DOSE:

Repeated cups

oral

DXM

(liquid)

BODY WEIGHT:

160 lb

Well isn't that the million dollar question? Like, perhaps, if I expose my little secret, if you might call it that, everyone might be fortunate enough to go through what I went through. Set the course, disregard the wind, and disembark toward eternal joy. The truth is, I'm never happy, but I suppose there's more to it than that.
I'll never forget where I was when I got the call. Sitting in my rusted out Ford Explorer on break outside the Olive Garden at which I wasted my evenings. The smoke from my Black 'n' Mild left a wretched taste in my mouth, but it beat buying a pack of cigarettes and having to admit that I was addicted to those, too. By this point, I'd only recently come to the conclusion that drugs were taking control of my life, and that everything would probably stop falling apart if I would just quit. That day was not unlike every other that summer. The sun's gorgeous gleam shone brightly, but it's healing rays couldn't pierce the miasma hovering over my head.
I suppose I should skip back a bit, I first met Sam in High School. Even at the young age of fourteen, his intelligence and charisma were undeniable. His voice was startlingly low. Intimidatingly gravely, yet somehow soft and serene; it was enticing just to hear him speak. His muscular build and booming voice combined with his kind demeanor gave him a 'gentle giant' sort of persona. He was the kind of person whom everyone stopped to greet when he entered the room. Level-headed and kind to everyone, he was the personification of cool. When I walked into my living room years after meeting and having forgotten him, I was pretty shocked to see him on the couch watching TV with Diane.
'Sam Cortula?!' Not his real name.
'Ricky?'
'Oh, god! Please don't call me that!' I couldn't help but laugh. I hadn't heard my grade school nickname in a long time. No one is supposed to like the idea of someone dating their sister, but if it had to be someone, I was glad it was him. We were instantly friends and he fit into my friend group quite well. I was pretty heavily into smoking weed by then (and occasionally using whatever else I could get my hands on), and was intrigued to find he had had struggles in the past with heroin, which was why he fell off the face of the earth in college. He had been working to clean himself up since then, and hanging out with him and my other friends was one of the few highlights of a terrible year plagued by failure and addiction. Despite having some great friends and a wonderful girlfriend, I had a strong disdain for life and an almost psychotic case of depression. Every day was a meaningless exercise in futility, and drugs provided me an escape.
Cough syrup was my favorite by far. Dex was what I called it, short for dextromethorphan, the name of the chemical responsible for its glorious effects. Plus, cough syrup didn't sound nearly as cool. I've tried a daunting number of illicit substances, each unique in its own, mystical way, but nothing could touch my beloved dex. The numbing dissociation, the philosophical contemplation, the overwhelming euphoria, the love I'd never before knew; it made me understand existence in a way that I was certain no one else ever could. I was no longer a confused, lost boy. I was an entity, a being separate from the physical world. Free from cognitive bias, purely logical. It made my robotic personality feel more like an empowering identity. It made me feel real, whatever that meant.
It's considered dangerous to use more than once per month, so, naturally, I did it at least three times a week. Filling in the off-days with whatever I could get my hands on. Spend enough time working in restaurants, and you can find a source for anything. I just never really understood how to relax and enjoy myself unless I was intoxicated in some way. Every day I'd go to school or work just to zone out and waste as much time as possible so I could skip to the evening. Every day was a nightmare, and every night, an adventure.
Sam ended up being a positive influence on my friends and I as the months passed. We worked out, smoked weed, and partied like the immature adults we were. It was surprising when he decided to bring it to a stop.
'Hey, do you guys want this?' He held up his bowl. It's marbled design sparkled as the sun shone through it.
'What, you taking a T break?' I replied. Tolerance break. Ideally, you didn't know what that meant.
'I don't plan on needing it anymore.'
'Alright man.' Alex reached out and snagged the glass time machine from his hand. 'We'll hold on to it for you until you're done with your break.'
He forced a smile and left to go to work. We obviously didn't need another bowl; we had plenty, but Alex tucked it into his laptop bag, regardless. He was always the type to hold on to these kinds of things. I think he just liked to collect paraphernalia. In the back of our minds, we were proud of Sam. This would be the last bad habit that he needed to stop.
'It's just,' Alex paused to collect his thoughts, 'what're we going to do when we hang out with him now?'
'I guess we could do normal people things.' Joe finally chimed in to the conversation.
'Like?'
Silence hung in the air for a moment.
'We'll have to ask a normal person.'
The idea that Sam just wanted to quit smoking weed was much more likely than him simply wanting a tolerance break, but the concept of such a thing made no sense to us at the time, especially considering it was him, of all people. Sam had struggled with drugs a lot in recent years. It was strange seeing him like this. I can still vividly remember the first time I watched him shoot up.
'I know my limits.'
