There are five people in the world whom I don’t want to disappoint- mom, my sports coach, God, my best friend, and me. In that order.
Mom I have lived with all my fifteen years. She’s the person I know, and who knows me. never once, for as long as I can remember, has she been wrong, and that’s why I blindly trust her. And to disappoint her would mean to do wrong.
My sports coach just has one simple motto, his answer for everything sports and otherwise- “When in doubt, always tackle.” It gets pretty weird defining “tackle” in badminton (who do I attack- the shuttlecock??) but pretty much all my school life I avoided being bullied because of that singular sentence. To disappoint him would mean to give in to the bullies after all.
God. Well they say God forgives… But I don’t even wanna imagine what pot I’d be boiling in if he changes his mind and wants to teach me a lesson. So, no. Definitely don’t want to disappoint Him.
My best friend, she’s a rather loathsome creature. Her life is filled with loathing- she loathes her family, her family tries not to loathe her. She loathes me, and well, I call her a loathsome creature don’t I. But still, I don’t wanna disappoint her for one simple reason… How deep must I have fallen if I can’t live up to even her expectations?
And here we come to the last. Me.
I have read my share of self help books. If anything, they leave me in a denser tangle than before. But I learnt one thing. The mind is a rather strange thing. If it focuses on something, it can create mindblowing revelations. But make it focus on itself, and you can go mad! So to spare all the mental carnival, I prefer not to disappoint myself.
But the whole point of writing this blog post is that I did. I disappointed. Everyone.
I took drugs. I promised myself- Just once. But yeah, you can nod away, it’s never once is it. We only realise that after. And then it’s too late to stop. Anyone who’s life has ever seen a drug addict, in themselves or in another, can tell you all I am about to tell you.
It was great. I felt better than Superman must. Sure, the mornings were horrible but back then, I took it as a sign of what I was missing and had been missing all my life off drugs. Drugs were basically becoming, my idea of heaven.
When people started noticing the hollow eyes and zombie talk, I just scoffed off their questions. Then one day, my younger sister found me with a packet of weed in hand. She recognised the load from a campaign in school. Mom went ballistic. dad shouted louder than a truck horn.
But do you know what I did… I called them cowards. I called them conformists. I told them they were meek to just abide by the general scheme of the world, and get so psyched when they hadn’t even tried the stuff. You won’t believe what I did next. I brought them some. I brought them some weed and told them to try the stuff before they said anything to me ever again. Dad slapped me across my face, for the first time in my life. Mom fainted. The time they took to get her to a doctor, I used to take money from my parent’s locker and run off.
The police found me unconscious and high in the middle of the road that very night. They wanted to put me in rehab right away but fortunately, the drug amount in my bloodstream was too low to qualify. First time in my life that I liked not qualifying. 🙂
I was locked in my room for three days. Dad thought I would come to my senses with that. The poor man. The day he let me out and I acted all sorry and crying, he let me go to school. before the first period started, I had some long awaited weed in my body again. I bit back teachers’ snide comments. I just stood while the opponent hit smash after smash into my court. I slept with my feet on the table in recess. I shamed my best friend when I kissed her boyfriend (of sorts) in the hall just to hear everyone else hoot.
It was to be the last day of my freedom. But it was bliss.
Then you know the drill. Principal to parents to rehab center to lots of mommy tears and lots of sister stares and finally, here.
In this chair… that’s bolted to the floor… with this guy… a civilian volunteer… who’s writing…as I speak… who’s writing this blog post.. because I can’t…
I can’t… because I’m in a straightjacket.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am in an asylum.
And ironically, I have finally found sense, in a mental asylum.
They keep me in a straightjacket because the nerve clots I have developed from the weed, moreover the defiled weed mixed with other’s body fluids, dust and God knows what chemicals, these clots stop my brain momentarily and I do things that I don’t know I am doing. Law of the land- Don’t let me do anything at all then.
I sit everyday in this straightjacket, sleep in it too, and now after twelve years of this routine, and nothing but the clots left behind from the drugs, I have returned to the kind of person i was. But now, that person is not allowed to roam free. I have all my life, or what’s left of it really, to sit and dictate to a kind volunteer and regret the highs. My heaven… was really the road to hell… The end.
PS. All that was fiction 😀 And for any of you who’s concerned about the effect of drugs and such, I would advise you not to solely or largely go by the storyline here. Consult with a doctor or welfare citizen.