One Love
Day Two;
April 4, 2010
Day Two;
I can't sleep. I want to sleep.
No, actually I want to tweak.
Is that bad?
No.
... And yes.
I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. My pastor liked to say lots of things and when he says this one thing in particular... it gets to me. Every single time he says it, it gets to me, deep down and Josh says it so often that I can quote it for you.
Are you ready?
"No one plans to become an addict. No one is asked when they're little, 'what do you want to be when you grow you,' No one," And he repeats in his booming pastor voice that demands respect and attention. Respect, yes... Josh himself always demands respect, but anyways, he'll repeat, "No one answers that question with the response, 'I want to be a drug addict when I grow up." And then for a final time Josh, just to make sure that we understand the things that he's saying, the message he's trying hard to get through our thick-headed teenage angst filled skulls... do you know what he says?
"No one."
Then he'll continue on with his message, but I can't really tell you what those messages are because those words GET to me. So, Chelsie, what do you want to be when you grow up? I want to be a mermaid. But that's impossible, I wish it wasn't, oh how I wish it wasn't, but since it is, the second option on my list is hippie. I want to travel in a Volkswagen bus and meet beautiful people. Beautiful, wonderful, inspiration, creative people.
Honest; because they tell it like they see it.
Interesting; what's not to love?
Peace-loving; & I am, my tattoo screams it.
Poetic; I live for the depth in life.
Inspirational; there's that word again.
Exceptional; in life, in love.
That's what I want to be, hell that's what I am, minus the cold ass van. I also have a someday plan, The Cupcakery. Amazing name, right? The Cupcakery, in my head, in many, many things. Firstly, it's a roller-skating rink, because that's my kind of scene. Secondly it's a hang out, a place for people to come and have fun, I would give anything to have a place like that to go. The Cupcakery is also a novelty store, a music venue, the stage in the middle of the rink. It's going to be amazing. If I don't die first. If I go back to school. If-if-if-if-fi there's so many fucking ifs in my life, it's awful.
They scare me.
Everything scares me.
I don't know what's going on. I'm young. I should be able to do anything but the one thing that I'm doing successfully is growing up... and that's the one thing I don't wasn't to do at all. I can't imagine not having pink hair, and as soon as I hit like... 30 it won't be acceptable will it? Tattoos, a rebellious appearance is something we judge harshly. It occurs in our youth, they'll tell you it's a phase but honestly, I think this much worse, no... not worse --deeper than a phase. Colored hair, coloring books, bright beaded jewelery, merry-go-rounds and swinging, stuffed animals, parties, drugs.... That's me. I've finally found out who I am and after eighteen years of a desperate search, clinging to any personality that seemed convenient, I'm about to 'grow out' of myself.
I just grew into myself.
But we're talking about what's right and what's wrong... you can't define that, though, no one has the same morals and where society has a list of ethics, we don't' agree with all of them and each day they grow more outdated. Everyday less people care. Is meth wrong? Society screams YES! But my experiences tell me that dope is beautiful, when I was spun I wrote, I wrote deep thoughts. I became special and I finally realized it. This story is the only one that matters and it's the one this giant monologue is dedicate to, it changed everything, and this is:
2. The Beginning;
"What about when you come down?" Sally smiled over at me, "What do you mean?" I laughed, "Do you have like withdrawals?" It was her turn to laugh, but I was nervous. I was trying something new, something forbidden and something I had been thinking about for a long time. I wonder if this is how Eve felt when she held the apple in her hand. This would be a big deal, nothing would ever be the same again, and I don't even know how I knew that, I just did. "It doesn't hurt or anything, if that's what you mean." That's exactly what I had meant. "It's just like... everything sucks, you feel like you'll never have fun again. I remember this one time Pat went to bed and was all alone out here, I lit cigarette after cigarette and just sat here lonely and mad that I was alone." Sally uses her hands when she talks, it helps paint the picture she was trying to give me, "Smoking helps, it helps a lot." And that was something, without ever have doing meth, that I could understand.
Smoking makes everything better.
Pat should have been back by now, Pat should have been back a few hours ago. We kept glancing out the window, cars were heard and one of us would peel back the curtains and see if it was him. He was bringing cigarettes and we had out for a few hours, rolling cigarettes with old tobacco that had cat hair, glass and dirt in it from sitting on the couter-top in their room for so long. We were desperate, both of us were worried about Pat coming home safely. Sally was excited about the speed and I was scared of it. I wanted an experience. I wanted to understand the hype and disclaim the rumors.
