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    I just need to get this off my chest. 
    #1
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    This is a long read, with no specific purpose.
    I just feel lost. I feel free, and it's scary as fuck.

    Early 2015.

    An existential crisis. The world seemed bleak. I was sevely depressed, and smoked cannabis everyday.
    I did LSD as often as I could, and MDMA.
    I negleted my girlfriend, my friends and embraced the pitch-black shadow that was growing inside me.
    A slight obsession with death. The meaningless of everyday life.

    My girlfriend dumped me. I wasn't surprised. A few weeks earlier, my grandma had passed away.
    I lived in another country, six hours away from my family, and I could feel my sanity slipping.
    I went through a gram of MDMA and six tabs of acid in two mnths.

    Eventually, I broke down a work. A panic-attack. Shallow breaths, bright lighs that burned my eyes.
    I couldn't stop crying. I was caving in on myself.

    My boss told me to take a week of work. I followed her advice and went home.
    As I got there, a dear friend of mine offered me a Stesolid, the swedish brand-name for diazepam.
    Within 30 minutes, my anxiety was water and I was goretex.
    Within an hour, I could breathe and think without the overwhelming panic and dread;
    these awful feelings that had become my closest friends over the past few months.

    I got back to Oslo after that week with one thing on my mind; bensodiazepines.
    It was easier to find than a pair of sneakers;
    the streets were full of pushers of Xanax from Pfizer and diazepam from Ranbaxy.

    Four months later I was on 6mg of alprazolam a day, with the occasional diazepam and at least three beers every night after work.
    For some time, it kept me floating. I got alot of writing done, and I could perform at work, with the occasional slurred speech and a dead stare.

    I was sitting on a train when I experienced this moment of clarity, even though my head was in a heavy daze; I was addicted and I was slowly burning every bridge I had.
    I could smell the gasoline and I could feel the matchbox in my hand.

    On that train, a tuesday afternoon in november, I decided to go home.
    To get clean. To get my shit together.

    I quit my job as assitant manager.
    I did the irish exit; the french leave; call it what you may.
    I ghosted everyone I had come to know over the past five years.
    I said no goodbyes. No good lucks and no godspeed.

    The city was buried in snow as I came home at the beginning of december 2015.
    A dear friend hooked me up with a bottle of 100x5mg diazepam pills.
    The brand name in Sweden is Stesolid. I began my taper, and slowly cut down my dosage.

    Everything seemed surreal. I'd feel like fainting or falling to pieces. A very strange sensation.

    On the 23 of december, I took my last diazepam.
    The timeline is blurry from there on, but I think the severe withdrawals took two or three days to really kick in. I felt a detachment from the rest of the world. From myself, my thoughts, are these my hands?

    Everything was as if I was having a nightmare, unable to wake up.
    And sleep was no comfort; in my dreams, the horror knew no limits.

    After a month of suicidal thoughts, of the shits and vomiting, cramping and crying, Subutex came into my possession. It was like finding tapwater after thirty days in a desert.

    Alongside the Subutex, I got a blister pack of Tramadol.
    It is a very bad idea to take Tramadol as one is coming of GABA-drugs, due to the risk of seizures.
    However, I was torn apart and frayed inside, and these substances seemed to help my patch myself back together.

    In march 2016, three months after my last dose of diazepam, I began to find myself amongst the burning debris inside.

    However, I was now addicted to Subutex and Tramadol.

    Thus began another journey. I was enjoying these weird opioids at first;
    the euphoria; the annihilation of social anxiety and the creative push.

    I also managed to get a job, a part-time job as a mechanic. And things moved along fine.
    I'd get on and of the Subutex and Tramadol occasionally, but never longer than a week or two.

    As soon as the withdrawals began to subside, I'd get back on it, like a fucking moron.

    Six months after getting off benzos, I bought a blister of Ksalol 1mg, and a blister of Rivotril, 2mg.

