So as I got off the U-4770 and the chemicals in my brain began their recalibration wild shit started happening. I still had misfires and my adrenaline would have full on fight or flight rushes for no reason at all. It was intense. Mostly I was able to take advantage of those bursts of energy and focus on my health. For the first couple weeks I was coughing up the fine powder that was coating my bronchial tubes like concrete dust constantly (one of the reasons people that snort pills die from heart attacks).
My mind began to get right after about a month, my work improved and I was back to running and yoga every morning, waking sometimes so early that I could smash two runs and yoga before work. My mind came around I started getting glimpses of how fucked up I actually was. I’m a true rock n roller and I plan to die to prove it, but dying alone, in my best friends addition to his house, before my parents pass on, just isn’t right; there is no glory in that. All the same, those weeks, those months while mostly vaporized in my memory started to have fuzzy little details. Those funny details were flat out shameful. I was waking up in the middle of the night to do drugs to the stop the withdrawals. I would nod out each night with a nice little pile of drugs on the night stand so when I awoke mid sleep with withdrawals I didn’t have to get out of bed, just blast another big one and crash back out, then wake up, do more and head to work.
I held back in my last post. I don’t know if I was ashamed, or just didn’t want to put this much information here. I don’t know if I was worried that someday my loved ones would read about this. There is a lot that I don't know. Again, the voice of my father echoes: “tell the story unflinchingly and true.” So here what I refrained from writing in my last post is: Edmond finally reached his goal. Somewhere in the fog of the lost weeks (or months) of being high, after frequent overdoses I found the edge that most never return from. My whole life I have raced to that edge, to be like Hunter Thompson, a hero of living as your true self. In his words: "The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over."
I have been racing towards death my whole life; I’ve been depressed since I was old enough to be depressed. I’ve tried so many times to end my life, creatively and with drugs. Partying is what most people call it, that’s never what I was doing, I was testing every limit, doing as many drugs as I could fit into my system and still function or not function at one time. I would go out and break my heart to have a fucking excuse to do drugs to try and continue to test those boundaries. So I finally got what I wanted. It was a hot night in Virginia, even with the AC blasting at its lowest of 62 degrees it was still a bit hot in my apartment. It was a Sunday; I was excited to watch my shows. I finished my shift at 5 and rode home with my best mate. The hum of his tattoo machines that he builds were already buzzing through the wall when I got home.
I had been maintaining with the U-47 all day. At one point during our shift he knew I was loaded and asked to inspect a tattoo I did, which wasn't a regular occurrence, he looked closer than he normally would have. I think he was surprised that it was near perfect. I tattoo way better when I'm high and have a fifth-jean pocket full of drugs and no worries of running out. I was blasting lines every 15 or 20 minutes in the shop. By the time we jumped in his car to head home I was nodding out a bit and he was laughing. Not at me you see, just having been there himself, he understands why I was doing it, and not once did he pass judgment or do anything other than support me, even while I was fucking dying before his eyes. He would say things like “you know Champ, maybe we should get you to the doctor to sort those chems out in your head, I know when I did it sorted me right out: maybe if you did you wouldn’t need to turn to dope and shit.” I don’t deserve that man. We stopped at the health food store and I got my Sunday treat of Mediterranean pasta and some chicken. My mate got ice cream and some mini cupcakes for his wife, the ones with sprinkles. I waited in line to pay for my goods and my neck muscles couldn’t quite hold up my head like they normally would, like they were just a little too relaxed. Edmond the bobble head toy. We got to the house, parked and I scurried off to my apartment to blast more drugs and watch my show, I can’t remember why, but I was happy, not really happy but happy I could be alone and act high and weird in my underwear. I had made good money that day and some girl that wasn’t Molly was reached out to flirt. Made me feel better about myself I suppose, all the more reason to say fuck Molly and get really high.
Those details are clear, I’m sure I finished the Sunday episodes and ate my dinner, the details in-between I can't summon. Somewhere between the dinner and those shows my life altered completely.
