DRUGS & MY MENTAL HEALTH.

Damn, the whisky felt nice trailing down my gut. I chased it with a pull of smoke and it felt like the best thing since sliced bread. Whatever that means. Humanity, putting up with shitty expressions ços they made us feel better anyways.
It was twenty minutes into my psychological assessment yet here I was, smoking, drinking and not giving a fuck about it. This shrink had looked nice when they were checking me in… He’d read through my file, there’s this thing they do these days. All of our medical records are in one online database. You couldn’t blindside a doc and say you piss wrong when in fact you have UTI. They really had us this time. No lying to these sick shits in a make believe lab coat. Or dust coat. Whatever.
He said I was nearly cracking over and my breaking point mentally was inevitable, if he didn’t work his miracles first. Which he was pretty sure he would.
I didn’t give a rat’s ass about it.
It was Jenny that had pushed me towards this. Saying, now that she was with child, it was time I got my act together… Whatever that meant. She even had the half a mind to tell me to take up that art school job I had been given a while back. The guts in this one. You see, once you stick a kid in a woman, she assumes control of your affairs. In no time, the sick bitch makes adjustments to your life and you live by her terms. Crazy human thinking.
So, the doc, who looked at her fat ass half the time booked me in. I knew I wasn’t gonna attend this freakshow. I never did. I never could.
I don’t have anything against psych analysis and all, but I had everything against the folks doing it.
I came from a place where, in campus, I lived with psych majors as well as teachers who smoked a joint like it was God’s Christmas present to them and a majority of them were sexual predators. They were the type that spanked a woman out when they were alone and trampled on her dignity just to get under her pants. And I don’t respect that. At all.
These are the type of people that we trust our kids with as well as our own mental health with. One moment, you have your kid experiencing a mental breakdown because some half mind broke her heart then you leave her in a room with one of these and she comes back having gotten raped and is scarred for life. I was scared of that. It didn’t take the liquor to bring out the fear. It was there alright. And the liquor just diluted it.
These psych majors were in it for the pay. Not the art of it. We entrust our mental health to people who don’t give the least care about it. They do not know how to handle no case that is out of the ordinary. When it is in the least deviating from the book or handout they read in campus, in between their hangovers and next Fuck, they become all panicky and take it out on the patient. And it was a pity if you were a female with legs that could be spread.
I knew that the moment I attend any of the recommended therapy sessions, I’d be empowering a potential rapist, if he hadn’t raped an unfortunate patient already that it, and I wasn’t about to do that.
Who made liquor this bitter though. It was like a thousand knives stabbing my throat at once!
I got my first depression diagnosis quite early in my life. Around 14/15 I reckon. Mostly, I thought it was nothing but low moods. A lot of low moods and moments of nothingness. So, at 29, which was my current age, I had gotten used to it. I didn’t see a life without it nor my survival without being depressed. No one could convince me otherwise. Gone through a dozen unfinished therapy sessions, and the best one yet, was drugs. They were always there when I needed to run from myself. The next on the list was sex, which I realised made me a pervert. Using human beings as band aids for my pain. It was sick therapy.
Another drag at the finger of pot.
Damn, how will I handle the hunger that accompanies weed consumption?
Marijuana, art and depression was my holy trinity. It propelled me towards greatness with each of my favourite artworks being done in moments of my intoxication.
Chaos gives great foundation for beautiful art. I use mine as a drug. It is only someone who has experienced pain that is able to create moments of beauty. They know what they need and desire the most. The itch for a perfect utopia powers this.
The drugs. You ever experienced pain accompanied by pleasure? The numbness and nothingness felt. That’s what it’s like when you’re using drugs and are having moments of depression. It numbs you. You’re left floating through space with no concept of time and the now. It’s pleasurable. The pursue of this is addictive.
A friend told me, “drugs offer nothing but temporary relief.” It got me thinking, with our lives being temporal, is there anything permanent save death? Most of us are after temporary happiness because it is much more pleasant. It is like giving someone little peaks into heaven instead of the whole experience. It is beautiful. You never tire of it. Homeopathy is the right term I think. And in a world where the sky is orange in the morning and blue at midday, you never have permanent assured from and of anything.
Drown in liquor.
Hungry. Damn.
Clock, twelve noon.
I hate perfect numbers. 12:00… How and what kind of greeting do I give someone at noon. Exactly noon. I cannot say, “good afternoon” nor can I say, “good morning!” Do you now get why my tea gets cold in the morning while I have it at hand? Such thoughts. Perfection is a disease of mankind. Imperfection is our natural state. Unless you are nobody. Then you’ll be perfect.
Drug use that isn’t regulated is however harmful to your health. You’ll crack up and go mad. No one likes mad people. But if you’re an artist, you are either mad or not an artist at all.

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