Dubra Diaries

So my attempted runaway left my life with lots and lots of therapy and legal repercussions, such as community service and reports. Not fun. The idea of a "teen program" was mentioned, or even a hospital, but that all seemed absurd. I was getting along a lot better when February rolled around. I was picking up my school grades, turning those F's into D's. Everything was looking up when my goody two-shoe friend decided that my casual drug and alcohol use was something to be worried about, and went to a teacher with every bit of information she had on the subject. This information traveled through school faculty and finally to my parents, fucking me over in the end. A psychological evaluation was called for to assess the situation. I cooperated and started on getting my life back on track yet again.

When the results of the evaluation were sent in, I remained the only person not notified. When I was finally informed that the multi-page typed report had been floating around for about a week, I was angry but agreed to meet with the school psychologist the following day to go over the results. When this failed to happen, I blew a fuse. I marched around the school, fuming and making my anger known. When ignored, I resorted to what I now know to be a ridiculous approach, yelling and cussing. I caused so much alarm that they called the police and arrested me for breach of peace. I had luckily put my weed in my bra but when they searched my bags they found my bowl, pocket knife, and Prozac. The pocket knife ultimately led to my expulsion, but my expressed wish for suicide was what did me in. I was taken from the police barracks to a psych ward, and from there to a mental hospital. I remained there for a week.

I haven’t written in awhile. I’m only tempted to write when I’m depressed. I guess something about self hate and substance abuse makes me want to spill my guts out onto Microsoft Word. Not to say that this is the first time I’ve revisited depression, but it seems to me that I’ve been kind of okay for quite sometime. Looking back at the happenings of the last few months, my life has actually changed for the worse, but I guess I just haven’t been bothered by it. Perhaps it was my drugs or the drugs they’ve been giving me, but something has been keeping me from the cold, dark, painful world that is depression.

When on Prozac, things were hard. I was always upset and it seemed like everyone I knew was fighting me. I wasn’t depressed. I was just angry, and I made sure everyone knew. I started my escape plan. I would wait for spring, save up some money, and spring for New York City, leaving everything behind. After a bad week, I decided to bump up the date to as soon as possible. I packed my things, took the car, and left for the train station. When I arrived I pulled out my bowl and smoked a bit, then tucked my weed back into my bag safely under the tampons. When I got out of the car and started towards the station, I see my dad pulling up. “Get in or I’ll call the police!” Like the dumbass I am, I run into the station instead and hide in the bathroom. When the cops came I refused to let them in the stall, thus giving them the ability to arrest me with “interference with a police investigation”. I didn’t fare well in that situation. How did my dad know where to find me? The night before, I had tried to print out a train schedule but it got jammed in the printer. I forgot about it and left it there and apparently my dad unjammed the printer and found the schedule. Pure brilliance.

Life is laughing at me right now.
Life is a bully that's watching me desperately flailing around trying to get on my feet... and just laughing at me.

I don't find my situation funny. I don't find it funny at all.
I've started cutting myself. I always thought cutting was for pussies but I guess I'm a pussy then. I don't know exactly why I did it. Probably just for attention. I bet it was for attention. I don't really have a clue why I do half the things I do but I bet it was for attention. Pathetic. I've done a lot of things this past week that I would categorize under "Pathetic". I threw a temper tantrum. Just like a little kid. Smashing things, screaming, crying. Pathetic. I got drunk and I called my mommy and I told her I was sad. Pathetic. The power went out and I was scared so I curled up into a little ball with my flashlight and I thought about all the serial killers and giant spiders and demented creatures that were just seconds away from skinning me alive or devouring my flesh. All very, very pathetic.

And so now I have the desire to step outside myself and no longer be the pathetic pussy that I've become. I decided I'd stop drinking and doing drugs for awhile (excluding "necessary" pharmaceuticals of course). I decided this two days ago so we'll see how it all turns out. I'm not quitting forever... just for now. Who knows how long "now" is though. Maybe a month. Maybe a week. Probably just until I get another handle of Dubra.



I kept telling myself that nothing in particular triggered the breakdown, that it was all a result of my many long years of depression. But I guess I can't really fool myself, not in this situation at least. It was that I finally realized that aside from select family members, no one really cares for me anymore. I've lost every friend that I have ever been close to. And I honestly feel that there isn't anyone who really wants me around anymore.
It hurts to realize something like that. It really does.

Fuck. I was doing so well. I was doing so well. I had stopped expecting anything from anyone. I had stopped thinking of people as my friends or having any hope of anybody really, truly liking me just for the company I bring. And I was doing so well. I couldn't be let down when I was already face first on the floor. I know it sounds like a bad place, but when you have no expectations and no goals and you're not putting things in perspective, you just get used to things. And it's not so bad. I prefer the floor!
And I was doing so well. I wasn't drinking nearly as much. I had the booze, I just didn't feel the need to drink it every day and every night like before.
But fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck.
I let somebody bring my hopes up. I can't believe I actually thought things would get better. But I'm more angry at myself than anyone. I let myself be so vulnerable. I did this to myself, nobody else. I just need to get myself back where I was, back on the fucking floor, and just figure out how to stay there.
Well at least I know I have one friend who will never let me down, who will never judge me, and I'll always know exactly where we stand.
Oh Dubra... the cheap pleasure your bottle brings me.

