I died. God mortally wounded me with the sickness of my son and brought all the feelings of grief and despair I experienced as 4 year old with the death of my father. I finished the final death blow with LSD. Without ego I was able to experience the mythology of Narcissist. Not the personality disorder, not the blanket insult used my co-dependants and covert narcissists, but the beautiful experience of one with the universe and complete self-centredness that everyone experiences as a baby.
I woke up the next day and knew I was re-born. I decided to lay off the psychedelics for three months while I rebuild my ego. A month in I have no desire for them, but we will see if that continues. Not much has changed. I am still me. I just don’t know what I want. Or maybe for the first time I can just admit to myself I don’t know what I want. I highly suspect I want to write. I want purpose and writing is the thing I think I can be best at and enjoy. But I have no idea who my audience will be and what I will write about. I wrote a lot about my journey as a single man over the last 5 years, the rite of passage to sexual liberation and independence – basically travelling the world trying to fuck as many girls as I could. I enjoy writing about it, and I enjoy doing it, but I don’t know how it will give me purpose. I don’t think I’m a good enough poet, like or instance Charles Bukowski, who could get away with that sort of writing.
My dad died just before I turned 4. My mum was 8 months pregnant. The family doctor told me my dad was dead and gone to heaven. “When will he come back?” I asked.
“He’s not coming back.” He said crouching, placing his hand on my shoulder.
Well that sounds a bit stupid. Of course he’s coming back, but you have to believe what the doctor tells you. I cried. Maybe he’s just gone away for a really long time.
3 years later
My arm is bandaged with a tube, is that blood? My Nan and Pop are there. My mum is there. “Hey Nicky” says mum. They all have big smiles. I am in a hospital bed. “What’s this?” I ask at my bandaged arm.
“That’s a drip honey.” Says my mum. “That’s what’s been feeding you while you have been here for the last 2 weeks.”
“2 weeks?” I ask startled. “I can only remember a couple days.”
“You have been delirious.”
“What?”
“It’s sort of like being asleep, like dreaming, you said some funny things.”
I spend the next month in hospital. It was good. Mum was there with me all the time and Nan and pop would visit and bring me McDonalds. I discovered I didn’t have to do what the grownups said. In fact I got rewarded when I didn’t. A nice lady with long curly dark hair and a pretty face would come and take my blood everyday. It didn’t really hurt, but it was exciting to pretend it did. I would hide under the bed and make them coax me out to get the blood test. I started calling her Dracula. Eventually I convinced myself the blood tests hurt and then I was able to act out on an even better performance.
I got home and had another month off school. It was a bit boring. When I annoyed mum she said. “Look, you have been very spoilt over the last couple of months. You have gotten everything you wanted because you were sick, but you’re going to have to start behaving again.”
I do remember being a good boy. I never got into trouble. Maybe I should be like that again. I go back to school and everyone greets me warmly. I feel special. As a side effect of the children’s disease, Kawasaki, my hair is falling out. I am sitting there at my grade 2 desk looking out the window with my class mate James. I pull a tuft of my hair out. His facial expression changes to shock. I like it so I keep pulling more of my hair out.
I speak to a family friend a couple years older than me at the same school. He is cool. He shows me in his room all his naughty things. He has caps for cap guns, razor blades, a knife, all sorts of different bubble gum. “Do you get in trouble much?” He asks.
“A little.”
“I get in trouble 5 times a day.” He says.
I am shocked and in awe.
I spend most of my days at school outside the principal’s office for the next few years. I bully to make friends. I bring boxing gloves to school and make everyone fight. I steel money off mum and buy lollies and cigarettes. I’m mean to my brother. I fight. I dare do things other kids won’t. I feel special. Deep down I don’t feel bad or naughty. I feel like a good boy who just keeps getting in trouble. It’s unfair. I fight.
Mum sent me to a psychologist Dr Rottem. Nan and pop drove me there for one of my appointments. Pop made a poem about him
There was a young doctor named Rottem
He took out his false teeth to wash em.
His wife said Jack, if you don’t put them back.
I’ll jump on the rotten things and squash em.
I did a few sessions with Dr Rottem. I remember he let me shoot him in the head with his toy gun that shot out suction darts. He was ok, I quite liked going there. Then we stopped going. I asked mum why.
“I decided that he was madder than us. We can work it out ourselves.”
I didn’t think he was that mad, a bit silly maybe letting me shoot at him.
My chance to start again
When I got sick at age 7 and ended up in hospital I believe this is when I finally accepted my dad wasn’t coming back. My body shut down. That previous 3 years since my dads death had been a horrific. I was in anxiety and depression the whole time and had no idea. I was trying to be a good boy. I did everything I was told because that’s what my dad taught me. When I was sad he would put his arm around me and comfort me, but when he was gone and I was sad, mum would just look at me with disdain. I was told to be perfect and honest, but when I was honest about my feelings I was punished. Any affection – the affection I so desperately needed – was taken away.
I spent those years confused and in isolation. When I started school I would spend my lunchtime walking around the grounds looking into the daisies for my father’s face. Mum got a new boyfriend. I was excited to have a new daddy, but every time I asked him anything he just said. “Ask you mother”. They got married. I died. I woke up 2 weeks later and re-built myself. Love was unreliable, but attention was certain. When I showed anger I got respect. Vulnerability got me disdain. Anger and rebellion got me attention – this became a habit.
Now I am 43 and feel I have the emotional maturity of that 7 year old. The lack of vulnerability and the lack of being able to be myself halted any real identify from being able to be developed. My needs were not met and I was not able to self-actualise. I have the mental maturity of a 43 year, probably older, lacking athletic talents or social intelligence I relied on my intellect. This I developed well. So now with the body of a 43 year old, the mind of a 50 year old and the emotions of a 7 year old I get to rebuild myself.
I am incredibly grateful for this opportunity. I get to look after little Nicky and guide him through what no one was able to do for him when he was 7. Through my son I get to re-live the grief that I was never allowed to process as a child. I get to take care of myself, allow myself to be honest and vulnerable – and love myself for it.
Red Pill Recovery 