ONE NIGHT AND DAY OF COMPLETE WRITING WITHOUT PILLS. I WILL POST IT AND PASS OUT EXHAUSTED AND COMPLETE. I MAXED OUT FACEBOOK. IT’S TOO LONG FOR ONE BLOG.
It’s about a boy who needs pills and takes too many. He took his bi-polar experience through the land of heroin. I understand how he got there. The pain of a broken mind is mended with opiates. I’ll never experience that release. I’m not ever going to give my body the knowledge that opiates make the pain stop. I had a fun dabble with oxycontin my senior year. We had it all around us. I picked one out of my dog’s mouth that he found on the floor. I saved my fucking dog when God told me to stop and pull a pill out of his mouth. I never pulled anything out of my dog’s mouth besides that pill. There isn’t a rational explanation for knowing that he had a pill in his mouth. Oxycontin was not like any pill else. It was tiny. I’ve never seen a pill so small. I imagine at some point they stopped making something that powerful so small. I can’t stand the idea of people ruining their lives for a pill that tiny. It seems like a grave injustice that something so insignificant destroys everything it can.
I can’t tell his sob story for turning to heroin. I don’t know it. I don’t want hear it. We make decisions young and early. If I make a decision, I truly never waver. I can’t justify making another decision that violates my early decisions. Those early decisions saved my life. I get so righteously pissed off at someone who writes me off as a drug addict. My genetic code made me bi-polar and guaranteed me a life of addiction. The words pill, drug and medicine are equivalent terms for the same substances. They all make life easier, better or possible. I’m in the category where drugs make life possible. I will always be addicted to a pill for sleep. Now, the sleeping pill means that I’ll always be addicted to stimulants to wake up. There is no euphoria attached to Adderall. There is no grand high. If I had a normal brain then I imagine I would feel something like euphoria. The pill isn’t a feeling or emotion. It’s the sudden sensation to perform a task that is necessary. My brain fills with ideas that I express through a keyboard. Life becomes normal instead of a charade.
I went to the gas station and had outburst of spontaneous laughter. It was a thought that gave me joy and laughter. Adderall is simply laughing out loud. Without the pill nothing would make me spontaneously laugh. The world isn’t funny without light in a dark tunnel. Ever since I justified not putting on a bra to make an impression on my shrink I changed . I also stopped wearing one to go to the convenience store. My real world is a really hot attic in florida. I know all about heat in the kitchen. I’m losing my mind because I didn’t refill my Xanax on time. My cycles of sweat and itching are hilarious. Right now, everything on my body itches like a son of a whore. It’s mostly psychosomatic. Right now, I can’t for the love of everything holy stop scratching my ears. Today has been brutal. I have claw marks on my neck that are way more impressive than any hickie. Brian’s coming by after work. In so many ways he’s perfect. He likes the heat.
A pansy boy couldn’t sit and talk all night in my attic. Being a part of my real world or my facebook kitchen means you have balls. You have to drip with sweat for my attention. It’s no joke that we sit and drip sweat like factory workers and like it. The heat of august pales in comparison to the brutal heat during September. I have the urge to drive to jaime’s house pull her out of bed and beat the shit out of her for stepping in my air vent. Her fucking leg destroyed my air flow. The heat is the center of my world. It’s the reason why I have horrible moments when I use my hands to rub the skin off my ears. Sometimes on a good 48 marathon of writing I simply lose control. My tits get so sweaty. That’s all I’m thinking about. I keep a constant vigil of self-control not to fixate on tit sweat. My tits are resting in a sweat pool big enough for three toddlers to swim in. I stay in a constant state like chicken pox. I know touching my sweaty tits means one thing happens without fail. I begin the epic crusade to claw off my tits. When I finally unfurl and start scratching my tits, it’s my supreme daily youtube moment. I know the world should be able to laugh at my nightly spectacle. When I break down and start scratching tits it doesn’t stop until I tranquilize myself. I swear on the bible, the only sleep that I’ve had all summer when there is Adderall is a direct result of tit scratching.
