This is to be somewhat of a memoir/fiction mix-up that I began to write in a mad flash as the memories present themselves. They are in no particular order as of yet, I just want to get them out and scribbled down before thinking about any other sort of process.

   A Seizure, A Hallucination, and Cannibalism

Experienced by Eadweard

This time my attitude was different; my first reaction was not to let go, to run away. My mantra had changed hold on-hold-on-hold on. I was facing the onset, head on, holding on, or hanging on rather to my consciousness at all costs feeling the need to be aware for this one, but not knowing why. The first jolt made me sit straight up in bed and wouldn't let me back. You see, at around this time during the fit I would lose all consciousness. Gladly so; I had conquered many things in my recent life, but this was the only true chaos that was left. No matter how many times I tried I could not control my epilepsy, so I simply decided to hold its hand and remain present with the beast that comes into me.

I had been watching a show about cannibal tribes of Papua New Guinea. So that was the soundtrack to this whole horrific scene. When I think back on it from a third person's perspective, I now see that the level of surrealism was as Lynchian as fuck. The next thing I recall is being visited by my father. Who had died without his son by his side about a month prior. Now I will attempt to explain this part with a shred of lucidity. I did not see him as you would in the hallucination; or in the reality, he was in no way the tangible nor was his voice even very clear. It was the poor signal of an old transistor radio. No visual connection. Only a shit image conjured up by my fevered and dope sick mind. Fuzzy also–I want to be clear here dear reader, I do not believe in ghosts, apparitions, or whatever you people call them– He simply said "You can do this." Then asked me what I was watching and why I was watching it. I started laughing hysterically. All this happening, remember, mid seizure. Now I guess I have some explaining to do (back story wise). What I was referring to by way of a shoddy pseudo-fatherly vision was the withdrawals that I was going through because I decided to kick methadone cold turkey. See, I was severely addicted to opiates and I put myself on the methadone maintenance program. Which really did save me, but by making me experience an even more addicted state and allowing me to recognize the yearning to be free from the craving. Problem was, the doctors didn't want that. When they look at a methadone petient they don’t see a human being trying to gain a shot at sobriety. What they see is a big dollar sign. So… what led to all of this bed, seizure, cannibalism, vision business was that one day whilst waiting in the foyer of the methadone clinic I overheard the receptionist speaking on the phone; presumably talking to another junkie who was put on the liquid handcuffs. The receptionist told the phone that if a patient goes three or more days without a dose they were to be setback to the beginning dose. Which was exactly what I wanted; leading us to the reason that I’m seizing upright in bed feeling the “presence” of my deceased father. He had been, in fact, the biggest supporter of me; my writing, my talks of passion, I feel like he was the only one in my life who believed in me. So it makes sense that I would think of him at a time such as this. He faded quickly as the fit continued and threw me back to a laying down position with limbs sprawled out like a chubby version of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. What came next was definitely a more tangible hallucination. I witnessed three copies of myself materialize in front of me, each with their own very unique expression. The copy standing to the right of my bed had a look pure indulgence and intentions of self-pleasure. The one to my left wore a look of judgment and one sitting on my feet with his hands extended out for mine had a look of fear and extreme fragility. After taking this all in; I couldn't help but conclude that these three were none other than Freud's agencies of the human personality. With a shaky cracked voice I said these words to my ID, ego, and super ego "leave me be, I can do this alone." The sentiment of the statement being doubly reinforced by what the hallucination of my father had said to me (YOU can do this). Now at the time of me dismissing my fellow selves, I’d finished seizing, but left in the post–convulsion hazy state of confusion wherein I cannot even say my name. However, I was able to dismiss what could've arguably been the most destructive things in my life; all aspects of myself. This was a very important moment in my existence, although it's taken me years to realize it. I realized that I had been giving too much authority to each of these for far too long and not actually taking control of my action from the view of oneness. The True Self.

Once the three of me departed, I was swept into a cottage in the deep woods. I heard the voices of my aunt and uncle arguing as they do. I could not talk, even if I wanted to. I was blind to my surroundings. I saw myself stuck in a closet in a cabin in the woods all in my mind of course. This sort of tale is normally precipitated by drugs. However, in this case it was lack of drugs that caused this profound experience. I am of the belief that any experience in which your mind projects its own versions or understandings of reality, be them horrific or blissful, are very important to remember and analyse. It is yourself grabbing hold of your perceptions and forcing (your) personal troubles with reality unto you. When I staggered into the commonplace reality which is forced upon us all the next day I realized that I was three days dry and that I had an appointment at the clinic in two hours. After a fit, on its own, I'm left in such a wretched state. Just imagine an electrical storm happening throughout your brain causing all of your muscles to contract at once. That coupled with the extremely emotional occurrences of the previous night, I'm sure you can imagine the state I was in. However, I did manage to make the 45 minute bus ride. Cursed public transit! It is people in the condition that I was in who ruin public transport for everyone. The disgust! My face dripping down to the sticky bus floor, my legs aching and pounding in heaves as though my thighs were trying to spew out all my sorrows all over the driver. Yes, I sit in the front of the bus. I am that asshole.

