The Book of Secrets. in Musings

the little blue pills are for anxiety. the little white oblong pills are for sleeping. the little vial full of white is for partying. the room is spinning because the green bottle is half empty.

who knows why i sedate myself anymore. it’s become a ritual that i seem to have lost control over.

my eating habits are strange. i eat very minimal, and not for vanity, but because I’m seriously not hungry.

i was watching nurse jackie in my bedroom and it really freaked me out how a fictional character is so incredibly similar to me.

i had a separate bank account from Alexander’s so he wouldn’t notice how much money was being spent. we lived a very good life. owned an apartment, owned a business. everyone who i knew were utterly proud of me. i had a huge client list. i took off when i felt i wanted to. i worked when i wanted to. i worked when i was so high and never made a mistake.

i was charismatic. and continue to be…but in reality, i might just be the foulest human being ever. i lie about my drug use. i hide it really well. there’s a trap book on my shelf, with all the paraphernalia.

i realize how insane it is and it was that I hid drugs behind hung picture frames, taped to the inside of drawers, hidden away inside of jewelry. When my house was raided by friends and family and all of my secret stashes were flushed down the toilet, it made me angry not because they were trying to help me and i needed help, but because I didn’t have enough sense to hide it better.

i ran into Shane while i was in the department store. there i was picking out something black and overpriced and i turn around, slamming my face into his chest.

i don’t know if it was the drugs or my loneliness, or how i succeed at manipulating the men around me, but he just smiled, kissed the top of my head and embraced me.

i felt like a waif in his arms. he held my hand in his and intertwined his fingers in mine. his fingers hurt. as mine are just remnants of a body i inhabited.

his voice sounded concerned and angry. the usual guilty feeling of letting anyone down overcame me.

“Baby you look sick” he said grabbing the clothing out of my hands and putting it over his shoulder. “You sleeping? Is Alex bothering you?” and all of the sleuth of concerns overwhelmed me.

I bought my items. I walked out of the store and felt so uneasy and anxious. I dig in my bag for a vial and he immediately snatches them out of my hand.

“You’re taking this bullshit again?” he yelled in the middle of busy SoHo street. “You fucking lost your marriage, your apartment, lost tons of weight and you look like a damn skeleton, now I know why!” he said as I walked away from him, I felt ashamed. I felt ashamed that my past is always a part of my present. I felt ashamed that I lost control of a vial of pills that were once party favors and now have become a part of my everyday living. Who have I become?

In a mirror I see a lanky, dull skinned Puerto Rican boy. His hair is greasy. He has ginormous bags under his eyes.

These men that seem to be so enamored with me are only in love with me because of who I am as an addict. Or rather who I was. Although still I have the pieces of my life that superficially quantify me as a successful human being…dig in the closet and there is a tangled web of prescription drugs and amphetamines.

i cried to one of my friends and told her that i was an addict. and she stopped me. saying that i was not an addict because i have money, i have success and i don’t suck dick for drugs.

and yes those are all true.

but what she fails to realize is that i am a privileged type of addict. possibly a more dangerous, manipulative, and conniving type of addict. Addicts on wall street still have million dollar homes, an active social life and a stable career with a future. It doesn’t disqualify them to be addicts.

I don’t need to fuck anyone for drugs. I have psychiatrists I pay to receive those drugs. I don’t need to have sex with my cocaine dealer, because I have money for him and keep him very, very separate from my life. I’m privileged enough to have been intelligent to manipulate every person in believing the outward persona I have paid to have achieved. A degree. A business. A home. A crazy closet. Enough blood diamonds to stop the famine in a small village in Africa.

As Shane poured the pills down the sewer, I didn’t feel angry. I felt a relief. He walked me home and preached at me. I entered my apartment and he slammed the door behind him and began to rip apart my apartment in search for more drugs.

And as I calmly took off my shoes. I sat in the living room and watched television as he pulled apart every nook and cranny of my apartment.

He returned to me sweaty, with scrapes on his forearms from pulling out drawers and cabinets. and i sat there calmly, staring at the book he never even noticed.

“I don’t want you to do that anymore!” he said holding my face to his. “I’m going to kick your ass before I watch you kill yourself!” as usual, he cried. I held him and he fell asleep. “I’ll stop Shane” I said caressing his face.

I grabbed the book that laid on the shelf, untouched, went to the bathroom, and popped a pill.

I watched him sleep. I felt that guilt that I always feel when I take drugs. I sat by his feet and fell asleep. He was none the wiser and I will always be the lying son of a bitch I’ve always been.

Sorry I’m an addict. I’m the worst type of addict… too narcissistic and egotistical to allow myself to fall down the ranks, but that’s a very thin line I walk on… I’m not better than the crackhead down the street, I’m just very self-important.

-Andy