Alone in a House of Mirrors ~ I

non-subject ~ "a new person"
(aww: 2/03/10)
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I sat in the small bedroom at the top of the stairs in my parent's home. The small bedroom, my bedroom, that I'd moved into sometime during my younger elementary school years. I sat on the bed. The same bed, that when I was little, I used to line with stuffed animals to protect me when I laid down in case a murderer crawled through the window and shot a bullet into my body. My animals surrounding me would protect me.

The window, through which I used to wonder if dead people spied on me.

The window, that if one crawled out they would find themsleves on the flat roof. The roof of gray-white tiles that covered the den that had been added to the house when I was a wee bit of a girl, probably when I was around four years old.

Beside the roof was the big oak tree. I think it was oak. That's how any malefactors could get to me. They could climb the tree, hop onto the roof, and quietly slip through my window and shoot me. The malefactors in my imagination were always male, never female.

I sat in that room, on that bed, near the window that went onto the roof that was beside the tree. I sat, no longer a wee bit of a girl, but a young woman now, at 16 years old. I sat, my head in my hands, rocking back and forth. Back and forth.

I had to keep it together. I had to keep it together. I had to make myself think. Think.

What was wrong with me that I felt so paranoid? Not a paranoid of someone being after me, but rather paranoid that I was losing my mind.

I was going crazy. It wasn't simply paranoia. It was true.

My mind had become contorted, somehow molded into a disfigured surrealism. It had become...altered. From dropping acid, ingesting MDA, experimenting with whatever drug my dealer boyfriend had on hand.

I only partook of psychedelics and hallucinogens. Occasionally I'd down some speed, like Black Beauties. I only tried Quaaludes a couple times and Gummy THC only once. Gummy T made me feel like a midget and that I was in a midget house; everything was squashed. The ceiling, the recliner, me, my friend Joe - all of it compressed. Quaaludes brought all of life into slow motion, like a tape that would drag in the 8-track player.

I didn't smoke marijuana, at least since after ingesting the jimson seeds ten months previously. The jimson seeds had somehow changed the chemistry of my body so that when I smoked a joint, I'd get deathly paranoid, going into an almost fetal state. So I'd quit.

But MDA. MDA. I had a relationship with MDA. It wasn't just a drug; it was a path, a path to enlightenment. It was the love drug transforming everyone, everything, the entire universe, into a love-in. Even the trees and rocks and ripple of the creek were in bliss. All was one. The love drug that would take its worshippers into a euphoric state of horniness, but never to use one another, only to satisfy the other, the person of one's adoration, only to please.

I liked mescaline too. It was my favorite acid. Window pane was o.k. So was LSD. But if I got a choice, I chose mescaline. Circumstances, no matter what they were, became so damn funny when under the influence of mescaline. Like the time Ron cut his foot as we were walking from Sinclair's farm because I'd gotten my car stuck in the field. For some reason we were barefoot walking along the dirt road that had the broken glass. I took off my bra and wrapped Ron's foot to help curb the bleeding. Bobby came by in his small pick-up truck and gave us a ride to the hospital emergency room in the wee morning hours after midnight.

Now I sat on the bed, withdrawn. I felt similar to the last few times of tripping and taking MDA. Something had been amiss; I'd started getting afraid. Even with Ron there I would get scared; it was like I was scared of my own mind. I started being unable to retrieve words, to articulate. And now, now...I hadn't even dropped any acid but I was feeling the paranoia.

This verge of insanity. The rocking back and forth. Alone. Sitting on that bed in that tiny bedroom. That bedroom where, as a little girl, I used to play with my model horses. They still decorated the antique-white book shelf that sat against the wall across from the foot of the bed.

What was real?

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Click here for Part Two.
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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction
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