A Junkie's Journey

Three

Deceit, manipulation, and verbal coercion. The order in which he used them really didn't matter; what mattered was whether or not he could trick everyone around him successfully without giving away the fact he was spouting constant lies. Rambling on and on, the prepared and well thought-out fabrications were convincing. He needed them to be convincing - he depended on his knowledge of human body language and how humans interpret spoken words in order to get his pills.

It all went back to the pills. It'd been a year since the first line a few months ago, which meant Tristan had been consistently snorting pills for over a year. To him, it seemed longer. He couldn't even remember a time where he actually swallowed a pill. How could people even swallow something that could make them feel like God if snorted?

At the beginning, it made Tristan feel like he had a purpose in life. For the first time in his life, he had felt whole and like he belonged.

That was the beginning of this.

As he looked down at huge lines that he was about to rail, Tristan couldn't deny that he was getting worse. It wasn't even a gradual decline - it was like riding a bike and going down a hill, not being able to slam the brakes and stop to regain control.

This was the life that he had made for himself, but was it the life he wanted? Tristan used to be unsatisfied with his life. If he would think about it now, he would have to snort some kind of drug to feel less overwhelmed.

Who would've thought Tristan would end up where he was at now? It was kind of funny to think about. In first grade, he stole a #2 pencil from his classroom on the last day of school. When he came home, he cried and had panic attacks because he felt so bad about it. The next day, his mom drove little six year old Tristan back to his school so he could give his teacher back the pencil and apologize.

Comparing first grader Tristan to current-day Tristan made him laugh. Fuck, he was such a wreck. From what he had done to himself, he really should be dead right now.

What was it like to feel genuinely alive without the help of substances? What was it like to be able to talk to anyone at any given point? What was it like to not obsess over every little error in life? What was it like to be motivated to get out of bed in the morning?

No. No, he couldn't let himself think like that. He needed more Focalin to deal.

Tristan's current therapist called him a "user" - she was probably trying to sugarcoat it. He could just add that to all the labels he'd received in the past few years from therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists, doctors, and anyone else. They all diagnose Tristan with different things, and sometimes, they change their diagnoses.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Borderline Personality Disorder. Major Depressive Disorder with Recurrent Psychotic Features. Insomnia. Substance Abuser. Asperger's Syndrome. Sensory Integration Disorder. Dissociative Tendencies.

Tristan was his disorders. He was his diagnoses codes from his doctors. He was disorders typed out in the DSM-V. He was the prescriptions used to treat the codes.

Tristan was nothing but code.