Careless

I hate the stench of stale tobacco on my clothes. I hate the sensation of being far from reality when the drugs attack my body and mind. I hate the lack of sensibility when the devils nectar poisons my brain. I hate stealing from the oblivious shopkeepers. I hate driving when intoxicated and drugged, smiling at the police officers that watch me beaming- as though they gather I have nothing to hide behind my misleading smile. I hate when the doctors tell me I am doing fine.

I’ve long perfected the ability to play the game right and pretend that I am same.

As I drive down the main highway of Brisbane I am conscious of the smell of roll ups lingering even with the windows rolled all the way down. When I take a sharp turn I can hear the clink of the empty bottles of sugar free cruisers that roll into one another. I am ashamed that I have taken up smoking again, that I have started drinking again, and for the first time in three years- begun doing illicit drugs again. I’ll do anything to escapee the realism of my pain. I wish there were another way.

As I speed down the highways, I wish a cop would pull me over for DUI and speeding. When I steal, I wish shopkeepers would catch me so I would not do it again. When I touch illicit drugs, I wish the nurses would realise as I return to the hospital I am forced to call home – and get the help I need. I wish I knew not how to lie. My pyschatrist – Malcom is an excellent doctor. But I am afraid to admit the errors of my present. I don’t want want to have to say it out loud for it would make it all seem so real.

What am I meant to do?

I hate who I am and who I have become. I left NFC – a mental institution for the mentally unwell – in a state of recovery. But all that has diminished and I have become who I despise once again.

I have become myself.