Comfortable and Furious

The Meth-Man Chronicles: Home Alone Edition

This is from 2008 I think. Like, these events happened in 2008. I think. I don’t know what James Frey did wrong or lied about; I never read that book. I know a decade and a half of hard drugs and multiply slung webs of lies, like Spiderman flying through Manhattan (I bought you a birthday present but it got stolen out of my car! splaaaat!! I got in a car accident I won’t be at work today! whooooosh!!) can eventually blend entire years together and I also can’t find the original paperwork that will help corroborate when I went into this particular turn at treatment (spluuurrrt!!) but upwards of 90% of the shit below really did happen. Honest Injun. Or Honest Wizard? I don’t want to offend anybody. All I know is I just truly don’t know what year and I would prefer to not contact Pathways Behavioral Services for a more precise timeframe. I owe them $31.

I did have a job at the time, not even a half bad one. I had always been a functioning addict, not always a really good one but I could generally get through work if I reached down deep enough. Or got really drunk and slept intermittently in the company bathroom. After half a sphincter pinching Saturday workday sometime in 2009? Wait, we’ve agreed on 2008 haven’t we? Already working on my apology to Oprah, folks. A workday that sped by like a glacier, I dialed up a guy named Fro Bob, known separately from look-alike brother Jamie by his huge, uncontrollable white boy frizz fro, and he balled me up.

With some methamphetamine. omg. Understand, the first hits would get smoked practically on my front porch, and I only say that to set up the wild contrast between that and trying to get high 48 hours later. And I was a smoker, not a banger, which makes me responsible. Fro Bob gave me a glass piece he ordered me not to destroy, having been exposed to past bouts of my paranoia. Even sober though, and this should be an understandable feeling, picking him up at a downtown Kum and Go and driving over to my place while he’s holding pretty fat is concerning to me.

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Nonetheless, after safely reaching our destination, I alternated between glass and foil burgers (which is what you call melted crank on Reynold’s wrap, at least in Evansdale, Iowa) for about 30 minutes while he strolled around my house poking at and studying random objects, likely stealing all sorts of shit. I got really, really high, and with the nerves not usually setting in for about 36 hours for me, we strolled up to Chasers. I drank a lot for those next 3 or 4 hours, and I usually find a balance where I can just chillax at a bar, work on 48-year-old female bartenders with my big, dilated brown eyes, smoke cigarette after cigarette, play hair metal, and push back the next session. And the distant paranoia I know is coming after a couple of sleepless nights.

It wasn’t really taking this time though. I was sort of drunk but I had this very intense buzz that made my hairs stand up and every move of my arm, head, etc. felt jagged and quick. Fro Bob, not having the data in front of him relative to my liquor/meth kind balance must’ve seen me clenching up too much and made arrangements for a ride. He told me again not to wreck his pipe. Sheeeeeit..

So, I’m. .OK at this time, I guess. I’m not really feeling. Ecstatic…like I wanna be but I’m feeling pretty good. I just felt the sketchiness coming on sooner than usual is all. The alcohol buzz was at least superseding the dope enough for me to gain the courage to drive dirty. I knew my parents were out of town for the weekend and my roommate would be home by about 8:00 tonight so I figured I’d camp out at their place for a couple days, dismantling lamps, jerking off, hiding in closets, making moves, you know, doing shit meth-heads do.

I drive 5 or 6 miles to my parent’s place. The baggie is gripped in my palm, open at the end, and I have a couple open drinks sitting on my consol and will quickly pour that shit in there and eat the bag, to at least have a fighting chance if I get stopped. 3rd DWI notwithstanding. It’s amazing though how well you can drive down a busy street looking only in the rearview mirror.

I get to my parent’s house fine, lock the doors, put my step dad’s boots or something in front of them for added security and sprint for the bathroom. And I sit down on the stool and use again. I don’t know if “use” is a strong enough word. I utilized that meth! I covered the bathroom in a fucking cumulus cloud. It was fire and it was the dope hat. And I’ve decided now, that the boozing is done. I’m shutting in and wallowing in the high. Getting ready to flip through channels on mute for the next 50 hours while angels massage my cranium. Maybe see if I can convince someone with boobs to come hang out. And I’d say about….12 hours into that shit is when it all went to shit.

