broken glass everywhere

Thurs|03.06

Hey-ey.

Got a hit from a search for "klonopins" and when I clicked through to the google page, I found these two pages as well:

01-05-02 - Heh. Well, after that aforementioned period of sobriety ended in mid-February, I slowly got more and more into dr00gz, drinking rather heavily with my neighbor across the street who introduced me to a guy I'll refer to as Big O, who had a hookup w/ a KiloKonnection d00d. Kilos of, get this, high-grade, refined Persian opium. Hanging out with him a lot, I got into pills again, even having a scrape with an old friend, clonazepam. God, I dont remember that entire week. Then, get this, I found a dude who sold vials of KETAMINE. Needless to say, I cracked out HARD on that, got to shootin' it up IV every day, got arrested in Wharton County, Texas while trying to watch some damn meteor showers, and am now facing charges of MJ posession & Controlled Substance possession. My parents bailed me out on the condition of me going to rehab.

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9:41 am Lighting my last Basic I climb the stairs back to the squalor of my room, 3 plastic wrapped white rocks buried in my cheek. I glance in a mirror propped in the corner, not daring to look myself in the eyes. Fuck it. Burning my lip on the crack pipe, I remember a time long ago. All my dreams collapse into the present; just me and my fading glow of smack and the microscopic crumbs of crack I search for in the folds of the bed. The walls close in as I fight for a breath, a fix, a way to exist. The wind screeches through the broken window pane, rusted chains creak and car alarms pulsate as I attempt to surgically remove the bugs under my skin.

People and their drugs. Who knew. The second guy's a pretty good writer, actually. In myyyyy opinion. Click through.

Tomorrow is Friday and I have the day off from my working area. My place of employment. My eensy square of daytime containment.

Over there? See? Are dishes to wash. So let's get a-goin! Okay then.

Shoutout to my apparently sick-in-the-head friend rosey and her page of ... disturbing .... and brilliant blog entries. YOU ROCK ROSEBUD!!!

Okay then. Once again.

to all my frennnnnns

Sun|03.02

Still going through old files. I had two computers before this one, and have files from each in folders called "old1" and "old2" and then within them are bunches of stories, random quotes, and articles I copied from who knows where. Want a sample? Why sure you do. This is all 1998-99. None of it written by me, all copied and pasted. (Oooh, except for the numerology bit at the end--okay fine that was me NO SHAME HERE well maybe a little.)

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Virgilio Pinera. ``I have learned to swim on dry land,'' it reads. ``There is no fear of sinking, for one is already on the bottom.''

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Benzodiazepines are classified in the CSA as Schedule IV depressants. Repeated use of large doses or, in some cases, daily use of therapeutic doses of benzodiazepines is associated with physical dependence. The withdrawal syndrome is similar to that of alcohol withdrawal and is generally more unpleasant and longer lasting than narcotic withdrawal and frequently requires hospitalization. Abrupt cessation of benzodiazepines is not recommended, and tapering-down the dose eliminates many of the unpleasant symptoms.

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LIVING WITH A DEPRESSED PERSON
Source: NIMH Depression Awareness, Recognition, and Treatment (D/ART) Program
The misery of depression extends beyond those suffering it to their families and friends... Depressed people often frustrate and alienate those around them. "Try not to take it personally," says a San Francisco psychiatrist. "They have an illness. They can't help it." Of course, that's often easier said than done. It's very difficult to control your temper when a close relative or friend never returns your calls, hardly gets out of bed, answers you in monosyllables, acts completely self-absorbed, seems to have no interest in you or doing anything you liked to do together, and doesn't keep dates or follow through on commitments. Get mad if you must, but then, get over it. Keep reminding yourself that the person is ill, and not responsible for his or her many failings.

Depressed people often engender tremendous guilt in those around them. "You think: Nothing I do seems to help, so there must be something wrong with me," The doctor says. There's nothing wrong with you, nothing to feel guilty about. You can't relieve clinical depression with love alone any more than you can cure heart disease or cancer with just love. People who are depressed need professional help. Many require medication.

Reassure the children of depressed parents that the illness is not their fault, says a Boston-area psychotherapist. "Otherwise," she says, "children may blame themselves for the parent's condition, feel guilty, and become more vulnerable to depression themselves." Also reassure the parents of depressed children in the same way. The illness is not their fault, and they can't "fix" it. The depressed person has to get professional treatment.

