. this was my introduction to opiates, and the first time i tried hydrocodone.
it saved me, in a sense. i went from being angry at the world and everybody in it, to being quiet and content. i read books, i listened to the people around me. i was at ease.
i was 9.
from there, i don't remember much of my childhood. i would get bullied at school- beat up and called a faggot for keeping a pink pencil case. it was my favourite color- i would use it to draw out and design clothing, dresses, anything i thought would be cool.
they never hit my face, though. and that meant that i could hide it from my mom, so she wouldn't get mad at me for "fighting" when i really only fought back a few times before giving up until puberty.
after i would make it home every day, i would have a few hours alone. mom worked until 6, when she would pick zach up from the after school thing he stayed at- some place called covenant that used to be next to our school, squaw peak.
the time in this whole story is a bit wonky, but the important thing is that she was never there. like, yeah, she got home eventually, but she was never "there". she was either screaming at me for things i likely did not do and spanking me, or she was on the corncopia of benzodiazipines that psych doctors threw around in the nineties.
so those were my days- wake up getting yelled at for sleeping in, get bullied at school all day until i made it home, and then either get neglected by my mom or abused by her.
then later that year, for fifth grade, i moved in with my dad and step mom. it was great, for a time. when they weren't at work, i had parents that cared about me.
but... not hot water. or food. and frankly, they were not home very often. i can't say for sure beyond just the dude sleeping on their couch, but a few years ago, i smelled something that instantly brought me back to childhood. it was meth, lol.
then they got evicted. i moved back in with my mom in the middle of 6th grade. she was a bit calmer now that she got her meds more stable, but i /hated/ her. we would fight constantly, and since i had started puberty, she couldn't just pick me up any more.
i can't remember when, but this was the age that i had my first overdose. it was remarkably similar to an asthma attack- just stopping and focusing on my breathing, one moment at a time. it was terrifying and i was in my bunkbed just over my little brother for the entire thing.
i remember one time, she took the door away from my room- and eventually, she made me sleep in the living room, too.
so i tried to be home as little as possible. i would make friends with everybody that i could- then i would go to their houses, and see if i could find anything fun- opiates, whatever.
later that year, when i was in 7th grade, my friend and I ditched school. he told me that his mom or grandma or whatever had gotten these new pills, and was super excited.
i only took a little bit, but he took the whole pill. i didn't call 911 while he was dying.
again, that was 7th grade. i think i was what, 12?
this cycle kept going for ages. all through middle school, through high school. i never really talked that much in school unless i was sober, lol. but... that wasn't very often. once you find a source of those pills, it's really not that hard to take a couple after each refill- i was just hanging out with my friends. just gotta set them off to the side for a few days to make sure nobody would notice they were gone, and i was home free.
when i was 19, i started using more and more and more. i ended up losing a job at borders, and from started using fentanyl. i stole it, of course. it was SO strong- little patches that i would cut up into ~25 little tiny squares, and then hold against my gums for 15 or so seconds, and i was just... content.
and then as my tolerance grew, i would take more and more. eventually, i just... forgot to take the strip off. i called my girlfriend at the time and asked her to keep me talking, because i was overdosing and would die if i stopped and fell asleep. i lived with my grandpa at the time, and was in his little jam space. i woke up a good time later- i think it was three days?? - to my bed covered in vomit and i had shit myself.
from there, i eventually quit my habit. i did ecstacy with my girlfriend, and just... cried. i weighed just over a hundred pounds and i'm about five foot eleven inches tall. i didn't want to die, but i didn't want to feel anything, either.
so she helped me quit. she let me just stay in the bed, and would make food for me and give me whatever she could to take the withdrawals away. i withdrew for almost two weeks, throwing up every couple hours, had diarhea and cold sweats, and could never quite stop shaking.
i was 19, but i got clean, eventually.
i was clean for a few years- started working as a sound engineer, played in some bands, had a great time.
and then i found heroin- i was so excited the first time i smoked, it felt like it stopped time. i was 24, and relapsed after being sober for 5 years. i had a habit for the next two-ish years. i talked to so many people when i started to want to quit- probably the person I talked to the most, though, was Andy. Andy Warpigs and I would just sit in one of the booths after they finished playing, and trade stories. it never stopped me, but it definitely made it more manageable. i talked a lot to my fried Hann, too, on and off through all of this.
then i met Callan- going by Athena, at the time- and I felt like I had finally met a person that I wanted to be a better person for. I found some subs, and then the day after my withdrawals ended, i asked Callan out.
the past 6 years have been the best of my life. i have been incredibly lucky to find such a unique, caring, and patient individual. i remember when we started dating, i would just lay in bed while Callan was asleep, and watch the rise and fall of each breath- enraptured that this person was in my life and loved /me/.
and then i started getting scared. i started drinking more and more- it’s really not that difficult to get drunk when all of the places that you work are happy to give you free drinks, you know? and i did some of the worst things of my life.
i broke up with callan over facebook messenger, and when i was drunk that new years night, i just spewed the most toxic stuff i could- i hated myself, so anybody around me was fair game. i talked about how happy i was to be away from them, how horrible they were, and how much better i was doing. i didn’t mean it- i was still very much in love- but when you try to burn down your own ship, the passengers in your life are your collateral damage.
after i did that, i started to sober up. after a few months, we started talking again, and i explained myself and apologized. i still don’t know why, but callan took me back. life went on from there, as it does.
and then covid hit us. i was laid off, i gained back 50 pounds that i had finally lost while at that job, and i just… well, started to feel suicide nip at my heels again. it was slow, at first. i would just stay up later than normal and get that sinking, sickly feel of loneliness in the pit of my stomach. i would tremor for a moment, then crack my knuckles and keep moving forward.