Most people have the feeling that someone seeing them shit would be the most embarrassing thing possible. Not me. I know that I am at the height of embarrassment when I finally break down and attack my tits. Flesh goes flying all over the place. I have tits flying up and down, back and forth and sideways. I go totally wolverine on my fun bugs. I can’t have fingernails. They would be little flesh ripping weapons. I stay so fucking clean. I just took a shower. I constantly wash away bacteria. I would be a gaping heat rash if I didn’t bath like a vigilante. My mom doesn’t even dwell in the attic. She’s covered in a wicked rash she thinks is shingles. I learned about heat rashes working at a dry cleaners. I asked my boss marion why on earth my body started developing rashes and flesh wounds. She explained the principle of sweat, friction and bacteria. She told me the only way to kill the non-stop rash was to bath in selsun blue. It’s true. If you get put in a heat factory from a florida summer the only way that I know to prevent your skin from a never ending itch is goddamn dandruff shampoo.
I have a fruity bath wash. It’s nice to use right before I shower away tit sweat so I can crawl in bed and fuck. I’ve spent over ten years buying selsun blue for body wash. My smell is mostly the medicated scent of removing dandruff. I told so many other girls that I met working at a cleaners about the bountiful powers of selsun blue. It makes your tits not itch. I got to breakdown and tell them about bacteria and how to kill it. I know every person has a path that puts them in a situation of brutal hard work. I think if you’ve never had that notion you’re fucking weak. I don’t value you as much as someone who did have a life lesson about hard back-busting labor. I learned some people can do it. Other people fail miserably and leave a job they consider low class. I watched it happen. I watched girls with a good heart doing labor become snotty monsters the moment they got out. No one thinks of a dry cleaner and imagines hard work. It was fun to watch employees try to make one day in our world and come back.
I had skin problems when I just entered the land of hard work. I think of those early days and remember that it was a cruel shock from what I imagined my job would be compared to what it was. I think about what I learned from the industry. I learned the difference between a company who has machines and a company that uses people. I was a counter girl. I had the experience of just processing dirty laundry and bullshitting with customers. What no one realizes is that when they left I did my real job. Now a machine does it. I think that’s a shitty solution that makes an inferior product. It’s a task you don’t think would be difficult. Then you do it. You realize the intensity of muscles you use. They felt like breaking. When I started it was pretty much the only dry cleaners in town. It was a small town monopoly. We had a full parking lot and customers waiting in lines that kept growing. You can’t imagine what a money pit it is to clean suits for church people. In this town there are rules in life you don’t break. You get your ass to church was right beside you never date a nigger.
PAUSE: I will always explain this out of courtesy until I get to the point where it pisses me off. I fucking write. There is no word off-limits. No bad words will I censor out of my lexicon. If you don’t know about your own lexicon, learn it. I so don’t rules or pay attention. Brian had to teach me how to hold down the button to scroll. It was my true retard hall of fame moment. I can’t be afraid to use the retard button. I have to talk about my retard moments. I didn’t know how to scroll like a genuine fucking tard. It was classic. I even took a computer class that was designed to fix people like me who didn’t know stuff like scrolling. That was my retard confession. Next retard confession I didn’t think tagging something posted it on their wall. It was actually an experiment to find out. I don’t get along with how facebook works. Some things I never figured out.
I genuinely thought getting tagged was something you could see on your wall with no concept it shot out into a memo to everyone you know. Poor jenn kerr vega has been broadcasting me on accident. That shit is hilarious. If I write about her she was basically the only person that I tagged. I seriously thought of tagging him because I wrote about how the rumor started that I get babies high and eat them. It was one of those blogs that I wanted her to read. I only stopped doing it because the option didn’t pop up on the screen. I realize I’ve scared grandmas. I can laugh about being so naïve I thought you could see it but you controlled it. I love when I break rules on accident. I love when I have concrete proof of situations when I really fuck up on accident for dumb blonde moments. Having no concept of the ramifications of getting tagged is that moment.
