7 months of daily methamphetamine abuse or why I ended up in the mental hospital. Part 2.

Part 1.

I was following the news to read the "scores", or hints on how my competition were doing. Each sport had a different meaning, and each team represented a particular player. My psychosis was full-blown and I was unlocking all this code. Cricket "runs" meant how many times you ran when you felt paranoid as the gangsters pressed your buttons. I tried to keep this score down to show that I could handle it. Boxing was exciting, when someone was knocked out it means they're out. The entire city was the playground. I started roaming the woods and collecting the "presents" and interacting with my environment. I was creating pseudo-art: I left cut outs from books, sketches with chalk, tree branches, digging shit up and basically just trash. I roamed on and I just followed the blue. Soon after I was breaking into houses and stealing random petty shit. Lucky I never got caught in the act.

My room mate got fed up with my bullshit. He stole my car and parked it somewhere random. He wasn't going to give it back unless I move out, or go to rehab. I tell him to go fuck himself and that he can't kick me out because I co-signed the tenancy contract. We go back and forth and he tells me he's moving out. My ex hated what I had become, so she only came to check on me every now and then. A meth-head in solitude is dangerous. There was no-one around to stop my lunacy.

I woke up one time in my apartment and opened the cupboard. The cooking directions on the box of yeast sounded off. I figured it's code for something. The chemists must be watching and they want to see how well I made bread. To check if my hands are steady, you know? I made a perfect piece of bread, good enough to eat with a little bit of olive oil and chilli. I gave some to my downstairs neighbors who I suspected were Meth cooks. My dumb ass was showing off.

So here I am, smoking more Meth. I've been awake for 4 days. The apartment was already trashed from a big fight I had with my dealer in which I earned a black eye. I was there all by myself. Seething with anger and delusion. I rip the leather couch open and take out all the fluff. I don't know what I was looking for but I found a bag of red material: moisture absorber. I thought it was a piece of the puzzle, so I hid it under my mattress.

I had the radio on. I thought they were commenting on me. Sometimes it sounded encouraging, sometimes like they made fun of me. I was so vain I was thinking all the songs were about me. I started talking back, and damn me but: they answered. I was seeing this "mist". Words were written out, spelling numbers and names. "You suck", "$340", "2C", "7B", which were apartment numbers in my building, I start going to those doors and knocking. Fully schizophrenic. Finally a cute girl answers one of the doors. I didn't know what to say. I bullshit and we hit it off for a few minutes. "Haha you actually just want to get to know me! Why don't you come in?".

"Yeah, well, I'm in the middle of something. Lemme go down for a bit and I'll be back later when I have something to say". I still regret this decision. I go down again and start seeing "B8"... Bait? Is that what the universe is telling me? I decided not to go back up. The intercom rings "I can't let you in", the voice says.

The fluff from the couches that I had ripped started to morph into shapes, pointing and guiding me to other clues and pieces of the puzzles. I stay awake for 7 days in total before I got tired of chasing the clues to nowhere. The porno magazine had a picture of a girl holding another girl's ass. "We want you to cum down here". I think it's code from my downstair's neighbors. I go knock on their door, no answer. I rip the carpet in my living room, thinking there was a listening device underneath. Nothing but concrete. I burn the porno magazine and watch it shrivel up on the exposed concrete. Time to take a break. I hear a loud horn sounding from the outside. I yell: "No, I'm not giving up! Just taking a break..."

I drink 2.5 mls of GBL to knock me out. I had no other downers. GBL is the only thing that made me feel normal during those days and it was starting to become a daily thing too. The withdrawals were brutal. The only thing that made them go away the next day is another dose, or wait it out. I was not the patient guy. I stopped caring months ago.

The building manager lets himself into my apartment. He had been receiving complaints. I was asleep when I woke up to the noise of the cops searching my place. I had no more Meth. Only utensils. "What is this?", the cop with the tattoo asks. "It's an oil burner. They're legally sold out there. Nice tattoos". Also, his partner looks like a tranny. I didn't think they were real cops. I try to get up to brush my teeth. The tranny grabs me by the arm, and slams my skinny ass down. They cuff me and take me to the police station.

I didn't talk, they tell me I have a court date and send me out. I receive a card for a mental health hospital. I call them and they tell me they can deliver medication to my place. They come in, take a look at the place that was trashed. I tell them about people spying on me and how my T.V. was really a computer. They ask me to come with them to the hospital for medication. I think medication = code for Meth. I oblige, thinking it was going to be quick. I thought I was finally going through the secret official channels instead of dealing with street thugs.

They write the paperwork and manage to lure me inside. That door to the mental hospital was locked and fortified. I was not going out anytime soon. "Hand over your shoe laces, and your vaporizer". Not without a fight, I did not. They had to hold me down and give me a jab-in-the-abs of some antipsychotic medicine.

For a month, I raised hell in that hospital. Then spent another eating & sleeping. I eventually started following orders and got discharged. I've been sober since then. Doing much better now, and starting to feel like my old self again. Thank you for reading.