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Bandwagon (1997) (67/100)
Drunks (1997) (62/100)
Trees Lounge (1996) (82/100)
Walking and Talking (1996) (67/100)
Living in Oblivion (1995) (62/100)
Kiss of Death (1995) (64/100)
Bad Boys (1995) (33/100)
True Romance (1993) (72/100)
Zebrahead (1992)
Billy Bathgate (1991) (65/100)
GoodFellas (1990) (96/100)
Men Don't Leave (1990) (82/100)
Lost Angels (1989) (47/100)
Cocoon: the Return (1988) (33/

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Newsgroups: alt.drugs.hard
Subject: Re: Seeking guidance for Zanax & Klonopins (sp?)
Date: Mon, 24 Mar 1997 10:50:09 -0800
Organization: A Den of Iniquity in San Francisco
Message-ID:

>a half a klonnie (.5 mg) when yer sketchin BAD will smoove things out >considerably. good to have when yer stuck in a rut stuck in a rut stuck in a >rut

a note of caution: i've posted about this before (last summer) but all the a.d.h regulars from that time seem to be gone (i hope they're okay...) so i'll repeat the story.

in August of 1991, i had been up for about three nights on speed when i took two klonopins and what, for me, was a normal fix of heroin (about half a quarter of tar). i went out on a 'call' (i was doing what i had to to get money -- i was with an escort service at the time).

i got into the cab and that is the last thing i remember. i half-hazily remember ambling around the City (in the Mission district) calling my junk-buddy's name really loudly. i was missing one boot and my purse was gone.

in other words, i had a serious fugue. that's like a 'blackout' but worse, because you walk around doing shit without knowing what you are doing. thank god the cops didn't find me.

and i'm positive it was the speed/heroin/klonopin combination that did it. i do not, and did not at the time, drink alcohol... my junk buddy had taken the same speed and the same heroin and did not have anything like that happen to him.

i've had other weird shit happen to me on klonopin alone, too. it never seems to help with anxiety much, not in any way even close to what a Valium or a Xanax will do. the only thing i'd recommend them for is to take the edge off dopesickness, and they don't do that great a job at that, in my experience, either.

>peace and screw those idiots who know nothing about go fast...i only have a >problem when i run out. >just 'cuz they couldn't handle their shit.

my problem with speed was similar - not enough of it - i used to use it for writing. i got sick of being burned, and of doing so much of it that i was getting to the point where i didn't even know whether the stuff was really any good or not because my tolerance level was so high...so i quit it last February.

i can't say i miss it too much; every so often, i kinda wish i had a little line, but the 'craving' goes away pretty quickly

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1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
A B C D E F G H I
J K L M N O P Q R
S T U V W X Y Z

Callum Keith Rennie
313334 25928 955595
17/8 26/8 38/11/2
18/9
27/9
9+5 14/5

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Yay. That's all for now. Now? Sleeep. Hopefully.

I found my library books, found my keys, paid my fines, took out new books, got my mail, all is somewhat okay with the small part of world I call my own.

my hair's still curly and my eyes are still blue

Sat|03.01

Heyyyy it's Saturday all day. I haven't been to bed yet. I keep thinking, start your laundry! You won't feel like it after sleeping. You wanna start fresh, whenever you wake up. But. It's 3 a.m., shouldn't I go to sleep? So I compromise by staying up and doing nothing useful. Well so I found another old story that I'm going to share. Lucky, lucky you.

Someone titled it "Same Old Trouble" okay fine it was me, and it was last saved on 8/12/98. I vaguely remember it. I don't remember the experience of writing it, but I recall the characters, and their apartment house can be visualized. In me head.

I've changed nothing. Okay I corrected one misspelling of Bickle so sue me. Copyright me, now, blah blah blah. Does it even matter if I say that? MAN I gotta clean this dump.

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That girl was crying again, the one next door. He could hear her through the wall. The first time he'd heard her he'd leapt out of bed and was in front of her door, his fist poised to knock, before stopping to think.

He didn't even know her. And she wasn't crying in front of him, she was in her own home. Hearing her didn't make it less private. He pressed his ear to the door, undecided, and heard nothing. He went back to bed, feeling ashamed that he hadn't knocked and angry that he'd wanted to.

