A Junkie's Journal

Three

edited (10.21.16)

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Sure, Tristan's psychiatrist was licensed, but that didn't mean she was good at her job. He had an appointment with her today, and he wasn't looking forward to it. She switched his prescriptions every time he went to her, and he was sick of it; nothing worked, so why bother? In addition, Tristan was having a bad week, and since his mother and grandmother sat in the room during the appointment, his actions would definitely be brought up. Good thing he had drank some wine before the appointment; otherwise, he would've been a mess.

Everyone was in the psychiatrist's office, talking about how Tristan was doing; however, none of the questions about how he was doing were directed toward Tristan. Hilarious.

After a while of ignoring her patient, his psychiatrist, Emily, finally acknowledged him. "Tristan, your mom says you've been more frustrated than usual this week." Emily leaned back in her chair, staring at Tristan. He didn't like her, so he didn't see a reason to talk. Talking would get him nowhere. "You punch your walls when you're angry, and this time, you've... made two holes in your walls?"

Tristan shrugged, then looked up at her. "It's the only thing that helps with my anger."

The psychiatrist showed a small smile. Emily thought she intimidated Tristan by being a professional and having a degree, but he had her figured out. She was obviously trying to play God, with all the medicines she could easily put in a script and her threats to send patients to the psych ward if they acted out. Fuck, that was how most doctors were; saving other people's lives in order to actually mean something to someone.

Emily's voice took him out of his thoughts and brought him back to reality. "Tristan, making two holes in your walls is called 'acting out.'"

"No," he furrowed his brows in confusion. "It's a coping strategy." That was what his psychologist kept repeating to him. Which one of them was right, his psychologist or his psychiatrist?

Emily laughed to herself, which pissed Tristan off. Tristan's mother spoke up and said, "He's tried all the coping mechanisms: binging, purging, cutting, crushing up Focalin-" The psychiatrist cut her off mid-sentence.

The psychiatrist cut her off mid-sentence, looking like she was trying to hide how smug she felt. "Those are all the ways people act out." She still had the stupid grin on her face, like she was purposefully pissing Tristan off for enjoyment.

Tristan slapped his thighs, then put his hands in his hair and pulled hard. He mumbled, "Fucking shit." Tristan had had enough of her 'licensed' bullshit, so he stood up from his chair and tried not to show his anger in the words he spoke. "I'm leaving. I'm fucking leaving." The psychiatrist wanted him to stay, but Emily couldn't erase Tristan's memory of her words.

The words 'acting out' were ringing in Tristan's ears; the ringing was increasing and amplifying the current emotions he felt, and he couldn't deal with it. Tristan needed to find a wall that he could punch as hard as possible. He needed pain, he needed a release. After desperately searching around the building, Tristan found a brick wall and punched it as hard as he could. He wished he could say that it helped him as much as he was convincing himself it did.

This was bullshit. Sticking your fingers down your throat after every meal you ate was acting out? Snorting your prescription stimulant because it was the only thing that distracted you from your thoughts was acting out? Smoking cigarettes because it calmed your anxiety was acting out? Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

Tristan punched the brick wall again and kept his fist against the wall. What was he doing? He was going to have a mental breakdown if he kept letting himself feel things. He went outside to smoke because his thoughts were racing and he needed to get rid of this frustration he was feeling. Tristan teared up; God, he was actually tearing up. He couldn't take it anymore. The guilt, the anger, the hatred, the depression, the anxiety, the addictions. There was no one to blame but himself when it came to ruining his life. Tristan was the problem in his own life.

When Tristan got back home, he went straight to his room. He was still feeling a little woozy from the wine he drank before the appointment. After searching around for a few minutes, he found a bag of crushed caffeine pills, and made lines with a razor. Tristan was lost, searching for a high that was obviously unattainable from caffeine. He needed his Focalin back; he was going insane without it. He made several more lines and ended up railing 600 milligrams of caffeine. This amount didn't affect him at all.

Tristan was so fucking desperate for drugs. He needed something, anything, to take him out of his mind. He was trapped in his own thoughts. He asked around to see if he could find a dealer, but the only person he found was a guy named Colin.

Colin wasn't attractive; he only had a way with words that had girls lining up just to talk to him. To Tristan, Colin seemed like an attention seeker. He pushed his opinion of Colin aside and texted him. A few minutes later, Colin told Tristan that if he wanted some Xanax, he'd have to buy him a pack of cigarettes and give him a blowjob. Tristan laughed at him and Colin called him a prude.

A few hours later, Tristan was looking through his room to find places that he would've hidden his drugs. He found a Focalin pill capsule that had a few pellets left inside. He was so excited and relieved. Tristan had found some more Focalin, and Focalin was what he needed to keep himself sane.