Don’t bother reading this drivel, I’m debating whether or not to just delete all of it.
I love and hate E at the same time. I took E today to feel closer to Kayla after she took some because it felt like we were on different levels. So we spent the day together on E and had a wonderful experience in which we really bonded and conversed in a close, loving manor. The only thing that sucks about E is that my body doesn’t really like it. I stay high and in the afterglow for hours afterward, don’t drink enough water like an idiot and take a piss every twelve hours. The entire night I’ve been shooting my supposedly tapering dilaudid supplies to try to actually go to sleep and come off this shit. This is almost as bad as trying to fall asleep on coke, which is absolute hell.
I also don’t remember eating anything today but my body refuses to recognize that it needs food. I could probably live for weeks without food. Water and opiates are pretty much the only things that go in my system. I guess it makes me feel good because I have almost a six pack from losing all my body fat and fucking so much, but the rest of my body genuinely looks like that of a concentration camp victim. Kayla tells me to gain weight but even now I still feel like I look fat or childish or baby-faced, and that the only way to fix it is to lose so much weight that only bones remain.
Kayla and I made a hobby of watching TLC’s “My Strange Addiction,” and often wondering out loud: “after years of eating drywall, eating household cleanser, couch cushions, dirt and cigarette ashes and soap, how the fuck are these people still alive? And I’m starting to feel that way about myself too. I don’t know how many times I’ve overdosed. I don’t know what the heroin that I shot for two and a half years was cut with. I didn’t know what went into my body when I was ripped off. I chain-smoke and could go through two packs in one day if I had the money. The only reason I don’t is because my mom can’t afford her cigarettes and mine plus another pack. I smoke crack whenever I run into old friends and justify it by saying that I’m not a crackhead, I just smoke crack. My lungs feel heavy and my throat feels like its full of ash. In the past month, I’ve noticed my voice getting scratchier and scratchier and I have panic attacks thinking about the ultimate result of what I inhale. I’m okay with dying of lung cancer, as long as they keep me doped up and free from pain. I am, however, fucking terrified of tracheostomies. Although I refuse to admit it, I’m addicted to my anxiety medication and take three to four to five times its normal dose because my previous tolerance to benzodiazepines is still present. I don’t eat, and sleep all day or can’t sleep at all. I think parts of my body are shutting down out of self preservation, the starvation mode.
I’ve fallen so far in that I don’t know which rope to grab onto. All the ropes I tried to hold onto in the past would just drop me deeper and deeper in.
Kayla, is the only hand that’s there. And even though I’m hanging off a cliff, she refuses to let me fall. Without her, I would be dead by now.
I don’t know if this post makes any sense. I skipped from one topic to another, and then to another. My brain refuses to prioritize or filter anything from what I write and I’m sorry for not writing as well as I usually do.
-John.