    When I got to the clinic I prepared myself to be there for a long time because like every other time, I can't piss in the cup on demand. It's hours of humiliation and trying to piss in a cup whilst on camera and being right beside a secretary who's current duty was to watch me piss. I can't start a stream in a public toilet with another customer at my side let alone this. Not to mention all the toothless sweat-suit clad junkies in line impatiently waiting for me to be done in the waiting room. Their breath was horrid. So bad that it could strip the paint off of the Walmart Smiley face buttons that they use to cook their dope in. [ Here, I must stop and quickly apologize for speaking so crudely about those in earnest need, I suppose I just never got the opportunity to relieve those frustrations. So dear reader, I thank thee on crippled knee for facilitating that]. After the last of the decomposing junkies had left the small and sour smelling room, of course I filled that bloody cup up straight away. Now it was time to see Dr. No-Eye-Contact.  It was time for me to fess up; to tell him that it’d be illegal and kill me to give me my regular dose because I’d been more than three days dry. [Perhaps I misled you by calling him Dr. No-Eye-Contact. You may be imagining a Dr. sitting behind a desk waiting for me, possibly handsome. No such situation happened to this chronic limper. The latter might’ve been true, but I couldn’t tell because the screen on which he was being broadcast, was low resolution and a little cracked. I immediately thought of the sphere of monitors in Twelve Monkeys that the Doctors use for their own protection from the virus.]

After a quick chuckle to myself and a headshake of disbelief I sat down. The doc must’ve heard my chuckle because he turned his head (medium close-up shot) and looked in the camera and said:

            “Everything ok?”

            “No, not at all. This whole this is absurd and so impersonal. Here, you have patients who are in dire need of attention and care because they’re on this bloody maintenance program and you fat cat doctors don’t even bother showing up!” Is what I would’ve said if my dope sick body would have allowed the diatribe to be properly exhaled. “Yeah man” is all that I could handle for now. After explaining the torture that I’d endured and that he would no longer be profiting from my misery, he reluctantly lowered my dose, BUT not to 30 mg. I needed 30! All of the suffering was for naught. However, I must admit that I did not argue because I was sick of being sick. After a quick “see ya pal!” I did the junky shuffle to the onsite methadone dispensary.

            “I can’t fill this. You’ve not had your dose in four days. You’ll overdose.”

            “Are you bloody kidding me?” I almost started to weep. The idiocy of these doctors was far too frustrating for junkies to deal with! I told the bitchy faced receptionist and she attempted to contact the doc via text message, facsimile, she left a few voice mails and sent some emails (apparently). It was the god damned eleventh hour because the dispensary was closing in ten minutes and evidently the doc was unavailable. His assistant said that he’d left and was driving somewhere or another. Finally with near zero minutes to spare he faxed in a new script. The relief that I felt after taking the dose was truly terrifying. To allow anything to have that much control over your physical and mental wellbeing is something to be feared. This was to end very soon. In fact, minutes after taking my dose and feeling tip-top again, I called CAMH (The Centre for Addiction and Mental Health) and made arrangements to be admitted the following Monday. To me, this was amazing because this place was very hard to get into with a referral and here I was just calling from the payphone outside of a methadone clinic and I get in one business day! Well I’d actually already made the arrangements whilst in there the first time to help me get off my original vice. Sweet oxy-contin. The pharmaceutical, so bloody good that they had to stop making it in Ontario. Now they make this un-insufflate-able, uninjectable, unsmokeable pill which turns into a gel as soon as it touches any liquid. It’s a good thing too because I’d probably be dead. Before I went in to CAMH the first time I nearly was, but that’s another story for another time. (continued in a warm glass of milk)

Experienced by Eadweard

Can’t sleep-try harder-shut up!-don’t think about it-you shouldn’t have to. Can’t eat-not hungry-I’ve to force it down my bloody gullet out of fear of fainting or seizing- I shit it out within one episode- This is how I measure time now- by constantly having sitcoms playing in the foreground of my life while lay in the background continuously creating my ethos-I believe this to be the root of my oncoming madness- I no longer feel-I have no bad feelings- I have no good- the method in which I’ve learned to tell how I’m feeling is by how putrid my diarrhea is-always diarrhea-constant diarrhea.

        Another thing I remarked about a hundred episodes ago is that time seems to slow when I don’t shave- I look in the mirror less and less these days-Black has consumed my wardrobe.

Every now and again-when it comes to mind-I research bionic limbs-the mirror shows me nothing other than sickening pores growing in size if I stare to long- “Why Bother?” has become an important or rather popular phrase in my speech lately.