My parent’s neighbors knew I had been arrested a couple times. Not back when I was a kid, but the episodes that took place in the past 4 or 5 years. They knew I’d been in treatment. The rollouts on the living room bay window were open, primarily because I wanted to hear the sounds of the neighborhood and so if a hot mail lady happened to wander by and wanted to be a meth whore for the afternoon I’d know about it. What I actually heard though were Jack and Ellen coming home.

And note that the auditory sensitivity had already gotten very, very strong. I hadn’t even missed a night of sleep yet. Amplified creaks upstairs, the refrigerator off and on every 20 minutes, spiders making all kinds of racket in the basement. And I am flying through 78 channels. And I knew in the dark it looked bad. The strobe light of each channel getting turned in a 2 second cadence. But you can’t stop. You’re absolutely in the grip of speed OCD and save Captain O’Malley standing over you, his baton jammed in your nostril, you’re going to keep after the current obsession for hours on end. But…I digress, because I’d reckon around 3:00 am I start hearing, whether they’re real or not, voices next door. “Look at him again!” “We need to call <name> (my step dad), or the goddam cops,” gurgle, gurgle, Peanuts’ teacher voices, gurgle, etc, and then the one line that probably was never even uttered by a human being but threw the motherfucking Spanky Express right off the tracks…

“I planted something in his truck.”

I am very, very careful about the location of my dope and my proximity to it and a toilet. I’ve said it before here – Dirty UA’s are bad but probably not fatal. Oh, did I not mention I was on probation at this time? In 2010? Possession is prison. With my priors.. I generally trust myself to destroy my stash/utensils in enough time if I feel an acute threat but all of a sudden someone’s popped the paranoia cherry in my dementia wracked brain that there’s now a possession that I can’t control. I don’t even know where the hell it is. The neighbors want me to go down, where did they “plant this something”?

So after “hearing” this bombshell I actually do find the will to stop flipping the goddam stations and full-blown paranoia rears its bastard head. Do I go out, at 4:30 in the morning and start ripping apart my cab? Do I board up the doors and windows? What the fuck?! These fears usually don’t set in for maybe like 48 hours and certainly not this intensely.

On top of all this every squealing brake pad half a mile away was the beginning of a police siren. Every shifting light against the wall was cop car lights. I also was having an old crank affliction come back, where I saw things in bright red and blue hues. This is again where I may be chronologically challenged but I do remember the sun coming up and jostling just enough courage to take the garbage out, a ruse, which would lead me on a path to my compromised truck.

And in a quick bout of chaotic bravery, I went for it, ignoring the screeching sirens probably only a few blocks away. As quickly as possible I scoured through that cab. Glove box, visor, ashtray, rug, cupholders, behind the seats. Thankfully my truck is not very big. I’m finding nothing incriminating. Only half a Bean Burrito under the passenger seat. I ate it. No, I didn’t eat it. But it did make me retch like a mofo. This is futile, I tell myself. Jack’s obviously dismantled the dash, got behind the heater core, and taped the smoking gun somewhere only a rotten fucking sniffer dog can locate, and then mantled it all back together again so it looked EXACTLY like it did the last time I drove the vehicle.

I went back into the house, reinforced the doors with a chair each and set up some alarms. And by alarms, I mean a few empty soda cans and plastic bags so any cop’s big snorting snout would be heard by me before he came in and..I don’t know exactly what my plan was after that. But at least I’d hear them coming. I was a wreck. I covered (cowered) up on the sofa, my hat pulled over my face but my eyes looking on the living room at about knee level.

I did this so I could see any approaching intruders but they couldn’t see me. I mean, my wide-open dilated pupil eyeballs. Would it be believable to the neighborhood that an all-night channel flipping session was the result of innocent insomnia now leveled by clearly needed sleep? And what exactly the fuck did I smoke, Fro Bob?? I probably laid there for 2 or 3 hours. It was warm that day and I was drenched in sweat. Fuck to if I’m going to pound my senses with the jet engine of central air.

Naturally though, my mind destroys itself before any police officer is given the chance to do it to my rib cage. While I’m feigning sleep on the couch, there are obviously people climbing in and out of the basement through one of the windows. And it’s obviously Jack, his wife, and their friend who is a bounty hunter whose little sister died in an explosion from an anhydrous tank tweakers had stored in their garage across the street from her house and is looking for vengeance. With a die-hard meth addict…

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I know, man.

