Gerard's thoughts on the two days that he disappeared for a drug binge, intending never to return. Slight Frerard.
...as well as some not so fun experiences that I've personally had. And yes, if you follow the tumblr, I know the opening quote ended up being different than the one I had mentioned earlier --- but halfway through, this story ended up going in a totally different direction than I had intended it to.
It's my beau and I's seventh year anniversary today, so I am off to the traditional lobster lunch. Hope y'all enjoy. :)
“I believe in a long, prolonged, derangement of the senses in order to obtain the unknown.” - Jim Morrison.
All I want is to be taken away into the realms of the drug world, away from anyone who threatens to pull me apart from it.
Every day it's the same, over and over. I can't even get fucking high in my own home without my cell phone ringing, a knock at my door -- someone wanting to hear the very last thing I want to do: talk. The words and sounds of others pound into my head painfully enough, but being forced to have to respond to any of it is the worst part.
I've tried the alternative option -- just standing and staring, not responding at all. It only makes them yell louder.
Mikey understands, of course. If I told him of my plans, he'd probably ask to come with me. But I know I have to go alone... because I don't intend on coming back.
I pack some sentimental things -- a funny picture of me and the band, the teddy bear Kat gave me, my favorite book of poems -- and stuff them all in a duffle bag that I plan on bringing with me. I put in a bag of Fritos and generic potato chips too. I know I'll be beyond hungry, and what I'm about to do doesn't require me to starve myself.
As I run to my kitchen cupboard, I hear my phone go off. I almost don't answer it, but realize it would be wise not to arouse suspicion before I even get to leave. I turn back to pluck it off from the charging dock on the coffee table. The name "FRANK" covers the screen. I accept.
"Hey Gee." a hoarse voice emanates from the phone. I blink.
"Hey Frankie, you okay?" I ask him, and there's a pause before he answers.
"Yeah, I'm alright -- got a sore throat though, I think I'm coming down with something." Frank replies, and now the hoarseness sounds much more familiar.
"Aw that blows, dude." I try my best to sound sympathetic, but Frank gets colds so often that my concern feels over repetitive. My eyes are still focused on the cupboard in the kitchen. "So what's up?" I ask him, wanting to get to the point.
"Well like I just said, I might be down and out for the next couple of days." Frank explains, "I probably need someone to cover for me on the album work, I have a list of shit that needs to be done that I left in the studio..."
I know what he's implying, and I feel obligated to put him at ease, even though I know I can't fulfill my promise. How typical of me.
"Yeah Frank, I'll take care of it. I needed to get down there anyway and work on some shit too. I'm going on a little hike this afternoon, but I'll see if I can get there tomorrow."
"Alright, thanks." Frank sounds relieved, and so I bid him farewell.
"I'll talk to you later." I tell him, trying to sound as normal as I possibly can. But when he is halfway through saying "Alright, later." -- I falter.
I stop him at the last minute, as there's a tugging in my chest. There's a lump in my throat and a twitch in my spirit, as I realize that this might be the last time I speak to Frank again. Yet I don't know what I can possibly tell him without giving my own intentions away.
I feel stupid as I remain quiet, not having thought this far ahead. I know Frank doesn't like talking much whenever he was sick, and I could almost feel his annoyance radiating through the earpiece. Quickly, I land on the most coherent and least awkward thought that comes to mind.
"Take good care of yourself, okay?"
Now it is Frank's turn to pause, and I think he knows that I meant to say more than that. Thankfully, he sneezes a second later and remembers that he's too sick to care about much. He sniffles a bit more before responding with, "You know I always do."
I laugh, and mumble a quick "Okay, Frank, talk to you later --- okay, yeah, bye, see ya." before I hang up in a hurry because his voice is suddenly painful for me to hear. I think it may hurt because I'm hiding something that I know will upset him, so my mind tells me that he probably wouldn't care anyway.
But then that just makes me sadder.
And the past months have already proven that I am a very, very sad man.
It's not necessarily that anything has changed, and I'm not sure that it's that nothing's changed at all. What I do know is that my depression seems to have sprouted tentacles and is dragging me deeper and deeper into an ocean of sorrows. I can no longer see the sun swirling above the waters, and each day the surface gets farther and farther away.
I am drowning.
I snap away from my daze, from my thoughts that threaten to engulf me again. I must will myself to think of other things. My eyes go back to the cupboard, which contain my only means of escape. I wander over to it, and from its wooden shelves retrieve zip lock bags containing every drug imaginable, from pills to bundles of green. There are three bags in all, so I stuff one in my pocket and fit two into the duffle bag.