At least I assume I did, there is no way to really know without a witness. What I do I know is I was doing more U-47 the research chemical than was supposedly consumable for a human in one day in one hour. The amount could’ve killed a race horse. I found myself regaining my vision while slowly fading back into a barley coherent consciousness. I was leaning against the outside door jam of the bathroom. I was drooling, my face, should and the floor were slippery with it. My vision was blurry. I couldn’t breathe and snuggled to do so. I hadn’t been breathing for an unknown amount of time. It felt like I had been underwater for minutes and was loudly, desperately gasping for air with huge breaths that seemed to do nothing. With blurred vision I looked down in that moment and saw my hands, legs and fingers were blue. I held my arms up and my held tilted back in a little nod, as I was about to lose consciousness again. I fought against it. I looked at my arms, they too were blue. I wasn’t thinking anywhere near straight or even close to thinking like a human but I knew I was dying. I was dying right there on the fucking floor without any sufficient glory to show for my life. I was in full survival mode. I don’t know why I woke up, I don’t know if I deserve it. I can’t tell you that my God’s and the Universe have a higher purpose for me and lifted me up from that darkness I found myself in. I have to assume it was mercy. Mercy granted me so that my job here would not be left undone. I assume that it was my God’s and ancestors having infinite understanding of my mortal pain, understanding why I create that pain and giving me opportunity me to march on. If nothing else it was a reminder that I am but an instrument of my God’s and this Universe.
I slid up the wall fighting with all that I had to stay awake. My neck could barely support the weight of my head and my legs and hands were asleep and dead weight. I crawled through the bathroom and fell into a cold-water shower slapping myself in the face and testicals to get my adrenaline pumping but nothing seemed to help. I don't know how long I was fighting, but somehow I won the war that evening. Later that night, physically and mentally exhausted from the war I had just fought to save my life all I could think about was how badly I wanted to sleep. I couldn't risk sleep because there was a good chance I wouldn’t wake again as my breathing was still severely depressed and strained. More than a week later I took that flight west as written in the last post and I did all those drugs, all those pills and once I returned I started my withdrawals. Withdrawals are fucking brutal, but staying off the dope and resisting the lies you tell yourself, resisting the fact that your body needs this shit, resisting the fact that you’re always smarter than yourself. It’s the most difficult thing I have ever done, more appropriately it's the most difficult thing I keep doing. I don’t mean I have had a hard life, I don’t mean I lost a child, I mean it’s the most difficult battle you can have with yourself, and it’s a battle that never ends. The dragon is always inside you, until you die.
After a couple weeks my great, compassionate friend and I talked outside the shop on the bench. I told him the whole story and explained how I was the most socially responsible junky in the history of the world, I don’t steal, or fuck up, and I just get high. He thought that was funny and talked with me about how hard it is to get off and gave me the strength, courage and advice I needed to keep fighting. Again, the Universe has delivered a person to teach and help me grow.
The last months in Virginia I was hustling my fucking ass off. I was desperate for money seeing the end close in, I had money working and cash, but I wasn’t enough for the appetite I had built up for adventure in those long 6 months. The longest I had been anywhere in 7 years. I worked longer hours. I started side hustles. I worked harder than I have worked in a long time. Each morning I was up early running then yoga then meditation then hustles, then work then hustles again. It went on for months except for a few breaks. I got to see the new Spider-man film. It was a wonderful escape into my childhood and reminded me to keep fighting the good fight and try and reach my full potential.
I shot up to New York City for a few days and realized how difficult it is for me to be around people. I had to go into Best Buy with a friend and was disgusted by people buying television sets. I was almost immediately over saturated with contact with Americans and their petty bullshit, even New Yorkers who have shit figured out more than most.
Went to an upscale vintage shop and it completely reversed my view. The owner was an Artist, she was happy and fucked up like me and fabulous. She was kind to me, in the city that’s a big deal. After that I attended a fancy party where everyone was a fucking magazine editor or Instagram personality with a million plus followers, 90% ladies and of course Edmond was on fire, dressed to impress and making love to each of them with my eyes. As the night wore down and the working class returned to the high-rise apartments a couple ladies and I went out for cocktails, I had a proper mescal margarita and for the first time, I could hear music again, fucking finally in New York the notes could reach my ears and I was just that much more alive. Music and its magic had been missing from me for ages. I don’t know why I lose that with dope, but I do, and it usually doesn’t come back for ages.