And they’re obviously planting the requisite material for starting a baby blue lab downstairs. Because a scraped-out baggie somewhere in my steering column is not a sure enough jail term for this punk ass junkie leaning on his parents and soiling the sanctity of their home. No, let’s get him manufacturing for 25 large.

All of a sudden “reality” sets in and I spring from the couch, sprinting for the basement. I need to tackle them all before they can get back out and call the police. Nearly killing myself stumbling down the stairs I hear the footsteps when I reach the bottom of my perps running through the lawn above, having successfully crawled out one of the windows. The kind of old ass basement window that reluctantly cranks open, giving about an 8-inch square opening. It doesn’t matter. Irrespective of any possible physically viable escape route, they were here and now there’s some strange residue on the floor, and certainly a stash of Ephedrine and camera batteries that I must find before a police bust through the walls.

I grab some trusty bleach and start soaking the floor with it, especially where I see foreign bumps of some material (I think it ended up being soap scum from the wash) and I furiously begin ripping apart cardboard boxes. Where is all that lithium a dog will go running right for? Random items I find that even have a passing relation to a remote tie to meth or anything that looks like meth I start crushing and flushing or running upstairs to the garbage disposal. And of course, saturating with bleach. A shredded basement and about 30 minutes later somehow, I gain this bizarre confidence that I have destroyed any possible evidence. Unbelievably, and this is where I will cause confusion in a lot of you, my original shit was sitting upstairs buried at the bottom of a can full of Folgers. It’s almost impossible to describe the thinking but somehow real meth was less precarious to me than..nothing.

The rest of that Saturday, and I’m talking until about 10:00 AM the next day was spent perched on a chair in the kitchen between the basement and the back door because I needed my eye on one and my ears on the other. I actually put some more shit in front of the doors and felt that the only way that back door could be easily opened, before I could open a North side window and dust these fuckers down an alley is if my neighbors came up through the basement again and opened it from the inside.

Not about to let that happen I sat in the kitchen on a wooden chair, with a baseball bat, bruising my ass leaning forward for upwards of 1000 solid minutes, watching out of the corner of my eye the top of those basement stairs and out of the corner of my other eye, the door. I was ready to smoke any non-uniformed motherfucker that came up those stairs. About twice an hour I’d go back in the basement to clear out meth manufacturing tools they were tossing down the laundry chute and skillfully bouncing towards adjacent walls. I did this for like 12 or 13 hours, I kid you the fuck not. I didn’t really sleep at all but looking back I know there were moments where my consciousness split for a minute or two. It was way fun. Do drugs.

Also, more than once, I groveled out loud. I asked my neighbor and his friends that were crawling through the air ducts to reconsider what they were doing, promising to go into treatment when I sobered up, and arguing that 25 years in prison is entirely too harsh for an addiction. I swear to God I heard laughter and taunts in response. At times it made me storm down into the basement swinging the bat and threatening to cave in heads. At others, I asked them how they could be so cruel. Throughout the night, I probably lost 4 or 5 pounds of sweat.

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After doing this shit over and over repeatedly finally, hours later, around 1:00 pm Sunday, a crucial, liberating thought entered my busted mind. Steve had booze in this house. He kept a shitty liquor cabinet in his bedroom that I literally just had remembered at that very moment. It wasn’t even on display; it was turned the wrong way on their dresser. I broke the glass. This was no time to not leave a trail of relationship destroying destruction in my trusting parent’s home. Half a bottle of Captain Morgans and another nearly full bottle of Popov vodka. I didn’t know it at the time and later dramatically squandered it, but this coulda/woulda been my saving grace, if I’d not been a fucking idiot.

A cold mix would give me heartburn, which by this point would probably kill me, so I stirred up a good half cup of Popov with some Ovaltine, popped a couple Aspirin, and sat back down on my angry chair. I set the bottles next to me and drank the brown lumps. It is fucking weird, when excruciating paranoia flips, in less than a second, to drunken bravado. It took about an hour and a half for me to get to that point. It’s always the same. You’ve got energy from the speed but all of a sudden, just in a split second, all your confidence comes rushing back as that hard liquor finally, finally, mercifully, hits it’s sweet spot.