'So you've said.' I sarcastically replied as I watched him prepare the syringe. Among my long list of poor choices, smack was still nowhere to be found at the time. I wasn't shy about expressing my resentment of his habit.
'And I've yet to be wrong. I've yet to do something with this shit that I didn't intend to.'
'So far so good, I suppose.' I joked. “If only you weren't so god damn boring when you're high on this shit.'
'I'm sorry man. Not much I can do about it.'
'You know, for someone who's so very rational and intelligent, you've got some shitty self control.'
'I suppose so.' The weakness in his voice conveyed a feeling of defeat. It hurt to watch him silently acknowledge that he was in over his head, but was such a relief now, as I looked back on it. Months went by. Things got better. For everyone else. I couldn't help but feel left behind.
So there I was, a year or so later, in my shitty car, hating my life and thinking in circles about how I wish I could clean up and straighten out like the other guys, when I got the call. My father was always so blunt with these things.
'Hey, guy.' Apparently calling people 'guy' is a habit you get from being in the military.
'Hey, what's up?' 
 'Sam overdosed this morning. Your sister's a mess. I figured you'd want to know as soon as possible.'
I could hear my pulse in my ears. The wood tip of my cigar made an audible clunk as it fell to the ground outside the car. Looking back, the signs were so obvious. His worsening depression, the fact that he was wearing sweaters in the summer, and that fucking bowl. 'I don't plan on needing it anymore.' Christ. He was desperate to tell us, yet intent on not directly saying it, and I had just been too wrapped up in my own misery and selfishness to notice the world's most conspicuous clue. The next few months (and those prior, really) are a bit of a blur. They say dex destroys your memory, they weren't lying. I went on a drug spree of monumental proportions, doing anything and everything I could to escape the crippling crutches of sobriety. Before long, I reached the point of being incessantly messed up. I don't know how the few humans that I interacted with didn't catch on. Maybe they did. Maybe they just didn't have it in them to say anything. I hope I never know. I was a mess. I ended up dropping out of school and working at that nasty Olive Garden full time.
Time crept and days blurred as my existence drifted past me. Concerned looks and hollow sympathy dominated whatever conversation in which I was engaged. I was an empty husk. Working solely to earn enough money to see the stars at all times. I succeeded.
I guess if I had to pinpoint a day at which I finally snapped, it'd be November 6, 2013. I'd been on a 3 day dex binge, consuming a bottle or more every day. It bothers me that I can't quite remember the details of the trip, but the account from my friend Kevin sums it up pretty well.
'You were just rolling around on the floor shouting 'I got it!' In between bursts of laughter'.
And so the classic cliché goes, the dissociation from myself gave me the perfect vantage point to reevaluate my life. The process of stagnantly rotting away disgusted me from an outside perspective. I knew I had to make a change. Everything was going to be ok. I didn't have to die. For the first time in years, I didn't want to. I was ready to start over. I was ready to live.
If this story were fiction, this would be the epilogue. I'd reflect on Sam's death and how it affected me positively as the anniversary came and went. If this story were fiction, his death would've succeeded in leading me to clean up my act. I'd think about how great it was that I sobered up and finished school. I'd proudly state that I've never tried heroin after seeing what it did to him (not that it matters, dex is so much better). If this story were fiction, I probably wouldn't have been high when I started writing it. If this story were fiction, Sam's death would've been the end. It wasn't. But, while the numerous fictions I've written always seem to end in the darkest way that my limited creativity can conjure, this story has the advantage of being unfinished.
The battle never stops, but you only lose when you stop fighting back. A lot has happened in the last few years, and I've come a long way. I got myself a well paying job and bought an Audi. An Audi! At 22! It was amazing, and it was a symbol of how far I'd come and everything that I had accomplished. Beyond all measurable odds, I was straightening out and buckling down.
I ended up wrecking the car later that year. Fell asleep at the wheel. It probably would've been fine, but I lost the job a couple days later. Right back where I started. It's a situation that would've ruined me in the past, but I refused to let it bring me down. Like the rat, scouring the dumpsters of New York, intent on finding enough food to make it through the night, I persevere. Not completely sure where I'm walking, and even less so of the efficiency of my gait, I look straight ahead and persist. I wear the faces, fake the smiles, and stand out in every way that I can. I'll brighten the room, go the extra mile, and make the day of a stranger every chance I get. Every day gets 100% of me. And, every once in a while, I'll catch someone off guard with my optimism. Like the idea that a miserable person seeing the bright side is so profound, but it's just so obvious to me.
You see, when you ask why I'm always happy, the story is quite long, and admittedly a little boring, but the answer is actually quite simple:
I've seen hell, and this isn't it.

Exp Year: 2013	ExpID: 109550
Gender: Male
Age at time of experience: 22
Published: Nov 10, 2020	Views: 54
[ View PDF (to print) ] [ View LaTeX (for geeks) ] [ Swap Dark/Light ]
DXM (22) : Various (28), Retrospective / Summary (11), General (1)