I returned from NYC with new energy. I worked harder and longer. As I did I attended a funeral for a friend of mine, a fellow man who fought against the dragon, but lost. He left a child behind, an 11 year old. I didn’t feel much of anything at that funeral, maybe because I’m a sociopath, but maybe it's just because I understood. His heart stopped, because of dope or not, but it stopped just days before he would have achieved his dream. That’s how ironic life can be. Work your whole life towards a goal and it slips through your fingers just as you can see it for the first time in the distance.
I had a little more than a month to go. My Saintly energy was returning I could feel myself charging up for the coming adventures. I was saving money like mad, and then the crypto currency bubble popped so went all in again. Huge risk. Then police seized all the major dark net markets, which was really good for me (but bad for society). The first Bitcoin hard-fork happened and I all of a sudden had a load of Bitcoin and Bitcoin Cash. That caused a surge in the markets and I watched a lot of my money nearly double over night.
I decided that if I were going to be this healthy I would go on and try to stop smoking for the first time in 22 years. I bought an e-cigarette and within three days could run twice as far. About a week after I switched I had twice as much energy as before. I assume because I wasn’t committing suicide each day with all the carcinogens in that smoke.
Since I began I've learned so much, but because of that learning it's like there's a piece of glass separating me from humanity, I can see it, but never touch it. I fear that is my fate now: to be disconnected and alone. I’ve always known I'll have to choose between happiness and the stars, and its come to that point finally I guess. I have family, my bloodline lives on, but it may be time to give up women and the idea of having children of my own someday and choose glory over happiness. So I have. I choose glory and the path the gods have put before me. The fates pulled my thread and along it I will strut. I choose to do everything in my power to live beyond my full potential. I choose to be my best self and not let the tangles of my heart stop my ascension. A few days later my Gods sent me a sign, two hawks were raised on a warm draft. Hawks are where my spirit comes from. I will have to tell that story another time, unless I have already.
I got a text from Molly, “I miss you.” It broke my heart a little. After all that I had just vowed to the Gods; the Universe was testing me. I responded as usual and nothing had changed between us, still that unspeakable mess where I talked too much and she spoke too little. I let her know that i was returning to South Africa, she was happy about that.
That moment I had a bit of an epiphany. Women, all are much like gods, with the power to create life. Since the time of Marc Anthony, women have subtly controlled the existence of mankind, learning to exploit their powers to control their fates and the fates of men. They are still treated unfairly but fucking christ what power they wield.
I booked all my flights, America to Africa, all around Africa, onto Uganda where I booked a tour to see my gorillas. Then onto South Africa where I would work and see the lady I’m mad for. See my Molly for very likely the last time and then booked a flight to Europe where I will arrive with next to nothing financially. As of this writing I have less than 5 weeks left stateside and Just a hair more than $1000 USD to my name to afford the entire continent of Africa. I have to hustle harder from now until then, harder than every before or I will starve and live on the streets between flights. Something I have done before, but something I don’t want to repeat.
Right as I packed up my shit and said my goodbyes at the shop, the solar eclipse happened and I managed to get a couple good snaps. It was strange to me, it marked the ending and beginning of so much in my life that eclipse.
I booked a flight to the west coast and within a couple days I was already exhausted, being pulled in a thousand directions, the phone that hadn’t rang or buzzed in months suddenly wouldn’t stop. I was a mess, I wanted so badly to lean on the energy of the dope but I didn’t, I was strong and fearless. I was so proud of myself. I had two weeks to escape technology and all the friends and work and nonsense at my parents place, but I had to get there first. I was happy to be home, it was nearly September, my favourite month of the year in this place. I knew it was likely the last time I would be home in a very long time. I wanted to enjoy it. I also knew that when I returned I may not be greeted by the same people, my parents my pass on and life would change for me. I have always felt guilty about that, but still they carry the torch for what I'm doing.
$1,000 spending money to cover 3 months, I Shouldn’t be writing I should be hustling my ass off. Until the adventure truly kicks off.