I lost interest in whatever those Promise Keepers were doing in the basement. I remember swatting at shit, kicking over the chair, twirling the bat and stumbling through the house talking to myself in nothing but Wire slang. I even went out to my truck, got a CD and cranked Cypress Hill on the living room stereo while throwing gang signs at the meddling neighbor’s house and like many times prior, doing the robot. I was now a completely different person than the incredible pussy of these last two days of hell. I even wanted to go driving around, cause I’m a fucking asshole who should have been in jail. And I did. And I took my shit, distributing a mess of coffee grounds all over the cupboard in the process. Now, I had destroyed the glass pipe, which I implied earlier was inevitable so I grabbed a long strip of aluminum foil, an ink pen, and my lighter. And, in a moment of responsibility, a plastic bag of some clean, dry clothes.

I want to stop here and say that I’m aware I’m a fucking dickface that betrays and disappoints and drives drunk on no sleep but I also want to tell you that I do even worse things after this.

I filled one of those 1,000 ounce mugs you get at the Midwest based Casey’s General Store, with Captain and Ovaltine. I was dirty, wet, and waxy and assumed it’d be a good idea to stop by the house of a friendly female co-worker who lived nearby. Thank God she was not home. I was tanked, dude. It was about 8:00 pm on a Sunday evening, I had to work the next day, I was royally hammered and hadn’t eaten or slept in 2 days. And…I was starting to jones again. Relentless paranoia for the past 36 hours? What are you talking about?

I’d left my parent’s house a bombed-out mess and they were gonna be home at any time and even in my drunk, reckless state I knew I couldn’t go there for another session. I couldn’t go home because it’d be too obvious to my roommate. I wasn’t quite drunk enough to smoke in my car on the side of the road; but probably close. I had to find a place to fix and I wasn’t interested in sharing any of what I had left. Especially with a non-female. And even crank whores collect themselves, while twitching involuntarily, a little bit on Sunday evenings.

I was on my own and I figured there was only one place for a sketched-out degenerate with a gram of shards, eleven dollars, and false hope for any privacy to go. I was going to have to rent a whack booth. I arrived at the Adult Bookstore somehow, walked in, and saw a female clerk working. Alright! She was probably about 55. I stunk way bad and rented a 2-hour preview booth. I couldn’t think of a single place in the city I could go where I could lock the door for that length of time. I’m sure I looked real handsome as beads of sweat collected on my sore upper lip and ropes of saliva stretched in my mouth with every word. Still, having not showered in 3 days nor changed my draws or brushed my teeth I was at least in the running for Most Hygienic Male Of The Adult Bookstore. I was assigned to Preview Booth #3. I swear to God, I remember that.

Now, when you’re paranoid high, the crinkle of aluminum foil is the auditory equivalent of a dump truck driving through a nitroglycerin factory, but I was still blitzed and didn’t care about anything except getting high again. I unfurled my simple tools, turned the sound up on my pornographic movie, and delved back in again. Like the weak piece of shit I was. Today, I can now say that I really don’t think this was straight meth. I convinced myself to try again after I got drunk but after this entire saga ended, I looked back and believed that there was PCP or something cut into it. I’d get nervous and all but I never before had had these types of hallucinations.

I started getting sketchy again, after about an hour. WHY DID I KEEP DOING THIS? And I’m not bouncing off the walls of the relative safety of my parent’s house this time. I’m in a fucking spewy room at the Adult Bookstore, with no liquor, no money, and supernatural paranoia about to set in. Holding about a half, a dirty tooter, and burnt foil that I can’t flush because there’s no toilet in Preview Booth #3. Except for like, Preview Booth #3.


And then came the sirens. And then came the red and blue lights. I was tucked in a dark corner of the dirty bookstore dungeon and would’ve testified in court that the flashing strobes of a police car were splashing across my walls. The movie ended. The one completed circuit in my mind was telling me to leave. In all honesty I did look totally fucked up and it’s a fair bet that someone smelled all that smoke I was blowing. About that point, I heard a dog bark. Panic overtook. I tightly rolled up and dry swallowed the half, baggie and all. I balled up the foil and shoved it into a cranny and then used someone’s old Mountain Dew(?) and flushed out the tooter as best as I could, wiped my prints off it, and kicked it under someone else’s whack booth.

I was scared shitless and figured that my clothes alone would get me a possession. It was definitely time to leave. I couldn’t live in a whack booth. Not like that skeez L. Ron Mexico.