Not realizing I just slammed someone’s universe with a strange blog about drugs, retards and dignity is priceless. I can’t make up being myself. I wouldn’t change it. If I think about it I feel some sense that it was a poignant moment. If I had to accidentally collide with the outside world I know it was something that was a worthy cause. I let him spend the whole summer turning each chat into a war to convince me that I can go to rehab and stop mental illness. I know it was a worthy fight. If he has the realization you can’t pray away mental illness then fuck yes I declare victory and pride that I slammed his wall. I had this imagine of him as a really amazing guy who was real and special. He imagined me as the delusional girl that wasn’t ready to quit using drugs. I really am only a bad girl that uses drugs. That’s all he gets from being in my kitchen. He explained it. First of all he has no idea how to talk with written words. He is accidentally a hateful creature when he types. He had no ability to express any positivity. I grasp it for is explanation that he was triggered to use drugs by taking a friend to the hospital. He admitted having the information he was standing in a place with medicine. Medicine that he needed to help battle mental illness.
He is in a spiritual warfare situation against a chemical problem. My entire world view discredits his world view. I am saying people who need help for mental illness should use medication. I believe not taking medicine when it is available is a disservice to the community. It’s your duty to be a good citizen. When your brain isn’t working you take medicine to make the world a better place for people who deal with you. He battled his illness with opiates and Xanax. He couldn’t control either drug. They were linked and both put ‘off-limits.’ He knows damn well he needs and wants Xanax. For him to think about me is forcing him to consider maybe medicine is okay. I think God put the idea of this crusade in my God mailbox as a personal lesson he needs. I do things for a reason. I
t’s just like pulling a pill out of my dog’s mouth. It’s instinct. I didn’t have to accept and continue communicating with some dickface who responded to my God like notion of bonding with a fucking song saying women aren’t mermaids. They’re seasluts. That song was enough for me to realize he didn’t think anything but malice towards me because I have relief from illness and he doesn’t. It was a situation of simple jealousy. I have Xanax. He doesn’t. He can’t be friends with someone who has it. He literally can’t. I think he tried to with me. I could show you conversations he started that went way too mean for no reason. I understand each time he tried he felt like he was standing in a hospital. He had the tantalizing option of getting a substance he needs but he can’t have because he abuses it. In my lifelong intense relationship with Xanax I made the decision to never abuse my medicine like a drug.
You have to know it was a big part of my world. Every character in my story used Xanax because it was medically necessary. Aunt jonell only existed as a wonderful woman because she fully understood she was ‘wound too tight.’ She knew she got worked up and agitated and she wouldn’t be nice without it. I have a nonstop cascade of moments remembering times aunt jonell got upset and she took a Xanax. As a kindergartener I would have told you about aunt jonell’s ‘nerve pill.’ It took aunt jonell her whole life to learn the real name for her ‘nerve pills.’ The doctor gave her nerve pills with a funny name. She didn’t need the name. She needed the pill to calm down when she freaked the fuck out for no reason. I can see exactly what state of misery she was in during a situation when I would tell her ‘aunt jonell take a nerve pill.’ I consider Xanax the holy fucking grail. You don’t fuck with something perfect. It is a medicine a lot more people should have in the medicine cabinet for situations when they need it
. I have respect for Xanax that is not normal for a person to develop. It’s just like Draino to me. It’s caustic and it hurts people who use it when they don’t have to. Declaring it ‘off-limits’ is just as ignorant as trying to unclog a drain you can’t reach. The world needs Draino and Xanax. Things get clogged. In both my houses the one thing more valuable than money was Xanax. Aunt jonell finally learned the real name for a nerve pill when I was in college. Saying Xanax meant nothing to her. Saying nerve pill meant everything. My uncle hoarded one thing to excess and it was Xanax. He needed to know he had a full cabinet of twenty unsealed bottles of Xanax that equaled thousands of little blue pills. My mom never needed a prescription. Just telling my uncle she needed Xanax meant he gave her hundreds of them. My uncle terry was no blood relative. I lived with people who are born mentally ill. My uncle was mentally ill because he is one of the only men to survive the sinking of the USS Yorktown.