    At first, they were consumed when I had no Subutex or Tramadol at home, or when I was hungover.
    Slowly, they crept back into my life and as of autumn of 2016, I was back where I was a year before.

    I'd wake up in the morning and take a Ksalol or a Rivotril. I'd lay in bed, waiting for it to kick in, to neutralize the world.
    As the calming effects began to take hold of me, I'd snort a line of Subutex, drop a capsule of Tramadol and get into the shower.

    I was also smoking at least a gram of quaity cannabis every day.
    My dad also smokes cannabis, so we'd buy 50 or 100gram every month.

    I'd show up at workin a stupor with pinpoint pupils and I would nod off during the morning meetings.
    When anybody asked, I told'em I was tired.
    When my boss asked me, I'd answer in a slur that I was on anti-anxiety medication, and that was that.

    I began to fuck up more and more at work, and my anxiety was creeping back upon me.
    Meeting friends seeme impossible. None of them did drugs. None of the had anxiety.
    I tried to explain it to one of my closest friends, how I couldn't get up in the mornings;
    the paralyzing fear and terror of being alive.

    He told me to get over it. To him, the problem was simple.
    It was like I was wearing shoes that were to small, and all I needed to do, was to take them off.

    One day, talking to a customer, I had popped 300mg of tramadol about thirty minutes earlier, and in the middle of a sales-argument, I turned to the nearest trashbin and threw up.

    Tramadol taught me how to puke with a smile.

    I excused myself and left the store. I never went back.

    If it hadn't been for my dad, I'd be homeless or dead.
    I lived with him in his apartment, which is big with three seperate bedrooms, to baths, kitchen, a big living room and two balconies.

    Some would argue that he was enabling me, and he was.

    One day, I was copping a box of 100 x 1mg of Ksalol and my hook-up asked me if I had tried Lyrica.
    I had heard of these drunken pills, but this was the first time I stumbled upon them.

    I bought four 300mg pills, red and white capsules with "Pfizer PGN 300" imprinted on them.
    I did some research pregabalin, and decided I'd take three of them, 900mg, at once.

    At this particular night, I was supposed to be watching my sisters dog.
    I had already taken her for a walk, so I figured I could get fucked up for a few hours.

    Two hours after consumption, I began to feel a sensation aching to that of being drunk and on MDMA at the same time.
    So, I took the last 300 mg capsule.

    I lost track of time, but it was straight up psychedelic with it's visual distortions, the enhancement of music and the complete loss of basic motorfunctions. I couldn't stand up without falling over or bumping into walls.
    The euphoria was massive. It was like nothing I had ever experienced.

    Then everything went black.

    I was slapped back into reality by my father and my screaming sister.
    I couldn't talk or stand up. They said my lips were turning blue.

    The next day, still feeling fucked up from the Lyrica, my dad said I had to get clean, or get the fuck out of his apartment.

    It was now november. I began to taper everything.
    First, I got off the Tramadol. Seven days of puking.

    Then, I weaned down the Subutex. I felt like death, laying under three blankets and freezing, then burning up, the freezing again. Forever it seemed.

    Come december, I was yet again on a taper from diazepam.

    And in march 2017, I relapsed. Hard. On everything. I got another job and I kept my addiction hidden.
    I was selling pastrys with miosis, malnourished and sleep deprived.
    Sometimes high on acid, or Lyrica.

    I bought alot of RC's at the time, as they were legal in Sweden.

    ALD-52. 4-Aco-Met. Norflourazepam. 2FDC-Ketamine, or what the fuck it was called.

    It went on until june, when I got a call from Oslo, to come back and work in a new bar they just opened.

    At this time, Tramadol was my daily drug, and I used the benzos mainly on weekends to get really fucked up.

    I want back to Oslo in august. My first week at my new job, I was in acute withdrawal.
    Sweating. The shits. Anxiety. I bought more Xanax of the street and got of the Tramadol.

