I used to always have to be under the influence of some substance or another to write something actually worth sharing with the world. For a while I would drink, and while my writings would sometimes be messy and disorganized, they would provide a treasure of raw, uninhibited emotion for me to sort through the next morning. I loved writing drunk because it was like having two co-writers; one hopelessly broken with a hauntingly beautiful knack for turning pain into words, and one with enough sense to edit and compartmentalize those words into a more… digestible read. It was short lived, however. I got tired of working hungover quickly.
Admittedly, I’ve tried almost everything. Adderall was an obvious choice. I assumed I would be provided with endless focus, and while that was absolutely true, my writing was empty and dry. I could manage to fly through page after page with little distractions but it was a matter of quantity over quality, at least far as I was concerned.
I could come up with quick bursts of brilliance on weed but they were short lived and I was often torn away by some distraction.
I had gotten to the point of being desensitized to my substance-fueled writing endeavors. I rarely felt pathetic or ashamed. I saw it as a creative process, a necessary trial to reach a point of effortless, seamless writing genius that I desperately needed to find. Writing was the only thing I was good at. I needed to gain access to a state of mind that could unlock my potential.
After a few months into my process I began to care very little about anything else.
There were some nights that I tried some things in combination. I won’t get into any detail as I definitely don’t recommend it.
One of these nights I was feeling particularly desperate and shameless. I had also had no luck coming up with anything creatively that satisfied me. This is where things got very bad very quickly.
Now, I’m going to try to explain this the best I can but I’m very afraid nobody can ever understand it from my perspective.
I got sick of my usual picks of poisons and I decided to call my dealer. I needed something that would wow me, my readers.. So I told him my situation, and he said he had something new, only had a couple left and he had heard some wild stories. I was in. In hindsight, I’m not sure if it was still about the writing at this point. Maybe I just wanted an escape.
They were small, pink, octagon-shaped pills. My dealer said they were mildly hallucinogenic but had a strong stimulant effect. “Take one and wait a couple hours before taking any more.” He said, at the same time placing a Xanax in the palm of my hand. “If you have a hard time coming down.”
I had made my choice and no amount of fear or doubt was going to make a difference in that.
I dropped the tiny tablet as far back on my tongue as I could and took a swig of orange juice that had been sitting on my desk from the night before.
Excitement welled up in the pit of my stomach, successfully suppressing any ping of shame or regret I may have felt.
The first twenty minutes or so were uneventful. I felt mildly nauseous and frustratingly unamused.
Eventually I had found myself standing in front of the mirror, apparently willing something remarkable to come of me. All I remember prior to the peak of my experience was making various faces in the mirror, perhaps out or boredom, perhaps hoping to entice a reaction.
“I’m not looking for anything in particular.” The sound of my own voice had jolted me to my core. Why had I said that? Nothing had prompted me to speak and I was alone in my apartment.
Usually, I would laugh it off. I had tried a wide variety of drugs and done and said many, many idiotic things in my short life. But at that moment, I was paralyzed with fear.
“No. No I don’t want to see it.” I stood frozen, tears welling up in my eyes, unable to look away from my own reflection. I heard myself speak the words but I couldn’t recall a thought, a flashback, anything that would have preceded the words that came out of my mouth. I couldn’t understand what I was responding to.
Terrified, I decided to write it off as a momentary lapse in short term memory, or perhaps I was slipping in and out of consciousness. I ultimately chose to go sit outside on the patio and get some fresh air.
The air was cold and fresh and for a moment I felt silly for being so fearful. I lit a cigarette and tried to meditate on what I had come here to do. Inspiration wasn’t something to be forced, so I sat and gazed into the night sky, allowing myself to unwind.
“We will discuss it when he’s gone.” I LEAPED onto my feet and took off running back into my apartment, bolting the door once I was inside. My heart was pounding in my chest. and I knew whatever I feared wasn’t left outside behind the locked door but right there with me. Still I ran into my bedroom and hid under the blanket like a terrorized child.
Something was communicating with a part of me that I couldn’t access. I felt…. the only way I can describe it is that I was being split into two entities.
“When the visitor comes we’ll begin.”