10 years ago it was impossible for me to imagine that I would be alive today. Severe anxiety, depression, borderline pd, locked in my isolation. My private, secretive personal hell with a hopeless addiction to everything that “helped me to” escape life. Words can’t really explain how fractured my mind was, perhaps pictures can. I was living the Scream by Edvard Munch.
“In his diary in an entry headed “Nice 22 January 1892”, Munch wrote: I was walking along the road with two friends – the sun was setting – suddenly the sky turned blood red – I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence – there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city – my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety – and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature”.
I woke up, again. On the cold orange plastic bucket seats in Munich airport. Rushing with dry mouth and sore bones to connecting flight to London. Anxious. Bewildered. Lost in a cold empty labyrinth. A rickety flight to London, breakfast airline tots. The cabin attendant frowns and I smile back a “fuck you judgmental bitch”. Serve me!Vodka. Whiskey. Brief respite. New people and places. Anxiety churning in my gut. Washing down 5 Xanax with a tot of gin. I’ve got to go easy on the Xanax, I only have 7 cards left. I want to be alone and invisible in this crowd. Party airbus delivers me in a group with a thud to Vegas, the heat hitting me in the stomach as the sliding doors opened onto the tarmac.
I woke up, again. in a room at the Wynn. Thirsty. Focal point; bar fridge. The windows don’t open! Where the fuck am I? Where are we? Can I drink water from the tap? So thirsty. Money. We don’t have any! Gambling wins and loses! Bells in my ears. Bells on my tongue. Greed envy gluttony sloth – in one word, Vegas.
Vast blank voids. Slipping into the Deep seductive, warm treacle abyss. Garden of Earthly delights. Vulgar and amusing. Hollow sex, expendable players, reckless decadence. A hot wet swimming pool On the roof? Fake waterfalls in fake rocks… It’s night but it’s light? Thirsty. Bring me a drink charge it to the room. Did I leave my Ambien in my jeans? Fuck! How many Xanax do I have left? What happened to them? Who took them? It’s dark again. Who am I? Please let me sleep.
There still are pictures. I was in them, smiling. Was I even there? Looks like fun. I wonder what happened… nope. I don’t really want to know. Did I fool them? Did they buy my dream? Nothing matters. Nothing is real.
I woke up, again. Hit the tarmac in South Africa. Hungry. Thirsty. Lost? My car’s been towed. I have no phone and three pieces of luggage. That doesn’t look familiar? Definitely lost! Hours pass. This relentless African heat. I’m frightened. I’m alone. Again. A miserable drizzle of tears builds into a crescendo of involuntary sobs. A security guard lifts me up off the pavement and calls for help.
It’s been three days. Still sobbing. Why can’t I breathe? Where are my benzodiazepines. Nothing. Casualty at some hospital. A sharp exquisite spike in the arse! Yes please! Friendly ketamine perhaps? Aaaah. Perfect! Comfortably numb. Close the casket. I’m done.