Withdrawal

 

As I roamed around the hazy neon avenues and blazing metropolis of Los Angeles in the early days of the turn of the century, I was aware of the fact that I had been diagnosed as schizophrenic. I knew however that while some folks in the medical profession might have labeled me as such, such diagnosis was arbitrary and actually pretty useless. Subsequently I was prescribed a myriad of drugs to help keep my mental state stable and even regulate certain body functions; everything from mood altering medicine to a hefty dose of hallucinogens that were a licorice-scented joy.

This drug-induced state was often slightly agreeable, as I was able to drift off into chemically-induced trances and dream-like states of being. For me, it was like a mini-vacation from reality, and this mental escapism was something that I welcomed like an old friend time and time again.

As I continued my journey through the streets of Los Angeles, or wherever I stumbled, I was comforted knowing that many of its inhabitants, myself included, were medicating themselves madly and blindly in order to fight the psychological beast. There was a certain freedom found in the unknown, a resilience that carried me through to the other side of consciousness wherein I had full reign to explore the depths of my own paranoia and insanity. It seemed only natural that I was in the same position, on the same level as so many of those around me. After all, who was I to argue against the fact that most of the greater Los Angeles basin shared a similar diagnosis?

As I schlepped through the aisles of the local grocery and department stores, I hardly felt like I was shopping. It was almost like I had stepped into a parallel universe. I miss the endless summer days spent in the aisles of the local Target and Walmart stores, not knowing that I was about to discover an entirely new dimension. Much aimless wandering through the neon lit aisles with the muzak churning in the background. It was during this time that I somehow found myself befriended by an online group of Hackers residing in the Financial District of Lower Manhattan of New York City.  These were people who were heavily into the drug culture and they readily took me in as a kindred spirit and fellow Psychonaut. I found myself immersed into a subculture that revolved around the dark world of hacking, and the hypnotic hallucinogenic substances which littered the underbelly of society. Though I had no understanding of the intricacies of the so-called tech, I soon found myself inducted into a brotherhood of like-minded individuals that inhabited cyberspace like a secret society.

We all shared a common bond and discussed the minutiae of the hacker community with a fervor that only undertaking psychedelic journeys with obscure plants and chemicals could highlight. From the golden fins of opium to the sacred nectar of ayahuasca, our conversations revolved around out-of-this-world substances. Experiences could be had and shared on a deep level, bonding us together in a unique and almost mystic way. We filled the hours with deep and intense conversations about hacking 1024-bit encryption systems while discussing the latest psychedelic substances found in the jungles of far off countries.

Having been entombed to the depths of a drug induced coma for three long years, I knew it was high time to find an unorthodox means of recovery. This particular group of ‘friends’ had recommended a peculiar solution: Lock myself in a dark room with a bottle of Bacardi and I would prevail. Although I took the advice with a red flag, I was determined to make it work…

I thus set out to find myself a group of meddlesome construction workers to disturb my peaceful abode. After a few days of fruitless searching, I eventually met a fine bunch of Southeast Asian men who proved to be the perfect choice for roof replacement.

My plan was simple; Beyond the entry to my attic sat a dark room I could easily quarantine myself in, and through the pandemonium caused by the construction noise I could actively begin to overcome my addiction.

The first few days of this beautiful journey were no bed of roses. The cacophony of pounding roofs and loud fast-talking foreigners acted as a catalyst for my withdrawals, vibrating my brain with amplified hallucinogenic auditory experiences. It was the most intense feeling I had ever experienced, much worse than coming off Heroin I was told.

Never the less, through patience and determination I’ve made it out alive. I’ve kicked that drug habit with those peculiar means of recovery and I’m now a proud survivor. All I can say is: Never underestimate the power of the darkroom, a bottle of Bacardi, and a loud foreign workforce.