    I kept doing Subutex, as Tramadol is really hard to find in Oslo.
    I got a hook-up for Lyrica and MDMA, and in october I spent almost 1000 dollars on drugs, while my salary was about 1700 every month.

    Eventually, I bought heroin.

    In november 2017, I took a week of work, with the sole purpose of doing drugs.

    After a six day binge on heroin, Rivotril, ALD-52, 4-aco-met and Lyrica, I woke up with a burning sensation in my left bif toe. It persisted for a month before I went to a doctor.

    He prescribed med Lyrica. 150mg, four times a day.

    December 2017, I went home for christmas. I popped some Lyrica and went out, and got into a fight, almost getting myself arrested.

    January to march 2018, I consumed everything I could find.
    Vyvanse, Oxycodone, amphetamine, heroin, Valium and I eventually found morphine-pills.

    In february I met this random hardcore junkie, and spent three days in his apartment with his friend and his rottweiler, doing amphetamines, heroin, GHB and rivotril.

    We went out on night and sold amphetamine and Lyrica to buy more heroin.

    I think I went psychotic after being awake for three days, and somehow provoked to dog to bite me in my face. Fortunately, he only scratched my nose.

    I went home bleeding, stumbling through the streets and seein shadow people everywhere.

    My doctor wrote me a sick leave letter (is that what it's called?) for five weeks.
    I said it was my toe, but I needed to detox.

    It was the worst month of my life.

    I spent my 30th birthday wanting to die.

    I'm writing this now, on may 17, 2018, high on Lyrica and morphine.

    I can't seem to get clean. I can't stand being sober.

    This is a rant, and I'm sorry about the disorder and dissarray of the report.

    My english has deteriorated, and my mind is going crazy with suicidal thoughts.
    There's no dread, no fear.
    There is just this weird sensation that nothing matters, and this is my excuse to keep doing drugs.

    It helps my with my writing, my social anxiety, and it destroys me at the same time.

    Anyways, thanks for reading. Ask any questions you want.
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    #2
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    Hey.. i like the way you write considering the type of piece. Consider rereading it. Looks like you have been doing a bunch of drugs and having problems with them all. Where can you turn other then the substances. The calendar of your life is dated by different substances and problems.
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    Yep your story is amazing and surreal yet seems also pretty normal, just swap in and out varoius drugs and thats the life cycle of many of us.


    What do you want to do?


    Its unlikely you will achieve social user or once in a while.




    Have you considered going into long term rehab?


    I mean like a year or more.

    You have cut off your friends and family before, its not hard to do. You just need to cut the drug cord for an extended period.


    If that is what you want.


    Getti g high on drug after drug is all well and good but it wont last and wont feel good forever, you will die if you keep this up.
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    #4
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    Quote Originally Posted by neversickanymore View Post
    Hey.. i like the way you write considering the type of piece. Consider rereading it. Looks like you have been doing a bunch of drugs and having problems with them all. Where can you turn other then the substances. The calendar of your life is dated by different substances and problems.
    Thank you.
    Yeah, I've been going down the same path for so "long", I can't remember how I felt before my drug-abuse.

    Whether it was sex, alcohol or pills, I've always taken it too far.
    My family is full of people who went mad, who are alcoholics and drug-abusers. So far, I dont seem to be the one who's breaking this cycle of misery. Thank you for reading
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    #5
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    Quote Originally Posted by zephyr View Post
    Yep your story is amazing and surreal yet seems also pretty normal, just swap in and out varoius drugs and thats the life cycle of many of us.


    What do you want to do?


    Its unlikely you will achieve social user or once in a while.




    Have you considered going into long term rehab?


    I mean like a year or more.

    You have cut off your friends and family before, its not hard to do. You just need to cut the drug cord for an extended period.


    If that is what you want.


    Getti g high on drug after drug is all well and good but it wont last and wont feel good forever, you will die if you keep this up.
    I know, my story vibrates with alot of other people. Thats why I thought I'd share it here.