My whole life revolved around the battle of midway. He was a fucking world class war hero that represented amazing things about this country. His story is all over documentaries that even mention the battle of midway. God put me into this world as some kind of irrational accident my parents didn’t plan. I think he wanted me to see the irony that happens when you are born a victim of war. I think a little girl was supposed to see Uncle Terry and learn some deep shit about history that most people are clueless about. Vietnam fucked my biological dad up into a nightmare before I was born. My mom knows the boy that went to Vietnam came home broken and he stayed that way. She had to fall in love with an entirely different person than she married when he came home. When you send an 18 year old to kill other people they never grow up.
Any kid that had parents in Vietnam knows the stereotype that Vietnam made them rebel against getting old. My parents had me so late in life that I don’t know friends that had a dad that went to Vietnam. I am that strange age to be an undefinable stage between generation X and generation Y. I had an unusual experience to have a Vietnam dad when everyone else had younger parents. I weep like a motherfucking baby every time I see a Vietnam vet panhandling. I grasp what it did to an entire generation. My dad was eighteen. He would never have been able to fight in a war. America fucking failed. The whole world reaped the consequences of the draft. Draft is an evil word to me. It’s a word that makes you laugh at someone who thinks nigger is a bad word. Draft is a bad word. I wonder how many other girls lived a shittier life than people can imagine because of the Draft. My dad never discussed any aspect about Vietnam. He changed the subject. It was the thing you never mention. He was the wrong age at the precise time to be ruined by the draft. You have to live in my shoes to understand.
It was an unlikely event to be thrust into. My dad grew up a boy in plant city. He moved to St. Croix and spent half of high school as the only white kid in a black school. His high school year book from St. Croix is one of my most treasured possessions. He is the only white person in a book of black faces. Guess what? Black people beat the shit out of a white boy during Vietnam in St. Croix. I lived some of the same things my parents faced. Reverse racism is serious shit. I was a little accident surrounded by a bunch of black dudes. Only black dudes. My father and I were so much alike. When you’re a white kid in a black world you make your personality so unique that it crosses the cultural div ide. He stopped getting his kicked when he proved he could take it and it didn’t hurt. You have to get respect by being able to get laid out by a motherfucker and stand back up with no hard feelings. You’ve got to shake his hand and thank that motherfucker for another beating. I can never lose the knowledge that acceptance happens only when you taking a fucking beating and stand up like a true man and expect to be hit again.
My favorite book from childhood was ‘the whipping boy.’ It was so treasured that I obsessed about it enough to do something I can’t understand. It is truly significant. It is childlike behavior. It was an adult concept that one little boy got hit because a king was spared punishment. I sat at my desk in my deep devotion to write the book in my own fucked up handwriting. I copied it. I went beyond reading the book. I wanted to write it. I eventually gave up. However, if I reflect on my life you have to understand that I started writing by copying one word and then the next from a very special book. I didn’t about my dad. I did know one of the greatest lessons I ever learned was how to take unjustified punishment and accept it. I was young enough to copy a book in an impossible task. I was the whipping girl. I’ll always be the whipping girl. A part of the reason to sit and copy it word for word was learning not to feel sorry for myself that I was getting hit. I knew some kids were just a service provided to other kids. It’s a fucked up world and that book proved it. No one with common sense would choose to do something like spank one child being good to punish a child that misbehaves.