"You're eighteen, right?" That was the first thing Pat asked me when I got into their bedroom, and instead of a normal response I chose sarcasm, a frequent favorite of mine, "No, I'm 12." He smiled at me and looked up from the red baggies he was mentally weighing out, deciding how to divide they among Sally, Terry, himself and their product. The product they were planning to sell. And there was quite a bit of it. Sally and I had been talking about this for hours and I had been thinking about it for months but the moment was here and I didn't know what to do with it. It was like a dream. Sally had agreed to help me, I had no idea what I was doing, she had also promised not to leave me, that promise got broken but she made it okay simply by remembering she was breaking it and apologizing. But that's not in this story. We used the bong at first, apparently that's much easier. You just suck soft... slow... spin faster, suck harder--still slow but harder, until your lungs are full. Don't hold it in like pot but don't blow it out fast and immediately like a cigarette.
There you go.
Wanna try for yourself?
No. Keep helping me please.
The effect was immediate but subtle, unlike pot which can hit you like a truck, speed just makes you come alive, that person that you put on lock-down so the real world won't judge them. The one you cover up with pretty shoes and cool slang, wakes up and... guess what!
Hello world!
I'm alive!
I'm awake!
I'm unique and amazing!
Guess what world? Chelsie is special!
I came alive on paper. I found myself those five days, the majority was spent in confusion and panic but the beginning, like most beginnings, was beautiful.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tell me, darlings, what do you know?
...
Okay, okay, now... tell me, what do you understand?
Maybe you think you understand a lot but personally, I don't think I understand anything but I so desperately want to understand everything.
Love.
That's something I think everyone wants to understand, because everyone wants it. At least, that's what it seems like--people want to connect with other people and develop relationships. And there's that fairytale promise that you'll have your perfect match. We all have a soul mate, right?
I'm not exactly sure.
If I had to give an opinion right now I would say yes and I wouldn't be just be hanging on to a someday guy, wishing for that flawless person who is going to be my other half. I would be thinking about Gerard. Gerard, who, for some reason, loves me just as much as I love him. Maybe he's in Rhode Island, which might as well be mars and maybe I'm wrong but I doubt it. Not because I'm right about everything but because these are my feelings, these are my emotions and I'm the one feeling it. I don't think you can be wrong about your own feelings. Even if I'm wrong about the soul mate thing, Gerard is still the person that made me feel this way. He's still the person who can make me feel like I'm something special, not only feel it, Gerard makes me believe it. He helped me grow as a person, Gerard cares, he loves, he understands, he tries. He's the one person I try for without trying, does that make sense? Gerard really isn't a story, at least not here, maybe later when you understand the emotion, it's more like he is the story. He's the only one who can hear my smile, the one and only one who puts up with me... this is the big one. He's one of the very few people who know me. Who I'm honest with. I'm not saying that I'm a liar, I just keep a lot to myself, but not anymore, and never with Gerard. He's the reason I want to try acid so bad, I wanted to so much more before meth, and I still do but it's not like my life goal anymore. I don't even think I have one of those anymore.
Isn't that sad?
Kind of pathetic?
I have ideas, so many ideas but I'm not committed, I'm not even committed to being alive, I try to commit suicide a few times a year, there's two times I've come close, but only one of these times did people find out about. This one is titled:
3. March 28, 2009;
I started across the room, sitting on my bookshelf was an almost full bottle of Tylonel PM, about 80 in all. I wrote the letter first, Robin and Nicole were in the living room, on the computer. Maybe they thought, 'if only we hadn't left her alone,' but I had been alone for months. After I had taken one handful of pills I sat back on my bed and Nicole came in. I decided what I took wasn't enough and asked her to hand me the bottle, which she did because she had no idea. How could she have known? I'll never forget her face after I swallowed my second handful in front of her. It was like she couldn't believe what she was seeing, what she was experiencing. Have you ever felt that waybefore like you must absolutely be dreaming. It's like the opposite of those beautiful dreams we sometimes chance upon, they make us feel and believe, and then we wake up and that's so... sad. Why cab't we sleep forever?
That's what I was planning to do, sleep forever, but they told. My mom yelled at me, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" She demanded, "What the fuck is so bad about your life?" I stayed quiet, everything seemed to be getting... heavy. Not the groovy kind of heavy, the kind of literal heavy, weight-wise. I wanted to lie down, I was dizzy... no, wait, I was lying down. How did that happen?
"Chelsie get up, you have to get up! Chelsie!" My friends sounded angry, at least that's what came out in their voices, maybe it was fear, they were scared.
I sat in the floor of the van as my mom drove me to the hospital, criss-cross-apple-sauce, staring at the blue and red lights of the air conditioner. My mom yelled the whole way there. I just stared at the lights, she would get scared though and she kept repeating, "Chelsie! Answer my fucking question! Chelsie... Oh shit. Chelsie! Wake up!" I wasn't asleep, though. I was looking, the lights seemed to get blurred, they were moving, my eyes would close and I wouldn't notice because I could still see the lights. Plus I didn't have anything to say.