    I want to write, and I am. I have a 300 page manuscript Im editing right now. Being high keeps the anxiety at bay, so I can sit down in peace and write.

    I dont have the money or the means for long term rehab.

    Got to work, I'll reply later.

    Ty for reading, and answering. Makes me feel less lonely.
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    #6
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    OP come and check out Words and you would be most welcome to post there too.
    Thank you for sharing
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    #7
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    I most certainly will!
    I write most of my stuff in my native tongue, swedish, although I really enjoy writing in english as the language has a certain beutiful flow that swedish somehow lack.

    Thank you for reading.
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    #8
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    When I read your account I didn't focus on any particular drug, my mind just kept substituting, "still trying what never works for long". I admit that anxiety is an incredible foe. All the adjectives used to describe it like "crippling", "paralyzing", "unbearable" I too have experienced in my life. It is how I began my life and so I believed for a long time it was my nature, something I would simply have to accept that other more confident people did not experience. You never know what might take your whole mental autobiography and rip it to shreds; in my case it was a tragic and devastating loss but it could be any number of things. The unexpected freedom of having everything I thought about myself, the story I had been sticking to for over half my life, obliterated, cannot be overstated. Once you realize that anxiety is self-manufactured and self-perpetuated you at least allow the opportunity to believe you can change the machinery and start to manufacture something else.

    Daily anxiety--the pervasive kind that is not seemingly connected to any actual threat, as well as social anxiety, have a much deeper root that gets masked by all the energy it takes to deal with the uncomfortable feelings. That root goes way back to your very first insight (2015. "Existential crisis"). The pathetic and tragic outcome of anxiety is that it confirms over and over again, in every single situation and encounter in daily life , that one is truly alone. The deepest fear of a human being is that we exist alone and unreachable, that we are unlovable because we are unknowable. The way to disarm this fear is to embrace our own alone-ness. Yes, I will never be completely seen for who I am, nor will I be able to completely know those I love--a good part of our existence will be invisible to anyone outside of our own skin. But, once you embrace that you are free to value the connections you do make, and those you allow others to make with you (you are the gatekeeper) to swell with meaning and trust. The sad thing I think about addictions--to anything distracting, not just drugs--is that you erode so much trust in yourself that it becomes impossible to trust others. Trying to live a life with no trust is a very painful way to go through your days.

    I think you do yourself a great disservice by looking at your situation simply through the sober/not sober lens. You have to get deep under that distraction to why life itself feels so difficult. For most of us that is a tangled mess of family baggage, childhood experiences, unhealthy adaptations we thought we had to make along the way, etc. But childhood should inform adulthood, not define it. Adulthood is a time to assess what has worked and what has not in terms of the story we created about ourselves. You are good with language so play with language in your head. How could you turn something negative that you may tell yourself around? How would you talk to a friend or your own child if they were in this situation? Above all, be kind to yourself.
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    #9
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    Quote Originally Posted by herbavore View Post
    When I read your account I didn't focus on any particular drug, my mind just kept substituting, "still trying what never works for long". I admit that anxiety is an incredible foe. All the adjectives used to describe it like "crippling", "paralyzing", "unbearable" I too have experienced in my life. It is how I began my life and so I believed for a long time it was my nature, something I would simply have to accept that other more confident people did not experience. You never know what might take your whole mental autobiography and rip it to shreds; in my case it was a tragic and devastating loss but it could be any number of things. The unexpected freedom of having everything I thought about myself, the story I had been sticking to for over half my life, obliterated, cannot be overstated. Once you realize that anxiety is self-manufactured and self-perpetuated you at least allow the opportunity to believe you can change the machinery and start to manufacture something else.

