Some Disco King's Journal - Part VIII

Grab death by the balls and live to tell the story. Part 1.

Summer break is over. Goodbye, heroin-fuelled tennis. Hello September, my favourite month. The month of fading sun and fresh, sweet smell of dying life. Mmm - dying life - a perfect intro to this episode.

Doing delivery for my brother’s bakery, again, from 5-10am, and the same old’ routine - chaining blunts one after another.

There was also this new guy on the block, Peter. We hit it up pretty fast, in other words, he offered me LSD (I’ve already mentioned how druggies find each other). If it wasn’t for the skunk that followed, it would had been a swell night under the stars, or rather among the stars. But the latter’s introduction turned the chilled out LSD trip into a horror-trip. Depression hit me head on. I had no idea what was going on. We headed home, Peter of course didn’t understand my state, he was in another dimension, laughing away all my worries. In 2 hours I had to be at work, delivering bread, and I was triiiiippiiiing. “Did Peter give me bad LSD; did skunk made it worse?!” I was trying to reason my confusion piece by piece. It didn’t work. At around 8pm that day when the ‘trip’ from hell started to fade away, BOOM, there came another wave of LSD-like euphoria. “WTF??!! It’s impossible, how can I be still high 24 hours later?”

Sunday morning, I wake up, look at my pupils, everything seems normal, but my brain still feels like mashed potatoes. Alive at night, dead by midday. Driving like Batman around the city like a mad-man, hanging out in bars until 5am when it’s time to start up the delivery-van. Rinse and repeat. Imagine a life like this, in between sleepwalking and living. “I should go to a shrink for drug addicts,” was my first thought on that cool October morning. “Nah, they wouldn’t understand me.”

So the next day I decided to pay a visit to the only library in town and try to reanimate some of the brain cells I was left with. “Drugs, light-drugs, hard-drugs, LSD, suicide, oops went too far…back to LSD section” I stroll by the bookshelves and pick up a little yellow-blueish booklet. It shocked me to find out that one guy lived with the same ‘condition’ for over 20 years - until he hung himself with a belt. Nobody could find out why, how, and how to cure this phantom-pain. The only option for solving this Chinese-drug-trap COULD be an intense heroine hit - borderline overdose, emphasis on could. Yeah, I wasn’t that desperate so I turned the page. In that moment, I feel my left leg slowly shutting down in cramps. The doctors said it was all in my mind. They gave me, a young lad in the best shape of his life, with a physically perfect set of legs crutches cuz’ they wrote me off as a patient with an untreatable psychological issue.

DECEMBER.

Everything became a problem. Taking a shit set me back for an hour as I had troubles getting up and zipping up my pants and using the crutches. Everybody got on my nerves, f*cking tourists, f*cking family, f*cking friends. F*ck friends. “Where are they when I need them the most?” both spheres of my brain filled up with a mix of hangover, anxiety, and brain-farts. Imagine floating around in the midst of a high, and getting stuck above the ground, right below a thunder-cloud, with your head filled with life-questions that cannot be answered.

“Breathe in, exhale,” something had to be done about this or I’d end up like Kurt Cobain.

“F*ck it. Let me call up someone,” 2 hours later, 5g of smack is delivered to my front door (yeah, bold move, but I couldn’t use my legs, remember, f*ck!). The heroine was going up my nostril - it was safer that way that than injecting it as I might miss the vein and finish the party sooner…and dead.

I line it up. I hit the first motherf*cker, thinking: “oh, what I’d give to have my old boring painless life again!!” There goes the second line. “I’ll never touch f*cking drugs again. F*ck drugs, f*ck whoever introduced me to drugs, I should have stayed in school…” Aaand the third one. “Shit, I should stop now. People usually die after the third, oh well. Who would cry over me. At least my pain would be over…” The room flips sideways, the pain stops. The fourth cut is ready to be sniffed. I’m sitting on the smelly, god-forsaken couch, sweating out my livers and nervously opening the fifth package. I lay down for a second, I start gasping for air - the first overdose sign. “Shit, shit, shit, shit! I need to call for help.” Try screaming for help with empty lungs… exactly. Crippled limbs became the least of my worries as I stumbled down the stairs to find mom and dad…

And this is the last scene I remember before slipping into pitch-blackness.

TO BE CONTINUED.

 

By Joze, edited on 13 June 2018