"You only do drugs with your friends because they're the only ones who give a fuck about you."

Don't ask me where I heard that.
I just wish I could abide by it, but I love drugs and I don't like to call people my friends anymore. Maybe I'd have some friends if I had thought to go by that statement all along though.

If I continue with what I've been doing, I will have read every book in my house by the end of the week. It’s the only thing I can do to stop myself from getting together with one of my “friends” and landing myself with a killer headache in unfamiliar territory with little or no recollection of the previous occurrences. So I read… and hate every minute.
It’s a shame I have no family values or I might spend this time to hop in the pool with my younger step-brother, or go visit my aging grandfather at our local home for the elderly. But my hair is too perfect today to even consider chlorine damage and I really don’t feel like telling my grandfather how school has been going countless times because 1. he doesn’t know it’s summer and 2. he can’t remember asking about school five minutes ago.

Maybe I’m just bitter, but summer hasn’t been what it’s cracked out to be.

People constantly use me. They use me for whatever possible thing I could be used for. It’s not so bad though because they have several other people who they could use, but it’s always me. So at least I know I’m preferred to some other socially stunted suckling.
I wouldn’t put up with being used if I wasn’t using them too. They are terrible people, and I hate terrible people, but terrible people have good connections to other terrible people who deal drugs, lots and lots of drugs. And in my opinion, that’s worth being used, every bit of it.
I’m pretty sure, though, that all of this makes me just as terrible and filthy a person as any of them. But it’s a terrible and filthy cycle, this life, and if I don’t stay on top of things, I’ll only get sucked in.

It’s days like these when I feel like I’m dragging my brain along behind me on a rope, and it’s so heavy but I’m afraid that if I let go I’ll simply lose myself. I feel horrible because I have nothing to do but I know if there was something I was supposed to do, I wouldn’t want a part of it.

I’m just afraid of going forward, it seems. Nothing seems like the right thing to do anymore. I guess it’s kind of like waiting for a tree to come down. You’re incessantly anticipating the fall but at the same time you’re terrified of where it will land.
I guess I’ll just have to try something different this time.

It seems like nobody has changed. I sit there and I think "How are these people exactly how they were two years ago?" But then I remember that they are still doing the same things they were doing two years ago, and they are still with the same people they were with two years ago. And I start to think it makes sense but then it just pisses me off that these people are still exactly who they were and I feel sorry for them. Because even though they are probably a lot better off than I am and they are probably a lot happier than I am, knowing what I now know, I would never want to go back to that ignorant innocence. And it makes me wonder that if they ever break free from that innocence if they will be glad or if they will have wished they could have remained in that ignorant happiness forever.
I mean, if you’re living with your eyes closed, can you truly ever be satisfied?


I can still remember my first time pretty well. What broke me in. What pulled me out.
I had never done anything like it. I had never drunk more than a few sips of wine or gotten high of anything in my life. A few times some friends and I would sniff a Sharpie or some Elmer's Glue. We would stumble around, act like idiots, and swear we had gotten high but we all knew we were faking.

It was 6th or 7th grade; I'm not sure, sometime in middle school. My best friend, Jean, first introduced me. I had never suspected her of drug use but I wouldn't have bet against it. Her brother, Greg, was one of the biggest stoners in our town, or at least that's what they claimed. Now I seriously doubt that. I think they just liked to think highly of themselves but back then they were all I knew of the drug world, I would have believed every word.

I remember going to our shopping mall and Greg was excited about some big buy. It all seemed a little strange to me until Jean explained that he was buying marijuana and asked me if I would get high with them that night.

Of course I said yes. I liked to think of myself as a little bit of a rebel, and doing drugs in middle school was too edgy to pass up. I was excited but as the night drew on I grew more and more nervous. I had no idea what to expect and I had been warned against drugs all my life, to think it was only a year or two earlier that I was telling myself that the D.A.R.E. courses were ridiculous because I would never try drugs.
Eventually it became me, Jean, and Greg sitting in a small room in their new house with their mother sleeping only a few rooms away, and I was being handed the bowl. They lit it for me, seeing as I was completely clueless. After the first long hit, they looked at me, evaluating me, trying to determine if it had done the trick. "What do you feel? Is anything different?" I didn't know what to say. How was I supposed to know if I was high or not? "My head feels kinda heavy." It was the only notable difference I could think of. Greg laughed, "You're high."

The rest of the night was all laughs, seeing how cool the blur of my cell phone looked when I waved it in front of my face, or observing the patterns on the walls and ceiling. "Pac-Man! Pac-Man is on the ceiling!" I remember the first hallucination. "He's eating the little fruits! Chomp, chomp, chomp!"

It was all fun and games until Jean and Greg's mom walked in to give Jean her back-brace for scoliosis that she wears to sleep. I remember her face, that look of shock and disappointment. She didn't say a word, just dropped the brace and left the room. She never did mention that night.