If a whipping boy can stand something intolerable like being beat for a bad person’s mistakes then nothing can break me. The draft broke my dad. He was a destroyed man. He only did things for pleasure and he had no notion of being an adult with responsibilities. Glenn was jealous that I have medicine he abuses. He took everything I mentioned as an insult to his world. No one can turn me into what they desire the way my dad did. The concept people make up their mind whether to love me or hate me has always been my life. I can fight to break misconceptions. If you read this it’s enough material your brain turns it into a textbook. You highlight what you want to see and ignore the rest. He admitted he focused and highlighted any time I mentioned medicine. In his mind that’s all I do is talk about Xanax. I am living Xanax. Talking about it one time made feel like he found an easter egg the next time it happened. He had to build this notion of me as drug girl. He liked my kitchen. He wanted my food but he was really after Xanax. I was a fix for a medicine he banned ‘off-limits.’
My next statements are brutal hard truths I learned life. Get out of the kitchen because I’m grouping people together and talking about stereotypes that are real. I was born and raised by two men who were in a war and they became fucking junkies. I know they didn’t fuck up on purpose becoming junkies. War made my two fathers a junkie. That’s why homeless people damn near always have signs that mention Vietnam. Life made a generation of junkies. I give them my money every dime that I own. Let the fucking vets be a junkie and get high. If you want to remember nothing about me but I use the word nigger I understand. Learn this, don’t you ever judge a Vietnam junkie for getting high. They were kids from plant city landing in a drug epicenter beyond anything we grasped. We didn’t live it. We didn’t sign the fuck up to fight a war just so we could type instead of shoot. Those men were forced into war. You went to college or you fought in the front lines. Signing up with a fucking grin and intelligence was what a poor fucking plant city boy did not to die.
Everyone knew going to the front line was Russian roulette with bad odds you got the bullet. Getting drafted was a funeral notice for men like my dad. It was delivered the day they turned 18. I hate my father very much. Vietnam made him need a whipping boy like me. I was the target for somebody getting punished he went to war. I think every man who fought an irrational stupid war they didn’t support found a little whipping child like me. Jesus Christ, it freaks me out how many little girls were born a whipping child from Vietnam. So many families targets one person to take more punishment for the whole family. The punishment isn’t getting beat. It’s done with words and yelling. It happens when one little girls is forced to do all the housework because she has a pussy instead of a dick. I don’t know how Vietnam fucked with other little girls but my dad went on a mission not to have a daughter. He could love one son. The other kid was an invisible laborer. He never stopped fighting Vietnam. He never fired the gun but he fought against society until he died. He fucking died from agent orange and he knew it. He needed a whipping girl if he had to know the war was a bullet delivered at fifty.
Cancer makes monsters. Agent orange makes good cancer. That’s one thing I’ve been told about why it was so bad. I knew God was telling me what I needed the precise moment I needed it. It was random and obscure fiction. It’s something I read in Stephen king’s book Hearts of Atlantis. When the world breaks a part in pieces you remember the book your reading. I was sitting in the VA hospital almost a week in a little green waiting room that haunts my worst dreams. I dream about the waiting room. I see every detail. It’s as real as invisible snake in a biographical story about being bi-polar. It takes about five days to break my soul. It’s just like my rhythm for sleep. I can take five d ay torture marathons. Then I have a memory of something with so many evil connotations that I don’t visit it. I don’t talk about the waiting room.
It’s fucking life to sit in a waiting room while someone dies. It’s torture and I’ll never be able to do it. I’m a fucked up girl for not being by aunt jonell when she died. I live with the guilt that I couldn’t be the daughter I wanted to be. I wanted to stand by her in a comatose state. I’m crying about how much guilt I feel that I stopped visiting when she went in a coma. I know she knew about the waiting room. She knew it broke my soul and it wasn’t right. Vietnam put him in a coma. I hated him and wanted him to die. He didn’t drop dead. He knew it was more important to commit suicide and choose when to die rather than lay in a coma for five days. I didn’t think Vietnam would kill my dad. I knew he was going to kill himself. As college got closer so did death. They were the same. Five days before school my dad was completely alive and coherent before bed and he didn’t wake up. I figured he would commit suicide every day for months. He wasn’t fast enough to beat Vietnam. He wasn’t kind enough to eat the bullet and die.