then my friend Andy died. it punched me in the gut. just a little bit before that, i had brought over some soup, an albuterol inhaler, and a bunch of waters for them. they were watching blackula, and thankful of me dropping by.
and then my grandpa died. i didn’t know what to do. i stopped eating as much, i stopped talking to anybody. i withdrew into myself, i played guitar and video games, and things were sad, but manageable. i was working for a health insurance company as a “Workforce Management Analyst”, and making pretty good money- so i would buy things to keep myself occupied.
i never really talked about my surgery, though. one of the big things i’ve dealt with in my life are digestive issues- i’m suuuper lactose intolerant - and that was amplified by my opiate use over my lifetime.
i don’t remember when it really started, but some time in late 2020, i started to bleed when i would take a shit. it hurt every time, but i was too embarassed about it to really “do” anything about it. i was suicidal like always, but just as quiet as normal. eventually, i broke down crying in the closet when i told callan.
anyways. back to my grandpa dying. i wound up disassociating most of the time, after that. i was still bleeding when i went to the bathroom, but didn’t really notice that it was getting worse- but i relented since i health insurance at the time, and started to see a doctor about it. i did not, however, talk about that with my job.
every time i sat down, it hurt. i would find little bloodstains in my underwear literally every day- every time. unfortunately, i worked from home, since covid was still, you know. so, sitting was working. and working while you’re in pain is really not a solid combo.
i started making more and more mistakes. eventually, i was put on a performance improvement plan. it sucked at first, but i made it through it without being let go.
and then i forgot to tell them about my surgery, and with it, the time I would need to recover. it was scheduled for August 8th, and I think I told the Tuesday or Wednesday before that? Oh, and my direct manager also left the company- she’s going to Harvard, I was super proud of her.
i took FMLA leave for my surgery recovery, and just… healed. it was wonderful, at first. but, it was a surgery. i got some hydrocodone for it.
and then my mind was on everything again, almost 6 years later. all i really thought about, but i couldn’t really do much to get anything when confined to a bed. i actually saved my pills and sat around in pain, just to get high like… twice? three times? not sure, but trying to take a shit while your asshole is screaming at you- easily the most pain i’ve ever been in, beyond taking chunks out of my arms with bikes and parkour (tho, one time i could see through my wrist to my tendon! minus the pain, that was pretty cool)- it’s /really/ hard to go. but i wanted to get high, so i did.
then i got back from FMLA, and things seemed fine. I went to my meetings, i did my work, and then 4 or 5 days later, I was called into a meeting with my new direct manager and somebody from HR, and i was let go. no more insurance after the end of the month, no more paychecks.
i cashed out my 401k so that i would have rent for a while, and just… rotted. i played a ridiculous amount of elden ring, which while amazing, was not the most healthy use of my time.
callan would ask all the time- was I ok? did i want to talk? and i just… didn’t answer. a lot of times, i would get angry, too. of course i’m fine, what are you even worrying about?? i mean, i wasn’t ok, but i didn’t want anybody to know that. like i said before, callan is the best person i know. i wish so much that i hadn’t shut myself from everything. honestly, i probably would not be in this state if i had, but hey, 20/20. hindsight is a bitch, you know?
it got worse, and worse, and worse.
i started to heal up physically, though, so i started going on hikes with my little brother- same one i wanted to kill when i was 9, glad that never happened. anyways, i went out with him for that hike, and we ended up going to goodwill afterwards. i saw my old heroin dealer- before covid, i had the strength to say hello and walk away, but not this time. i finished up with my brother, dropped him off, then raced back to that goodwill to grab his number and pick up some more stuff. wasn’t heroin anymore, though, now it was these blue fentanyl pills. kinda ridiculous how ubiquitous they’ve become, tbh.
i only really used opiates when i was suicidal, though. i don’t really hold anything against them, either. cuz in a sense, they’ve saved my life before, too. that day that i started talking to my dealer, i was planning on going out with my car and going out with the carbon monoxide, but stopped cuz i was able to get high, lol. i guess i would have written this sooner, then.
it was manageable, at first. callan was out of town for a bit longer, so i prepped everything, got some new foil, and opened up the crawl space entrance- conveniently located in my office with all of my musical equipment, too, so i could smoke and jam for a while.
but then i started lying about it. callan would smell it, but i would just deny it- what’s that smell? i don’t smell anything. i would gaslight her, saying everything was fine, and just stay in my room alllll the time. i barely spoke to callan- didn’t watch movies, didn’t hang out, didn’t talk, etc…
i feel fucking terrible about that, cuz i love Callan with all of my heart. Callan, I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep going, and that I broke everything up on my fall from grace. I love you, and I hope you’re able to live your life happily someday.
then manny died. then david got shot. and then, it was grandpa’s birthday. i just… snapped. i was done. i want out.
callan saved my life. we were talking about everything before she was going to drive up to colorado to see her family- her mother and stepfather- but ended up staying so she would be able to take me into the psych ward with my brother and my godfather.
i was there for four days. better? a little, i guess. i have a $4,000 dollar bill for that, and i couldn’t even sleep on those horrible fucking beds. there were a lot of great people there, though, and i hope they all do better than me.
i’m so tired, guys. i’m so sorry. callan and i are getting divorced. it’s my fault, ultimately. being gaslit and lied to for months on end while worrying about me, making sure that i eat and recover from surgery, and keeping the bills paid. i’ve been a terrible husband, and callan has been a saint.
i can’t pretend like i’m ok and then disassociate playing guitar for a few hours or watching anime or working on my car, or… anything. i’ve been running on fumes since i was a little kid when my mom made me pick up broken plates with my hands and cutting them up. i remember one time i dropped and broke a bowl around callan in our second apartment together, and i broke down bawling but could not figure out why. callan just held me, and i felt safe.