The few times after that, the noise had wrenched his stomach, made him curl the pillow over his ears. But now he was used to it. Buck up, he thought. Buck up, you little shit.

Because that's what she was.

He'd seen her at the mailboxes. Thought she was just another college student picking up daddy's check until she opened the metal box to apartment 1010. So this was the crying girl. He hesitated, then looked her over. She was taller than he'd imagined, sturdier. Shoulders squared, head up. She turned to him just as he felt it was time to look away. Her lips sneered over her words.

"Get a good look, Travis?"

The contempt hit him in the chest, and his face reddened. He'd only been putting a body to the tears, but her words made his curiosity creepy and leering. Her eyes said she understood everything, and that he disgusted her.

He walked away without getting his mail. Her expression was molten inside of him. He could feel it moving around, flooding his throat. He needed a shower and some Maalox. That her derision had been misdirected didn't hit him until hours later; he felt like he'd deserved that look.

Get a good look, Travis?

The snotty words played over and over in his head, bringing new shame each time.

Why had she called him Travis? His name was Rodney Peel. It was written above his mailbox, the one next to hers.

Maybe that was what she called everybody, like buddy or pal. But Travis didn't roll off the tongue the way buddy did.

Now, as she sobbed, he turned over and looked out the small window next to his bed. Cry, you little shit. Cry all you want. No help is coming.

She knew he was a security guard, and that he picked magazines out of the recycling bin. He had longish white hair, cut the way the Beatles wore it when they'd first made it big. He left his apartment at night and came back at dawn, so he worked the night shift. His uniform was blue and gray, but she couldn't make out the details through her peephole. He was weird. He thought no one noticed the way he haunted the floor, picking up lint and putting it into his pocket.

That struck her as especially strange. Most people took lint out of their pocket and threw it anywhere, but he put it back in, like he'd lost it.

She could hear the creak of his apartment floor as he exercised after work, probably push ups or sit ups. Guy exercises. It was why she called him Travis. She watched "Taxi Driver" at least once a month, and except for his hair, and his creamy white-blue eyes, she thought of him as Travis Bickle.

She knew if she took the time to think about it, even with what little she knew, he'd be nothing like Travis Bickle. But he was stuck that way in her mind. He plotted his life's purpose as he walked the hall stooping for lint. His destiny would peak, and she would be there. Because her given name was Iris.

It had to mean something.

She should've been at midterms, but she'd stopped going to classes around Valentine's Day, pulled out the phone a week or so later. Sent a postcard to her parents saying she'd cut off phone service, since it was too distracting to her studies. That she should write more letters anyway, and that she was fine and excited to be in her final semester. First she'd written "trimester," some kind of Freudian thing, but she'd opened a container of white-out stolen from her old work-study job at school and had changed it to the proper word.

The only mail she opened was their monthly check. They didn't know yet that she wasn't graduating. That she hadn't left the building in a month. Hadn't spoken to anyone for who knew how long, except Travis that time in the hallway.

Her bubbled fantasy had exploded when she turned from her mailbox and saw him staring, like he'd never seen her before. Suddenly he was real, a white-haired man in jeans and a t-shirt, with smells and thoughts of his own.

She wished she hadn't been so . . . whatever she'd been. But she couldn't make friends with someone who lived next door. He might burst in at any time.

Funny how he didn't seem to know who she was. She'd known him since he'd moved in. Three boxes and a fold-up mattress on wheels, that's what he had. A small kitchen table, one of those old Formica ones that probably would've been worth something if not for the gash along the side. One chair. That was it. No TV, no stereo, unless it was small and in one of the boxes. Pitiful.

Not that she had a TV, but she used to. She'd thrown it off the roof into the small alley between buildings, because she'd heard that it would explode. She'd been disappointed.

Her walls used to be white, and she knew she was supposed to keep them that way. But she'd taken to writing lyrics that caught her attention onto the wall, wherever she happened to be at the moment the song was playing. A pen or marker was always in reach. Sometimes she'd write a phrase or thought that popped into her head, like, "It's a big sky." That one was a relief to come across when she glanced around the room. She was a speck compared to the enormity of the world. All she had to do was look up at the endless blue from the roof of her building, and she felt so much better. Below "it's a big sky" was a lyric from some sixties tune she'd heard on the radio: "I saw so much, I broke my mind." It sounded better in the song than it looked on the wall, alone and out of context. But she didn't feel like scrubbing it off.