I stepped out of my whack booth gingerly. No dog. Not even any of teh gays. They must’ve skinned out for fear of the impending raid. I pulled my hat down, speed walked down the hallway and out the building and didn’t even stop at my truck. They obviously would’ve run my plates, looked up my arrest record, and I truly believed, and may have even been right for once, that if I drove out of that parking lot I was getting pulled over. I just kept walking. It was about 11:00 PM, Sunday and even this late, it was a pretty busy street and every parked car had a spotlight shined right on me. I was in really bad shape at this point. And I had just eaten another half gram of the stuff.

I knew they were looking for me. I knew that I’d just missed them at that bookstore and there was an APB for the items found in and adjacent to Preview Booth #3. A fruity customer, his hands turned backward on his hips, had probably already given the responding officers my profile.

“No, no, no. He had big broad shoulders Mr. Po-lice Man, and a little goatee on that sweaty, glistening face. Mmmm.”

I took a look around and ducked behind a Burger King dumpster. Would this be my new home? Would a discarded Whopper be my first step toward recovery? No! I had one chance out of this ordeal. With my cell I called one of my boys, a non-using, loyal compadre and God bless him, he picked up the phone on 2 rings. Breathlessly, I informed him that I needed a ride and gave him directions to my dumpster. I don’t know how my night would’ve ended otherwise at that point, but this dude knew I was in the throes of a horrible bender and yet he didn’t hesitate.

He had to have some idea of the situation he was about to put himself into. I heart him and all those people that scorn enablers can fuck off because yes, we all need Tough Love, accusatory interventions, abusive sponsors and an exclamatory “no!” slapped across our faces 17 times a day but everyone needs an unconditional ally and that’s what ol’ Curtis was that night. I rode in his backseat and advised him that we would probably be getting pulled over, identifying every white sedan as a tailing police car.

If we could pull it off, the plan was to take me back to my house, where my roommate was surely sleeping, and I’d ride this thing out in my bedroom. When we got on my street, unmolested yet by any John Law’s hind paws, I asked Curtis to slow down about two blocks away. There were lights on in the house and I saw moving shadows. They were searching the home. A new “fact” registered in my “brain” that they were simultaneously searching my parent’s house as well. I was done for.

They were racking up possessions and surely, they were waking my PO, judges, my grade school teachers, and issuing warrants. But I wasn’t going to jail like this. Not tonight. I was not going to spend the rest of this night in the holding cell on one of those hard plastic chairs with a bunch of other guys in a bright, noisy room, and I pleaded with Curtis to keep rolling and drop me off at another friend’s house. It was out in the country and it was one of my only options.

I had him take me 5 miles out of town as I kept looking out the back window of the vehicle and drop me a block from my destination. I requested that he keep his headlights off when driving back down the highway so as not to alert attention. I’m not sure if he did or not. After racing through four big, country backyards, I finally got to the spot and got ready to knock on the door, when I was met with a big flashlight shining right in my face. I heard the penetrating sirens that couldn’t have been but a mile away and the sky was turning a flashing purple.

The thumping blades of a helicopter coming right up over the hill told me that I was finished. I stopped moving for the door and resigned to the fact that I couldn’t run anymore. They had me. I was probably looking at 10 years, cut in half in Iowa for a little over 5, with good behavior. I put my hands over my head and walked down the driveway while the pig behind me started removing his cuffs. But his chief must’ve called him away for a minute because he didn’t clamp them on right away. A local news crew was set up down the street to record the arrest of a dangerous fugitive. My friend’s neighbors were coming out of their houses to witness the commotion and cheer on the removal from their streets of another of society’s rotten apples.

The police didn’t move in right away though. It was weird. While they were gearing up, putting on their vests, and riot gear, I started dialing the numbers of loved ones. Friends. Family. Leaving voice mails, expressing my gratitude for their support all this time and my emphatic remorse at disappointing them…yet again. I had to say a lot of these things pretty loudly over the din of the chopper and police horns gradually getting louder as they sped up the highway to get me. At one point, late in the night, I was yelled at to get off the phone. I guess the armed cops perched on the lady’s roof across the way felt I’d reached out to enough people. (I think this actually did happen, by the way. Someone yelled at me to get off the fucking phone).

My understanding was that I was to wait there in the driveway for the police convoy, while the Task Force finished searching the houses, got the necessary warrants signed, and arrived to make the arrest. At some point, can’t recall when exactly, we’d all made a peaceful arrangement via a conversation I didn’t remember, that I’d turn myself over without a fight. And it wasn’t like I had any left. Sheer exhaustion had enveloped my body and brain. I wanted to sleep so badly and yet I still had to force my eyes closed. They still would need to search me thoroughly, get me processed, take my picture, and if they let me up into general pop, give me a shower and check out my assigned bedding. Maybe one of the nicer policemen would buy me a candy bar. I was looking at 3, maybe 4 more hours before I could lie down and rest.

