arex

Hi. Im Alex. I'm 21 years old and go to school at Emerson college in Boston MA. One of my classes, Expository Writing had us write a 750 word narrative about an even that happened in our life. I chose a week where I overdosed twice on two different drugs and came clean. I would appreciate any and all help. I haven't writen anything in a long time. Well, here it is so far:

Tonight I broke up with my girlfriend Erica. I caught her in a few lies, and didn’t want to deal with the bullshit anymore. I call this girl I sort of know to come over, with serious plans of screwing the shit out of her. She is what you would call a crutch. Her name is Carla and she too is rebounding from a bad relationship, so it’s a no strings attached situation. After a few rounds of stress relief, she goes home and I start driving to some party a couple of hours away that I heard had e.

So I’m at this apartment, not paying attention to anyone here, waiting for these pills to kick in; I took 2 and blew a half. Crushed into them is an outline of Donald Duck. I’m drinking a warm Bud and being forced to listen to thumping music that isn’t helping my anticipation. I start thinking about Erica and what a promiscuous bitch she is, then think about Carla and start laughing. Dan plops down on the couch next to where I’m sitting, his eyes are gigantic and his breath smells like a million cigarettes went to his mouth to die. He asks me to rub his hands, rub his hands.

Everyone has their great escape, their get away. I’m young and stupid; trying anything that seems to work for someone else. How far will I follow the leader?

I guess we’re trying to scale the side of a building, using a third story balcony to get to the roof. Dan and I laughing as love flows through my entire body, which feels like soothing electricity. Breathing becomes orgasmic. My eyes twitch like they are trying to pick random points on a TV that is tuned to static. Erica used to call the fuzz ant races. My heart beats in my head. I’m smiling and have this deep understanding of everything around me. I try to call Erica, but can’t seem to find my cell phone. Where did I put it? Dan’s yelling at me to come check something out. It’s a satellite dish. We kick it, then hit it with a metal rod that appears in one of our hands. We’re reduced to stupid versions of our stupid inner children. We’re on our backs looking at the stars. It’s cold out but feels great. “This is amazing,” I think I hear one of us say.

As soon as this wears off I’m going to be right back where I started; worse, in fact. I’ll have holes in my brain and depression for weeks. Ecstasy dries up serotonin levels so emotions stall and play tricks. Passages are blocked as it degreases the mind. Like a car with no oil, at any point my brain could just cease up. Where am I going, anyway?

I guess I’m about five rolls deep and my throat is an inferno from licking a crushed up pill that diluted itself in some spilled water. The music is a fractured beat that turns my head into candy store being raided by hungry children with no parents. I’m coming down. I take another pill. The sun is up.

After a certain amount of pills, nothing happens. You just get side effects with no fun. It’s safe to say I hit this level and I’m spiraling into an introspective nightmare. It’s a permanent comedown that came from no high.

Where am I going?

I am in a tub. It’s filled with freezing water and Im shivering. The door is making knocking sounds and calling my name. I get up and exchange my dry clothes for the wet ones that are clinging to me. I towel off and go see what the door wants. Dan is standing on the other side, with this smile that seems to have been painted on his face. I walk past him and fall onto a bed. I curl into a ball of human and blanket for what seems like days. I think I hear someone ask me if I’m alright. I start to cry.

I drift in and out of consciousness until someone tells me I have to go, but first I owe him for eleven pills. I want to die if I’m not already dead. I don’t want to know where I’m going anymore. I think I’m there, and it’s called hell.

After shelling out a week’s paycheck I start to think about Erica. The next few months I will sit in my room alone too depressed to move. I will lose my job and my parents will call a doctor that I will never go to. After another month, police will find me in a mall bathroom, passed out from an overdose of Benzodiazepines. I will wake up in a hospital crying at the sight of a police officer trying to ask me questions. I will find myself in Baldpate Hospital, a drug rehabilitation center staying for two weeks. Doctors will call me a suicide attempt.

Two years later: I haven’t touched that terrible drug or anything of its kind since. I still have no idea where I’m going, but at least my head is in a better place.


thanks in advance.. and look forward to seeing more of me as we get deeper into the course.

-Alex

Lily

Hmm . . . I have to say, this is pretty good stuff so far. I don't know how college works, but wouldn't it help if you went to your professor? What if we told you to fix your story somehow and he ended up not liking what we told you? Also, it's kind of hard to critique a true story . . . sometimes emotions get in the way of that However, if you still want help I'll be happy to read your story through again and give you a few pointers . . .

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