My last order of business is to say goodbye to Mikey. Currently he is residing with his girlfriend Alicia, despite the fact that he should have been staying in the apartment that we rented out together. I have managed the rent on my own just fine, but Mikey will probably have to permanently move in with her once they've realized what I've done.
I tidy up a few more things before I go, turning all the framed photos face down. The photo of my parents, the photos of Mikey and I from high school, of old friends and cousins.
I don't want them to see me walk out that door, giving up everything we have fought for. With their eyes blinded by table wood and furniture, I turn off the lights, lock up, and leave them in darkness.
It isn't more than thirty minutes later that I'm staring at Mikey's face, determined not to break down and cry. We're talking like normal, and he grins as he tells me about a convention he had attended over the weekend. He shows me pictures of some comic writers he had run into on his digital camera, as well as some things he purchased. All the while, I feel my heart crumbling at the hardest goodbye of all. A small part of me can't help but feel like I'm leaving my poor, defenseless little brother to fend for himself in this monstrosity of a world. But I try to remind myself that Mikey is now a grown man, far from the small boy whose boo-boos I used to kiss. Still, I'm not sure how much longer I can take seeing him, hearing him, before my resolve breaks down all together.
I ask to use the bathroom, and practically run to it once he gives me the okay. I duck into its shelter and hiccup a little, certain someone might hear me if I start bawling now. I reach into my left pocket and bring out the folded letter that I had written earlier.
I feel like Mikey, at least, deserves some kind of explanation.
I unfold it and read it again. I'm not sure why, I've read it about a hundred times. But I look for anything that I might have left out, or that did not need including. The one thing I wanted to be was honest, and my words are nothing but.
The most important thing I want you to keep in mind while you're reading this is that I love you, and I didn't decide any of this without my total confidence that you don't need me anymore.
My depression has gotten a fuck load worse. I feel like its eating me alive, slowly and painfully. Life is just a big bag of shit, and nothing but shit every where. There's nowhere left to turn.
I can't even sleep anymore, because I know that when I lie still in the quiet and the darkness, the worst thoughts come to get me. And I can't tell you this in person, because, well, you know how I am.
I'm going away and I don't think I'm coming back. I want you to make the other guys understand, show them this if you have to. I just can't take it anymore. I'm not strong enough.
I love you so much Mikes, and I know you're going to be mad at me for this. But like I've told you before, you're strong enough without me. I really don't think the lack of my presence will make that much of a difference. Or maybe I'll be the next Jim Morrison, who knows?
You've come this far, don't stop on my account.
With a shaky hand, I put them next to his bottle of lithium pills which I know he won't touch till late tonight. I collect myself and leave. In their TV room, Mikey makes a bit more conversation that should be trivial to me considering my situation, but I savor every word.
Finally, I tell him I have to leave for a hike at the ghost trail. I soon realize that it was stupid of me to tell him where I was going, but a little voice argues that perhaps I really do want the possibility of being stopped after all, but I don't dwell. I envelope him in what must be the tightest hug I had ever given. He seems taken aback, but returns it without question. It takes me ages to let go, walk away, and slam the door behind me.
I am already falling apart as I drive to the trail. My breathing is frantic and irratic. I have no idea how I manage to get there without crashing but I do.
The local-deemed "ghost trail" of New Jersey is marked with dead trees, and rumored dead bodies. I am amazed that no one has taken it down to replace it with another mall, but I'm not complaining either. This trail has been the setting of many good memories, like my very fist kiss. I wouldn't betray it by taking my last breath anywhere else.
I park my car, hitch my duffle bag strap onto my shoulder, and begin on my journey. The day is a lovely temperature, just right at that point where you feel neither hot nor cold. Yet amidst all the dead trees, the sun looks menacing. I feel like it's glaring at me, judging me like my band mates probably would. I avoid looking at it and focus on the sandy trail ahead of me instead.
There is grass around the trail of course, dead grass, but still grass. The trail leads uphill, which is precisely where I intend to go. I am looking for one tree in particular.
After an hour of walking, I find it with aching legs. It's secluded relatively well, as the trees are closely knit here, and it only looks like a tangle of wood and abandonment. It still stands slightly taller than the ones around it, and there are plenty of scars on its body. The younger kids like to hang around here sometimes, and use knives to carve markings onto tree barks. In a sense, I feel that I have a likeness to this one. Maybe because it is the most ravaged.
I sit down at it's foot and immediately disembowel my bag. There are an assortment of drugs, my iPod, pastries laced with weed, snacks, and a water bottle filled with Grey Goose vodka. I leave the sentimental things untouched at the bottom, but it isn't until now that I realize I had only wanted them with me when I passed.