It was windy and getting chilly and I wrapped my arms around my upper body best I could, shivering uncontrollably at times. Unbelievably, there were families on lawn chairs in their yards awaiting my impending arrest. They even allowed their young children to stay up, outside, and to see all this. I guess you could argue that it would be an one-of-a-kind, educational experience for them. But at 3:30 in the morning?

I sat with my arms folded across my knees on my friend’s front step and put my head towards my lap. Because every time I looked up that meddling fucking news crew would shine their camera light on me. I yelled out something like “this is just for paraphernalia, I’m not dealing! Why don’t you go home!?” They stood defiant, unwavering in their unbiased journalistic integrity to get the big story. I waited and waited. I had rifles trained on me and knew I couldn’t leave the front of the property for fear of two to the chest. It was nearing 5:00 AM and my friend would be leaving for work probably about 6. I hoped he wouldn’t be shot.

It was minutes later after I saw that second hand creeping towards the top of the hour on my watch that my phone vibrated. Most of this now, for as tired as I was, I remember vividly. I looked at the Caller ID and it was <name>, my stepdad.

“Hello?” I said sheepishly. My voice was gravelly and anyone that would’ve heard me at that time would’ve known I was probably close to death.

“Where the hell are you?” Obviously <name> had checked his voicemail.

“I’m at J-Pa’s. I mean, Jesse’s. The dude out in the country we went fishing near his house..”

“What the fuck is going on? You said you were being arrested. Why are you at his house?”

“<name>, I fucked up. I’m so sorry, man. I’m going to prison for a few years. They got me on a possession, and they’re searching my house. Did they search yours yet?”

He paused for a few strange seconds and said my name and asked me slowly, “Are you still high?”

“Uhhhmm, I guess. I don’t know. I’ve been up awhile. It’s kind of going away though..”

He told me that nobody had been to their house. Their house hadn’t been searched at all and he asked me what exactly I was doing right now.

I told him that I was out in the driveway, waiting to be arrested. I told him there were what I thought was probably deputies, and not city police, on a roof across the street, with their rifles pointed at me to make sure I didn’t run.

“Stay there”, he said. “I’m driving out to get you. I want you to listen to me carefully. There is nobody there but you.”

<name> stayed on the phone with me and I recall being extremely confused by that last statement. He started hammering me with questions that I think even at the time weren’t making sense to me and then, as he was ranting, one of the spookiest things I’ve ever seen and it gives me the creeps thinking about it right now, unfolded before my wasted, worn-out eyes. One of the people in the lawn chairs started moving rapidly, like she was having a seizure almost. The wind picked up and the howls sounded like they were coming from her. And then her body, and the chair with it, split in two. I remember dropping the cell phone, breaking it no less, which of course I found out later made my step dad push 90, and almost falling to the ground.

Obviously, this would’ve been more horrifying if a real person’s body, mere feet from me spontaneously tore apart, but a couple levels of terror down, I looked closely at it and realized it wasn’t a human being at all. It was a bed of leaves. I looked around me and as the sun came up realized, as cold chills ran through me, that the news crew was a generator, with the top of a street lamp a block away overlooking it. The camera light..The kids running around, that I thought had been allowed to stay up so late. Bushes.

All the people in lawn chairs. One family was a sidewalk. Another, a rhubarb patch. And the house I was dropped off at, somewhat in the distance – that group was actually a bunch of white stones placed around the base of an oak tree. The deputies on the roof were all overhanging tree branches. Getting yelled at to get off the phone well, like I said, that probably really happened. But all these things, although each was centered in it’s own respective area, had been moving around, walking, and whispering to one another, about me, all night long. And it is a fucking unsettling, unnatural feeling, almost like when you wake up from a very hectic dream with lots of people in it, only to find yourself completely alone in your room. But much, much creepier. It felt like I’d been seeing and communicating with ghosts all night.

Fifteen minutes after this revelation, my step dad showed up. A reasonable flower pot told me I could exit the property with him. That all preceded my second run through intense outpatient treatment. Next time I’ll tell you what led to inpatient.






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