    Daily anxiety--the pervasive kind that is not seemingly connected to any actual threat, as well as social anxiety, have a much deeper root that gets masked by all the energy it takes to deal with the uncomfortable feelings. That root goes way back to your very first insight (2015. "Existential crisis"). The pathetic and tragic outcome of anxiety is that it confirms over and over again, in every single situation and encounter in daily life , that one is truly alone. The deepest fear of a human being is that we exist alone and unreachable, that we are unlovable because we are unknowable. The way to disarm this fear is to embrace our own alone-ness. Yes, I will never be completely seen for who I am, nor will I be able to completely know those I love--a good part of our existence will be invisible to anyone outside of our own skin. But, once you embrace that you are free to value the connections you do make, and those you allow others to make with you (you are the gatekeeper) to swell with meaning and trust. The sad thing I think about addictions--to anything distracting, not just drugs--is that you erode so much trust in yourself that it becomes impossible to trust others. Trying to live a life with no trust is a very painful way to go through your days.

    I think you do yourself a great disservice by looking at your situation simply through the sober/not sober lens. You have to get deep under that distraction to why life itself feels so difficult. For most of us that is a tangled mess of family baggage, childhood experiences, unhealthy adaptations we thought we had to make along the way, etc. But childhood should inform adulthood, not define it. Adulthood is a time to assess what has worked and what has not in terms of the story we created about ourselves. You are good with language so play with language in your head. How could you turn something negative that you may tell yourself around? How would you talk to a friend or your own child if they were in this situation? Above all, be kind to yourself.
    Thank you, so very much.

    I've had anxiety for as long as I can remember, but I do recall when it started to get out of hand:
    without going deeper, my mother lied about having cancer and kicked me out at 19 for questioning her.

    The fact that the first girl I really loved, not puppy-love love, cheated on me several times and my friends knew this but said nothing - it has broken something in me.

    This all happened within two years, and it has severly fucked up my ability to trust people.

    This took place between 2009-2012, but it's taken me this long to realize what damage it (I, might be the right term, since I'm the one thinking this way and acting) has done to me.

    I was ver angry for a very long time, before this feeling subsided when I started contemplating death.
    I've never been religious or anything besides maybe a high-school nihilist, but I had this "encounter" with "Death" during the influence of datura and LSD.
    It wasn't scary. It wasn't a bad trip. I simply noted that we're born to die, and no matter what god, gods or science you believe in, the conditions remain the same.

    I've been seeing a few psychologists, but I'm yet to meet anyone I feel "safe" with.

    There are these holes, these pits that my train of thought always seems to fall into - these thoughts that nothing matter and I should therefore abide my every whim for hedonistic pleasure - but that gets old, fast.

    I know cognitive behavioral therapy can help with this, but that scares me too - who am I without my anxiety, without my pessimism and my, at times, very immature resistance to anything that is appealing to the masses?

    I'm too dumb, or I'm too smart - I know nothing, and yet I feel I know too much.

    I'm just starting to realize that nothing is as I've credited it, or at least, very few things are.

    At the same time, living with no convictions, seems to inexplicably pull one towards the Abyss of the soul.

    Fuck.

    Anyway. Thank you, for reading, for answering - I appreciate it.

    And yes, I play with words, that's the only thing that keeps me here, alive.
    If I couldn't write, I'd already off myself. It's not about being published or making money - it just makes me genuily happy, to spit out words on paper.
    And as of now, the occasional speed-pill or blotter boosts that. However, I do know that I might just aswell fuck up my ability to write by fucking around with drugs.

    Bottomline is; life is coming at me, and I need to be sober to deal with it - which scares the fuck out of me, since I haven't been completely sober, for more than a week, in over almost ten years.

    For your question;
    How I'd talk to a friend in this situation?
    I have no idea what I would say. I have no idea what might leave my mouth.
    I might lie and say that hey, there's this and that, and it's so and so; something to pull'em up.
    Or I might've just said fuck it, do what you will (as that is the whole law).

    But lying to others, and lying to oneself, are two completely diferent beasts, wouldn't you say?
    Last edited by pulverstaden; 18-05-2018 at 22:14.
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    #10
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    I did acid yesterday and boy, did it loosen some of that existential anxiety.
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