I immediately reach for the special brownies, savoring their chocolaty goodness. I devour a strong one whole, only slightly tasting the hint of something foreign in it. Then I put on my headphones, and play An American Prayer by The Doors...and I wait.
It doesn't take long. Maybe an hour, or so. The angel named Mary Jane swoops in on her majestic wings. She pulls me from my ocean of sorrow, throws me down upon her sands and breathes new life into me. I laugh a maniacal laugh that I barely hear because my headphones are so loud. From my grinning mouth, the waters of sadness spill out from my lungs, those which it threatened to flood.
I can breathe again.... I can breathe....
God has turned the lights off before I know it, and thousands of fiery eyes are watching me from the heavens. I stare back as I consume the bag of Fritos. The crunching in my ears feel and sound lovely. I wash it down with the vodka and continue eating.
I have brought a jacket in case it gets cold, but I can't seem to decide whether or not I am for more than a few seconds. Either way, I decide upon using it as a pillow. I figure I should have probably brought a real pillow, but I don't assume I'll be here for long. I just want to stay and enjoy however long my supplies will last me -- and when it's all over, I have my exit strategy still in the zip lock bag.
Currently, I'm on my second brownie.
I'm snacking on some generic potato chips when my stomach suddenly decides it can't take in anymore food. I turn to my right side and begin to vomit violently, but despite the bile that clearly floods out of me, I feel confused as to what's happening. When it's over, I realize I'm too lazy to move away from the smelly puddle of myself. I ignore it and eat a third and a fourth brownie in order to compensate for my losses.
Oh god, why is it so bright? I blink my eyes and I feel like the sky is doing a repeated assault on my eyeballs. It threatens to burn them until they are only empty sockets, sagging on my face with nothing to hold them up. That's an interesting picture.
My mind seems to go completely blank before I wonder if Mikey has found my note yet.
I've refilled myself on alcohol and chips, and now the world won't stay still. This does not agree well with me, since I am on a full stomach. The birds are laughing at me with their chirps and sing song tweets.
"Haha, you're going to die here. What a stupid idea you had."
My anger rises at their taunting, so I grope around me before I find the horse tranquilizer that I had also brought. I take a good snort of it, but it doesn't shut them up.
Do I keep falling asleep?
Or am I passing out?
I can't tell...
In a moment of awareness, my heart is trying to break free from my chest. The damned thing is using all its force to ram the walls open, but it's been at it for a while now, and I think it's beginning to give up. Now, at least, I can feel it trying to climb up my throat instead.
Let's see how high it can jump before I throw that up too.
Somehow, I manage to look down at my supplies. When I do, I'm amazed to find that the ground is suddenly so far below me. Yet my hands reach for a ziplock bag, and suddenly my fingers crash on soil that I was not expecting to feel. Ouch.
I manage to get out two pills of ecstasy, swallow them down with Grey Goose, and have 1/3 of a brownie. I'm not ready quite yet, but I'm getting awfully close.
A man's face is staring at me from behind the trees.
I try to focus, but the world maintains its constant earthquake. The birds are still taunting me. I find I'm a little scared.
I wish I hadn't waited so long to off myself.
I'm ready now.
My time of peace is over, and I must go before I become dragged away by other horrors, the kind that come after you when you've waited too long for anything. I know these well.
But I don't want to look down and make myself sick. I can barely even control my hands.
This was a stupid plan, Gerard.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.... FUCK!
I grab a hold of something and eat it. I have no idea what it is, but it tastes both great and horrible at the same time. I think it might be a shroom.
As I swallow it, I realize that my chest hurts terribly. My entire back seems to be not much better off. I figure if I stay long enough like this, I'll die one way or another.
Joe Strummer of The Clash is hanging out with me. He sits in front of me now, talking in echoes. I wonder if it's because he's dead. Somehow, he sounds distressed.
He reaches out to me and touches my face. As he comes closer, he becomes only slightly more coherent. I want to respond, but a moment later his lips are pressing against mine. He tastes amazing, and his salvia makes him even juicer.
Suddenly, an eternity in this kiss sounds hell of a lot better than the eternity I face in death.
Planet earth seems to be free falling from some great height as Joe pulls me up into a standing position. He forces my arm around his neck, but I don't mind. The way he has his arm over my waist feels great. I feel secure. Protected.
He has me walk away with him, and now that his face is so close to my ear, I can make out his whispers.
"I won't let you fall Gerard, everything is going to be okay."
I turn to him to smile, but my head does not will this to happen. Instead I can only glance at him sideways and hope that he understands, but then something odd catches my eye.
Since when did Joe Strummer have a scorpion tattooed on his neck?