Day Two;
I can't sleep. I want to sleep.
No, actually I want to tweak.
Is that bad?
No.
... And yes.
I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. My pastor liked to say lots of things and when he says this one thing in particular... it gets to me. Every single time he says it, it gets to me, deep down and Josh says it so often that I can quote it for you.
Are you ready?
"No one plans to become an addict. No one is asked when they're little, 'what do you want to be when you grow you,' No one," And he repeats in his booming pastor voice that demands respect and attention. Respect, yes... Josh himself always demands respect, but anyways, he'll repeat, "No one answers that question with the response, 'I want to be a drug addict when I grow up." And then for a final time Josh, just to make sure that we understand the things that he's saying, the message he's trying hard to get through our thick-headed teenage angst filled skulls... do you know what he says?
"No one."
Then he'll continue on with his message, but I can't really tell you what those messages are because those words GET to me. So, Chelsie, what do you want to be when you grow up? I want to be a mermaid. But that's impossible, I wish it wasn't, oh how I wish it wasn't, but since it is, the second option on my list is hippie. I want to travel in a Volkswagen bus and meet beautiful people. Beautiful, wonderful, inspiration, creative people.
Honest; because they tell it like they see it.
Interesting; what's not to love?
Peace-loving; & I am, my tattoo screams it.
Poetic; I live for the depth in life.
Inspirational; there's that word again.
Exceptional; in life, in love.
That's what I want to be, hell that's what I am, minus the cold ass van. I also have a someday plan, The Cupcakery. Amazing name, right? The Cupcakery, in my head, in many, many things. Firstly, it's a roller-skating rink, because that's my kind of scene. Secondly it's a hang out, a place for people to come and have fun, I would give anything to have a place like that to go. The Cupcakery is also a novelty store, a music venue, the stage in the middle of the rink. It's going to be amazing. If I don't die first. If I go back to school. If-if-if-if-fi there's so many fucking ifs in my life, it's awful.
They scare me.
Everything scares me.
I don't know what's going on. I'm young. I should be able to do anything but the one thing that I'm doing successfully is growing up... and that's the one thing I don't wasn't to do at all. I can't imagine not having pink hair, and as soon as I hit like... 30 it won't be acceptable will it? Tattoos, a rebellious appearance is something we judge harshly. It occurs in our youth, they'll tell you it's a phase but honestly, I think this much worse, no... not worse --deeper than a phase. Colored hair, coloring books, bright beaded jewelery, merry-go-rounds and swinging, stuffed animals, parties, drugs.... That's me. I've finally found out who I am and after eighteen years of a desperate search, clinging to any personality that seemed convenient, I'm about to 'grow out' of myself.
I just grew into myself.
But we're talking about what's right and what's wrong... you can't define that, though, no one has the same morals and where society has a list of ethics, we don't' agree with all of them and each day they grow more outdated. Everyday less people care. Is meth wrong? Society screams YES! But my experiences tell me that dope is beautiful, when I was spun I wrote, I wrote deep thoughts. I became special and I finally realized it. This story is the only one that matters and it's the one this giant monologue is dedicate to, it changed everything, and this is:
2. The Beginning;
"What about when you come down?" Sally smiled over at me, "What do you mean?" I laughed, "Do you have like withdrawals?" It was her turn to laugh, but I was nervous. I was trying something new, something forbidden and something I had been thinking about for a long time. I wonder if this is how Eve felt when she held the apple in her hand. This would be a big deal, nothing would ever be the same again, and I don't even know how I knew that, I just did. "It doesn't hurt or anything, if that's what you mean." That's exactly what I had meant. "It's just like... everything sucks, you feel like you'll never have fun again. I remember this one time Pat went to bed and was all alone out here, I lit cigarette after cigarette and just sat here lonely and mad that I was alone." Sally uses her hands when she talks, it helps paint the picture she was trying to give me, "Smoking helps, it helps a lot." And that was something, without ever have doing meth, that I could understand.
Smoking makes everything better.
Pat should have been back by now, Pat should have been back a few hours ago. We kept glancing out the window, cars were heard and one of us would peel back the curtains and see if it was him. He was bringing cigarettes and we had out for a few hours, rolling cigarettes with old tobacco that had cat hair, glass and dirt in it from sitting on the couter-top in their room for so long. We were desperate, both of us were worried about Pat coming home safely. Sally was excited about the speed and I was scared of it. I wanted an experience. I wanted to understand the hype and disclaim the rumors.