He just used me as the whipping girl until the last night when God determined he hurt me enough. I couldn’t take much more. Tim had the woman of his dreams ready. I asked him to not leave me before the funeral. I’m not stupid. I knew he would leave after he stood there at a funeral. I know the full visual of my dad almost still alive he had some movement. He had no idea of anyone or anything around him. He was a gurgling corpse wheeled out of the back door to his bedroom. If you’ve never seen a gurgling corpse you have been spared a horror you should never face. One person thought my dad was the epicenter of everything successful. His mother. I wouldn’t have sat a death vigil for a piece of shit half dead corpse like my dad. I did it for my grandma. I had to face the consequences of losing her love because I refused to sit in a waiting room.
My father and I fought our last battle in the VA hospital. It was will and strength to see who died first. He was down the hall in a bed. I wasn’t made to sit and look at him five days. His mother did it with love. My mother did it out of respect and duty. I had the waiting room. I prayed a lot. I did the only thing that could make me fucking happy. I read. I know we all have guilty pleasures. That’s a reason to live. I can read through death. I went hardcore get the razors out suicidal. I went to books of million. I had the tub. I had a book. Life gets that simple. Books have saved my life. I won’t be suicidal because I have the knowledge that there is never enough time to read. If I’m homeless I can get a library card. I can fall into a story. I have some reason to wake up. Right now I’m going past reading and entering writing like a natural process. I couldn’t have read so much without eventually doing it. I read to live. I fucking would tell any fucking junkie to get a fucking book. It’s better than high. I keep it simple and I make decisions and keep them.
I had thousands of pills around me all the time. I need one of them. However, I read things like the whipping boy and I knew at 14 that Xanax stopped me from reading every night. I never abused something I didn’t like. There was no feeling of euphoria from Xanax that was ever as important as reading. I don’t break the rules that I create to maintain a good life. Every night I was given one nerve pill for sleep. I never got of bed to get another pill. I wouldn’t do it. I was always told my Uncle’s junkie stash of pills was ‘off-limits.’ You seriously never fuck with a war hero. Post traumatic stress syndrome is coming out as senility takes over his mind. They turn eighty and the war is real again. It’s nothing a Vietnam vet could face and understand. Let them be junkies and give them money for drugs. The war comes back harder every year. I know at eighty those men that aren’t dead after time in VA bed will go insane as the war becomes real again. I watched my Uncle sink into the past.
I was his whipping girl. I was never his daughter. He was a junkie war built. I will never be a junkie because I read. If you’re a fucking junkie and you didn’t fight world war you’re weak and you have crooked values. I didn’t make a series of mistakes to become a junkie. I could have been loaded on oxy those five days. I hope someone appreciates what a huge accomplishment that is for an 18 year old girl with a mental illness. I knew each day the love of sister morphine. I made confession to the priest oxy. I worshipped in the house of addiction. I did get pills and find out what high feels like. It feels like fucking unicorns dancing in your brain. I was an addict junkie for five days my senior year. Getting a pill felt better than anything one day. I did the second day. I did the third day. I laid in bed like a junkie high on medicine’s name for heroin. It’s the same. I picked up the pill like my dog five days. It had me. I wanted the pill. I needed the pill. It was all that mattered . I was getting a pill for tomorrow.
My parents saved my fucking life and taught me a lesson. They called me out for five days on pills like a junkie and they hid the fucking pills so I couldn’t take them. My dad didn’t give a shit about me or show me love. However, he was determined that I not lay around like a goddamn motherfucking junkie. I was not allowed to start a comatose state. I was not allowed to do what he did and find heroin during Vietnam. He found heroin on a battle field. He never stopped needing heroin. He didn’t use needles and get fucked up like most men did. His best friend, my uncle fucked up on the needle and lived with hepatitis so bad after Vietnam, my dad had it easy. In the end he went to the needle. I found his drug box. It was a hall of shame collection of fucking needles. He was losing it and trying to die if he broke down and started using a needle. I would have seen track marks at some point if my dad was a needle junkie. I know he died staying around for a needle.
