A Junkie's Journey

Two

Anger. Honestly, Tristan was angry all the time, but he wasn't about to tell his family or friends. He could only control his temper when he was either drunk, high, or both. Why was Tristan so angry all the time? Maybe it was due to his mental disorders.

His family thought all of his diagnosed mental illnesses, including anger issues, were fake; they blamed his instability on everything they could think of other than a chemical imbalance in his brain. They were even starting to convince Tristan that he didn't have problems. According to his parents and grandparents, his anxiety was just Tristan feeling uncomfortable and over-exaggerating how he felt. His BPD was just regular teenage hormones. His psychosis was apparently due to his nonexistent anxiety. Even Tristan knew his so-called "eating disorder" was a lie.

Although they believe that those illnesses were fake, they thought some of them were actually real. Tristan had been slowly developing depression for years, falling into the pit that was almost impossible to climb out of. Four years ago, he took one of those "Do I Have Depression?" quizzes online, and apparently, he had severe depression. Tristan told his mother. She said that she would get him a psychologist and her priority was making sure that Tristan was okay.

Guess who never had an appointment to see a psychologist? Whenever Tristan would remind his mother about booking an appointment, she would make up lies. "Oh, yeah. I forgot! I'll do that tomorrow." She had even set a reminder as an alarm on her phone, but ignored it. The fact that it seemed like she didn't care about him made Tristan worse.

Three years passed, and Tristan had gotten worse. He couldn't really do anything anymore other than messing with his phone all day. He'd had insomnia all his life, but it got worse. He had panic attacks at home and even at school; sometimes, Tristan would have to leave the classroom and go to the bathroom so that no one would see him freak out over nothing. His OCD was a huge part of his life, because when Tristan didn't get very much sleep, it'd flare up. He never really ate anything, and he exercised whenever he could. He lost twenty pounds in a few months. At this point in time, his mother had probably realized she fucked up by not paying attention to his mental state, so she got him a psychologist.

The psychologist didn't really help. Tristan was still doing the same shit he was doing before he started seeing her. Once his psychologist had seen him a few times, she recommended a psychiatrist to prescribe pills to "cure" him.

A year ago, Tristan was prescribed antidepressants and antianxiety pills. He took them like prescribed, and they didn't do anything. A month after being prescribed the original pills, his psychiatrist wrote a prescription for a new chapter of his life; addiction.

Over the years, he had taken a shit ton of different pills for his disorders, and none of them had done anything. Tristan wasn't expecting a miracle from these pills, but he had wanted them to make him feel... Better. Even feeling slightly better would be satisfying. Since none of the pills worked, this just convinced his grandparents that Tristan was faking everything.

Basically, not sleeping for days convinced his grandmother that he really wasn't faking the insomnia. Even though she knew it wasn't a well thought-out lie of Tristan's, she still told him to "just get some sleep" when he couldn't fall asleep.

So, when Tristan usually sank emotionally, he had ran out of Focalin in the evening. He would get angry and upset with himself; he mainly got lost in the thoughts that ran through his head.

"I'm faking my mental illnesses. I only have a drug and adrenaline addiction and hormones."

"Why am I even addicted to shit like drugs and alcohol? I have no reason to be."

"Honestly, why am I here? I don't see the point. So far, even if I didn't contemplate suicide, I'm probably still going to die early. My organs are failing and I don't care enough to do anything about it."

"Quotes, songs, books, and even conversations are just words strung together wanting to have a purpose, but they're all meaningless. They're written in a specific order to get a point across. What happens when the person I'm trying to talk to doesn't listen to my thought-out sentences or hear the emotion I put into playing the piano? What's the point of even opening my mouth, even moving, if I'm nearly invisible?"

"I fake everything. I'm admitting it to myself. All this time, I've just wanted attention. I lie, snort pills, drink, attempt suicide, and pretend I'm transgender just to receive attention that I convince myself I'm not getting. Thing is, they're giving me almost all of their attention, and it's not enough."

"Oh, would you look at that - it's 11:11. All of the things like 11:11 spread on social media and stories told by teens are lies, trying to make life seem worth living. Doesn't everyone realize that they're a puppet? There's no point to texts or social media posts when no one cares. Deep down, even if they think they don't, they put themselves before others and pay the most attention to themselves. Hate to break it to you, but no one gives a shit about your "In a relationship" status on Facebook. No one gives a shit about your seventh selfie in a row you posted on Instagram. No one gives a shit about your friends, your favorite things, and your mood. Everyone is a little bit of a narcissist."

At this point, Tristan was done. He was done with everything: himself, school, friendships. He was giving up.

"This is my official 'I'm giving up,' because nothing is worth it. I'm going to do shit that will ruin me, and I don't care - I give up."

He wasn't planning on committing suicide. He didn't want his death to be sudden.

Tristan wanted to feel the pain a slow, dragged-out death would give him. It would be the only feeling he'd have since he remembered.