"You're eighteen, right?" That was the first thing Pat asked me when I got into their bedroom, and instead of a normal response I chose sarcasm, a frequent favorite of mine, "No, I'm 12." He smiled at me and looked up from the red baggies he was mentally weighing out, deciding how to divide they among Sally, Terry, himself and their product. The product they were planning to sell. And there was quite a bit of it. Sally and I had been talking about this for hours and I had been thinking about it for months but the moment was here and I didn't know what to do with it. It was like a dream. Sally had agreed to help me, I had no idea what I was doing, she had also promised not to leave me, that promise got broken but she made it okay simply by remembering she was breaking it and apologizing. But that's not in this story. We used the bong at first, apparently that's much easier. You just suck soft... slow... spin faster, suck harder--still slow but harder, until your lungs are full. Don't hold it in like pot but don't blow it out fast and immediately like a cigarette.
There you go.
Wanna try for yourself?
No. Keep helping me please.
The effect was immediate but subtle, unlike pot which can hit you like a truck, speed just makes you come alive, that person that you put on lock-down so the real world won't judge them. The one you cover up with pretty shoes and cool slang, wakes up and... guess what!
Hello world!
I'm alive!
I'm awake!
I'm unique and amazing!
Guess what world? Chelsie is special!
I came alive on paper. I found myself those five days, the majority was spent in confusion and panic but the beginning, like most beginnings, was beautiful.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tell me, darlings, what do you know?
...
Okay, okay, now... tell me, what do you understand?
Maybe you think you understand a lot but personally, I don't think I understand anything but I so desperately want to understand everything.
Love.
That's something I think everyone wants to understand, because everyone wants it. At least, that's what it seems like--people want to connect with other people and develop relationships. And there's that fairytale promise that you'll have your perfect match. We all have a soul mate, right?
I'm not exactly sure.
If I had to give an opinion right now I would say yes and I wouldn't be just be hanging on to a someday guy, wishing for that flawless person who is going to be my other half. I would be thinking about Gerard. Gerard, who, for some reason, loves me just as much as I love him. Maybe he's in Rhode Island, which might as well be mars and maybe I'm wrong but I doubt it. Not because I'm right about everything but because these are my feelings, these are my emotions and I'm the one feeling it. I don't think you can be wrong about your own feelings. Even if I'm wrong about the soul mate thing, Gerard is still the person that made me feel this way. He's still the person who can make me feel like I'm something special, not only feel it, Gerard makes me believe it. He helped me grow as a person, Gerard cares, he loves, he understands, he tries. He's the one person I try for without trying, does that make sense? Gerard really isn't a story, at least not here, maybe later when you understand the emotion, it's more like he is the story. He's the only one who can hear my smile, the one and only one who puts up with me... this is the big one. He's one of the very few people who know me. Who I'm honest with. I'm not saying that I'm a liar, I just keep a lot to myself, but not anymore, and never with Gerard. He's the reason I want to try acid so bad, I wanted to so much more before meth, and I still do but it's not like my life goal anymore. I don't even think I have one of those anymore.
Isn't that sad?
Kind of pathetic?
I have ideas, so many ideas but I'm not committed, I'm not even committed to being alive, I try to commit suicide a few times a year, there's two times I've come close, but only one of these times did people find out about. This one is titled:
3. March 28, 2009;
I started across the room, sitting on my bookshelf was an almost full bottle of Tylonel PM, about 80 in all. I wrote the letter first, Robin and Nicole were in the living room, on the computer. Maybe they thought, 'if only we hadn't left her alone,' but I had been alone for months. After I had taken one handful of pills I sat back on my bed and Nicole came in. I decided what I took wasn't enough and asked her to hand me the bottle, which she did because she had no idea. How could she have known? I'll never forget her face after I swallowed my second handful in front of her. It was like she couldn't believe what she was seeing, what she was experiencing. Have you ever felt that waybefore like you must absolutely be dreaming. It's like the opposite of those beautiful dreams we sometimes chance upon, they make us feel and believe, and then we wake up and that's so... sad. Why cab't we sleep forever?
That's what I was planning to do, sleep forever, but they told. My mom yelled at me, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" She demanded, "What the fuck is so bad about your life?" I stayed quiet, everything seemed to be getting... heavy. Not the groovy kind of heavy, the kind of literal heavy, weight-wise. I wanted to lie down, I was dizzy... no, wait, I was lying down. How did that happen?
"Chelsie get up, you have to get up! Chelsie!" My friends sounded angry, at least that's what came out in their voices, maybe it was fear, they were scared.
I sat in the floor of the van as my mom drove me to the hospital, criss-cross-apple-sauce, staring at the blue and red lights of the air conditioner. My mom yelled the whole way there. I just stared at the lights, she would get scared though and she kept repeating, "Chelsie! Answer my fucking question! Chelsie... Oh shit. Chelsie! Wake up!" I wasn't asleep, though. I was looking, the lights seemed to get blurred, they were moving, my eyes would close and I wouldn't notice because I could still see the lights. Plus I didn't have anything to say.