I sat in the waiting room and thought about the needles I found the night he became a gurgling corpse. Tim knew about the tackle box with the pot and the needles. The fact he had a massive porn collection makes me able to accept the needles. I went into his back room. I went into the place ‘off-limits.’ It was a tackle box I had to keep intact for a long time. I couldn’t throw away the box with the needles. I faced the fact he was a junkie and God did the best thing possible. My guilty pleasure is Stephen king. I love him like some people love the pope. I dream of other massive Stephen king fans. We bond hard. We can discuss where we were in life when we were reading ‘it.’ My greatest pleasure is the first time I see a new Stephen king book hit the shelf. I find them in sweetbay. I see the next book and I buy it like a pair of panties. I know I need it. I’m going to use it. I have to spend money to buy it. There’s no such thing as too many pairs of panties. If you struggle to maintain panties it’s a hard life. I read Stephen king with dedication. Each world excites me. He never fails to satisfy. It is my orgasm from reading.
I started adult fiction checking out Skeleton Crew from the library. It was safe because the cover was a picture of a happy monkey. Then I found paradise in my world. I worked my way through everything. I needed a good book to take me away from the waiting room. I needed Stephen king. I knew where to get the pills. My parents can’t hide shit. I chose never to die needle junkie. It was a disgrace my dad sat in his little room and shot up. At eighteen I spent five fucking days really thinking about the ramification of opiates. They end in a needle. You start with five days and then you keep going. At eighteen I spent five fucking days really thinking about the ramification of opiates. They end in a needle. You start with five days and then you keep going. You fuck up and go for the needle. Knowing that I don’t play games with opiates. I see a gurgling corpse and a waiting room. I love being high. If you handed me an oxy I would eat it like an MnM. It holds no power over me. I won’t take it longer than five days. I realize the moment I go two days I have entered fucked up temptation paradise. I will get heroin high for two days.
I went to the beach and had a Percocet with jen two days in a row. I watched her become a junkie on that shit every day. Getting her daily pill was as easy as putting on panties. I don’t know if she ever stopped eating pills like a junkie. She did start drinking hard. Jen was simple she didn’t touch drugs around 17 in high school. She got clean not to be a junkie. She would talk about how much she wanted heroin again. She was the only one she knew who didn’t use a needle. She was the only one who stopped doing drugs in high school. We smoked pot and felt pity for people on drugs. Then she had pills in her house and she completely reversed policy. I know how much cheaper it would be to by pain pills than Adderall. I wouldn’t buy a single pill unless I fall and get hurt. It’s medicine for me and not a drug. I needed some serious one on one time with God. A Stephan king book about Vietnam hit the book shelf for me to fall into. It was escaping the waiting room.
Reading it was so traumatic that I can’t remember anything about it. I never read the book. I remember books. It’s a world Stephen king created. I blocked it out to the point I just know the title and the depth of a trivial piece of knowledge. I don’t want to ever hear anything about hearts in atlantis. It terrifies me like a needle. It’s a bad place. It is the waiting room. I could never touch it. I couldn’t read the back to find out about it. I could never google it. I don’t want to know about that book. It wil be a flood of rage to know more about the place I went. I don’t know how much Vietnam I lived from a book. God gives us knowledge and peace. Stephen king wrote about a page discussing agent orange. His greatest outrage was the out of this world connection between agent orange and pancreatic cancer. It was down the hall from me. I won’ t research the topic. I learned from a book that so many men got sprayed and specifically developed pancreatic cancer that it would bankrupt the whole country to pay them. There are illnesses you get compensated for as related to agent orange. Then it became clear that the real disease was pancreatic cancer.
