Location: Virginia Beach
The best friend I had left in this world, whom had built a little apartment in the back of his home for me to live, picked me up at the airport. Before I could even get started I was in the hole, owing him rent. I spent all but about $100 of the twenty grand I began with only 5 short months before and had to kill it my first week back at work in order to get out of the red. That red was really uncomfortable. It felt like a nightmare, I wasn’t used to being so broke since my first circumnavigation run.
That first week I slaughtered it, and my tattooing was all of a sudden out of this world. I guess just being around my super positive mate, who's a famous tattooer, who like me, suffers from mental issues and had a long history with drugs takes me to a different level. He is much older than me and has had a big effect on me, my life and my work definitely shows it. I busted my ass that first week, and hustled my way into more appointments and walk in clients than the other guys making one magically into two with my silver tongue.
I woke up on my first day off in tears, the depression had set in, the first couple weeks after a big change are always so fucking difficult, straight jacket high speed traveling to full screeching stop over night, its enough to make anyone nuts, but the shit just pushes me over the edge. The adjustment back into America has been fucking brutal, I hate my government, the people, the culture, the weather…all of it. So in response to the loneliness, heartache and general hatred of my country I started in on the drugs pretty much after the first week, just throwing the suffering i went through in New York out the window.
Designer drugs for designer depression.
I was finding it hard to keep my privacy at first being in the backyard of my buddy. He was so excited to have me around that he was all jacked up and kind of tipping over his mental edge. During those first couple weeks we visited tattoo shops on my days off and I was sick and tired of the whole business already and I had five and a half months to go, there was so much going on in my head, I guess my mind and body were prepared for the freedom to stay out of the states for much longer, and when i got the fuck out it didn't cross my mind that i would actually be back in less than a year.
Contact with Molly had slowed to just short responses and she was starting to bore me a little with her shielded heart, with her natural state of silence. Being a romantic I started to resent that for a while. But at the same time I just thought I’d wait it out, wait for the planets to realign, which according to my astrologist, would be in May, a long god damn time. I finished a large painting that I only had the energy for because my heart was beating only for her. Even with my moral dilemma, of having my heart belong to her it makes it difficult for me to adventure out to other women. I figured that rather than obsess I'd just date a few ladies here and there for entertainment but soon after all the girls on the dating apps were starting to get on my nerves and I found myself facing the world alone.
I had made myself this horribly sad, phenom of energy, taking U-4770 into the early morning hours, waking shortly after and doing more and hitting my runs with vengeance. Tattooing by day, spending my nights painting, writing, and doing a million projects and keeping up with my daily life. The U-47 was just supposed to be a weekend thing, until my sadness overtook me and I eventually caved and one of my clients brought me the real deal old Roxicodones, I had to take 60mg to get a buzz, the fentanyl had boosted my tolerance to obnoxious new levels. The Roxy’s led to more research chemicals and I was back to being a junky to shield myself from the boredom and monotony of living in my own country, working and having a commitment to be in the prison of a single location for 6 whole fucking months. I was carless and Uber was costing me a fortune when I wasn’t bumming rides from the other guys at the shop.
By the end of the first two weeks I could see that I had backed myself into a corner emotionally, trying to push Molly away while simultaneously feeling sorry for myself for losing her. Those weeks turned into my first month and not much had changed in my head. I was making my life harder to live by the day, not only from the drugs but also from the attitude that was leading to the drugs. I was an emotional wreck, i was stuck in this rut, feeling the hole that was once filled with my dead friends, and friends in general so reached out to my Molly to try and feel better, even just to have an intelligent conversation with someone. An email exchange started between her and I, it was wonderful at first but eventually spiraled out of control, slowly becoming what I perceived as a bit of a scolding for being down and out in America. The emails went silent and about 3 or 4 days later I got a really wonderful response from her, one that said she missed me, that she was sorry for her “sparky nihilism” I couldn’t really believe what I was reading, I knew it took a lot for her to say that so I thanked her, and told her she never had anything to apologize for, especially for being herself, even if it was "unfair" from her view. I missed her, I found myself constantly returning to her in my thoughts, even when i was over it. I knew deep down inside that she was gonna break my heart, and even deeper i knew that was probably what i really wanted ultimately, to get gutted in order to do something bigger and better than before armed with all that I would gain from that super brilliant firecracker that was everything opposite to me, the nihilist to my romantic.
Her response and willingness to put it out there (which, I know, it isn't much, but its crazy far for her) was quite beautiful and warmed my cold heart just enough that all of a sudden I was faced with a little less sadness, so yet again I went through the brutal reality of kicking yet again, for the second time since I returned to the states. The withdrawals seemed a lot worse than the ones before, for whatever reason, maybe because of the research chems- who knows. but it was a week at work that kicked the fuck out of me. I recognized what I was doing; I knew exactly the state of my body and the gamble I was taking with each day. The tar from the cigarettes was sticking to the bronchial tubes in my lungs which was getting coated in powder from insufflated drugs that was turning into a substance like concrete, with my asthma was certainly not helping as the pattern would repeat itself, continually hardening, then re-coated with tar, then hardening again. If I didn’t put a few years between the drugs and my lungs I would eventually just topple over and die, lungs and heart failing. I knew it would be much sooner than later, i had to suck it up and turn Edmond back up and follow my own fucking rules or I would pay the ultimate price: fail at this mission.
Tornados twice touched down twice, both brought with them icy cold winds that made my morphine-less blood freeze to the bone. I was sober less than a week before I realized I would have to find some happy medium, or at least try to balance my drug use all the way through my return to England. My head started to spin as I found myself preoccupied with the boredom of sobriety, trying to solve it like a math problem. I was taking Nuvigil here and there and even that didn’t really make me feel any better as i would race through the day without really accomplishing anything. Eventually I could feel the adrenaline lose its control in my body during my recovery, a good sign that my body was resetting itself, waves would crash over me late at night and keep me up, I felt my arrogance return and just as it did…I ordered another fucking bag and figured fuck it, I’m better when I’m high anyway.
I had already brought up my contract with the shop manager, that since the owner didn’t remember holding me to a six-month commitment when I left last, did that mean I could leave early? She told me she couldn’t imagine a world that I was anywhere longer than 4 months. I smiled and my heart kind of swelled because she knew me so well and told her, “good because my feet already itch.” What a godsend. The pressure was off, if I felt like it, I could pack up and get the fuck out without breaking my word, like everything I was racing for. right up until I got here was a joke now, how ironic. In my head i started to do the math, started stacking up the possibilities of lands left to conquer. I had a lot of money to make, and i needed to assume i wouldn't be returning home for quite a while after i would next leave. It was about the money now, and with the drugs as weapon, I would strive for massive amounts of it in order to be ready for the coming adventures.
On a side note: I realized something one morning, while attending to my Instagram. I realized that it will never be enough for me, even if I do accomplish my ultimate goal to reach space, if I do all the drugs, if I make fuck tons of money and am famous, if I finally get recognized for the person I am, even if I have a que of the most beautiful and brilliant women in the world outside my bedroom each night, even if I won over the entire earth. It would never be enough, there is nothing that will ever satisfy my demons. So, I may as well sprint at it, full steam, head down, faster and harder than before...the ram has touched the wall.