SHun

Intoxication

Getting drunk wasn't escape from reality. It took away all my inhibitions. It removed all of my insecurities. He connected me with my friends. There was a thrill in knowing I could be whoever I wanted to be, or at least I could forget who I was with just a little assistance. Just a little consumption of elixir. Some people in excel in academics. Others are gifted athletically, socially, artistically, whatever. Although I had the potential to be any of the above, my choice, my passion, my escape, my purpose, my goal, was to be intoxicated. And in that, I gave the word a whole new definition.
Everything I did revolved around getting high. I went through the experimenting phase earlier than most. By the time I was a freshman in high school, I had found my clique. Drinking was mostly a weekend thing, but smoking weed was a daily necessity. Weed was a mild, happy high. It is now a prescription for my anxiety and depression. He provided me the escape I needed and took the edge off my everyday life. It still does. Even though I could've been labeled a "stoner", but I wasn't burned out and I'm not stupid. My grades were starting to slip because of my social life. I was having fun. Girls, parties, friends, sports. Maybe not in that order. But pretty close.
The progression of my using increased steadily, but rapidly. Everything was still good though. Everything was still fun. I recall coming home one day in 8th grade. Stoned. My mother had her suspicions, but there wasn't much she could do. Actually, I'm sure she knew what was going on. She asked me if, "I was high?"
"No," I replied.
She told me, "Pot was a gateway drug."
"I wouldn't ever do any hard drugs," or something to that effect I said with firm, even plausible conviction. Too bad that prediction never held any validation.
Apparently my behaviors and attitudes were a bigger problem than I thought. For my junior year, my mother sent me to live with my father in California. So here I was at another new school, completely different, and knew absolutely no one. Considering the change, I did surprisingly well. I brought all my grades up to respectable averages. Started my first real job at Chucky Cheese. Yes, a few times I put on the mouse costume. I got my driver's license and saved money to buy my first car. Medical at work and had some friends to pass the time. Most importantly, I was clean and sober. For the first time since I started smoking pot and drinking, I didn't get high for the entire time I was in California. On a few occasions, I snuck a cigarette, but that was it. It's funny what isolation and desolation can sometimes accomplish. After my junior year was done, I figured I had everything under control. I missed my old friends, my old home, and my old life. I was bored, but not miserable. I was content, but not happy. Against the wishes of both my mother and father, my mind was made up. It was my decision. So on an impulse I packed what little belongings I had, loaded up my Firebird, and drove back to Connecticut. Let the celebration begin.
As soon as I got back home I started making some phone calls. After I let everyone know I was back home and unpacked my car, I was gone. I was often running. Back to my old friends and back to my old habits. This time I was a little older, had a little more money, and I had an insatiable desire to get fucked up that had been nearly a year in the making. Yes, I'm back. Or I should say, I had arrived.
My senior year in high school was a nonstop party. And with a fake ID and a number of liquor stores and bars that didn't card, drinking became more frequent. Too frequent. But I was maintaining. School was not much of a priority. To say I squeaked by is a gross understatement. I barely graduated. My mother and I had to meet with the guidance counselor to figure out how I could make up the extra credit so I could to participate in the graduation ceremony with the rest of my class, and friends, and essentially, the whole reason I moved back to Connecticut in the first place.
Working and partying became my priority. At some point during my senior year I was working three jobs. I was making decent money for a high schooler, had a nice car, a smoking older girlfriend, and getting high took on a whole new element. Getting high took on a whole new meaning.
I know there were times I experimented with some harder drugs here and there. But when I was 17 is when the exploring progressed. I don't remember how, but crack made itself a part of my daily routine. What a rush that was. Since I got out of high school at one and had to be at work at four. That left me about two hours and 45 minutes to get wrecked. We would fly out of school and go straight to the ghetto. Pick up anywhere between five and 15 dime bags of crack. Smoking as soon as we got back to the house. Then leaving no time to spare and had to work and remain there until about 9:30 when my shift ended. Sometimes I'd head home, but usually I stopped at my friend's for a long session before calling it a night. A restless night. Then I was back to school the next morning to start the cycle all over again.
The weekends were a whole different animal. Cases of beer, bottles of hard liquor, the monthly keg or two, and drugs. Pills, mushrooms, acid, crack, weed, liquor, and pretty much anything else we could get our hands on. I could get my hands on. I had no reservation about trying something new. Life was fun. Life was good. A 24 hour seven days a week party. With the exception of a few hours of school here and there and the nearly 30+ hour work weeks I was putting in to maintain my excessive lifestyle, I had it all figured out.
With high school out-of-the-way I could focus solely on work and play. There was no desire to further my education. I didn't need to. I had a career job that would've allowed me a respectable salary and I was able to maintain. I was rapidly climbing the ranks in a prominent tire and wheel franchise. Hard work got me from a tire installer to an assistant store manager in less than two years. The money was great. The perks were great. The potential was great. I would've had my own store and one more year. Six-figure salary. Doing it. I know I would've. I was almost there as it was.
Every mind altering substance provided a difference in sensation. But ultimately the goal was always the same. To take me away.

Every mind altering substance provided a difference in sensation. But ultimately the goal was always the same. To take me away.