Stephen king bitched the whole damn world knew if the government acknowledged the connection between pancreatic cancer and agent orange it would be financial compromise that altered America. It would have broken the economy to pay families who had death delivered at fifty. I only know the concept from a book. I know pancreatic cancer doesn’t get you money when you are a vet. The VA is cheap government medicine. It would certainly know what illness to never discuss. If you tell me in a book that pancreatic cancer is the elephant in the room and my dad is a gurgling corpse, I realize what it means to be born a war crime. Pancreatic cancer is a secret conspiracy not to pay for killing people. If you let people make the connection between pancreatic cancer and agent orange little whipping kids get paid for a war. Hiding it means you go to drastic measures. A lot of men went to war. After a war the needle is a happy place. A selfish indulgence you feel you deserve. No man at fifty that went to Vietnam and died from cancer blamed It on anything but agent orange. Those men who died before sixty knew they got sprayed and no one cared. It cost too much money to care.
Pancreatic cancer is a quick assault. When you find out you have pancreatic cancer there is truly no reason for chemotherapy, radiation or surgery. Cancer is different. Pancreatic cancer is a disease where a physician is always forced to say you have around one year of life if you’re lucky. You feel healthy. You don’t see it coming. Usually someone only knows after a drastic weight loss. My mom and I both thought he looked like a holocaust victim from meth. It changed the day my mom saw his eyes and they were yellow. How many fucking kids like me looked into yellow eyes? The VA hospital is a place where all men like my dad have yellow eyes. Yellow eyes stayed with me because I was duty bound to uncle terry to take him to the VA. I couldn’t get out of the waiting room. I had to war crimes. WWII was a longer life than Vietnam. I never have to go to the VA. I can see men dying of cancer staring up at me with yellow eyes. There is never a place to park at the VA. All the men who had yellow eyes died in a decade. I know it was a matter of how much you had to get sprayed.
Going to war put them in a convenient place to be treated like a weed. They sprayed to kill the foliage. They destroyed a generation. I had a chance my dad could grow up and love me. It was death at fifty. It was going to Vietnam without a plane. I know I feel like a weed. I know that writing the reasons why I have no fear of a hot kitchen is more important than a boy in a sweater. It’s a better crusade. I learned a lesson. I’m going to dismiss a fucking junkie from now on. I know if you went to the land of junkie you are no good. I know Vietnam is a damn reasonable excuse to be a junkie. I know war in Iraq gives you every right to be a junkie. We will make a war every generation. War equals pain that is treated with medicine. If you’re a vet panhandling for heroin there is no shame of the needle. If you touch a needle without a genuine, goddamn, motherfucking ,holy shit, retarded, evil war you’re a junkie. I don’t care to acknowledge your life. You are just an ignorant and misguided soul. I truly make the decision that days equal years. Five of them. I won’t communicate with a junkie unless they have five years of complete sobriety. I won’t try an ease misery. I will walk away from a junkie. I will see some selfish fool that chose to lay around high when they could do something.
I learned you quit the drugs and stay a fucking junkie. You crave that drug at least five years. People go to NA and they start a religion to compete with the urge to be a junkie. If a sweater boy talks to me when I’m cooking I learn about them. Glenn is trying to beat a war with the needle. I know now that process makes you hard, cold and unfulfilled. I’ve written passionately all night without any Adderall in my system. Telling this story was worth fighting some sensation of complete exhaustion. I’m awake and I’m not high on drugs. I’m high on words. I feel the pride of a long day of serious labor. My tits are soak and wet. I’m going to post his response word for fucking word because he’s a fucking junkie. I reach a point I’ll narrate deciding to end things. If you have the time I will share my private letter that he only said ‘I finally read it’ I feel like I stood naked in this letter. It was my last real chance to personally write him something he could respond to and learn about me. I’ll block the girl it could offend and share the story I shared with him. I wanted to share that I was at rock bottom and I had miracle after miracle. I write about the destructive state that I was in and my ticket out. I talk about my face. It’s something no one can explain. I talk about sex and what it means to me. I wrote about harsh things.
I won’t read them again. I can post them because I’m not afraid of standing naked in front of the world. This is your official Linda notice to have a cigarette break from my blog. This next part is the final chapter of a choose your own adventure book. This is evidence to my conclusion it takes five years to be a good person after you fuck up and use a needle.