The sun slowly crawled over the horizon. Off in the mist, a dog barked - a car passed. The depression hit me full force. I had been up for days now and my mind felt like mayonnaise.
The apartment – what’s left of it - was a filthy, dank den smelling of burnt metal and musty farts. The mattress lay exposed from messed sheets - stained in sweat, semen, and God knows what else. Without all the furniture I used to possess - all sold for dope - the cramped room had become empty harboring the long shadows of a prison.
I lay on my bed with a cigarette in moist hand staring at the spotted ceiling. I had nothing. Nothing. My family hated me. I could not, would not, fall in love with anyone. Yet, then again, what was left to love? Every relationship I attempted since my move to Tijuana ended in psychotic fights usually instigated by my own sick mind.
The loneliness draped over me like a cold, black shroud. My mind spun with the few dozen hits of dope I took throughout the night.
What is wrong with me? I thought.
I began reflecting on the myriad of routes in life I could had taken - remaining in Los Angeles, keeping a menial job, becoming a writer, or perhaps making movies. All those nostalgic plans in due course collapsed into failure. Everything I attempted ran to ruin. Never any moral support from a vile and vindictive family, never any trusting friendship from money-obsessed, conning friends, and I won’t even go into an explanation of the dope addicts I associate with. All they cared for was their drugs and whatever they do have, it was never enough (As for me, it was never enough - ever) – so, they would hone in after my supply like a shark to a wounded, bleeding sea creature.
I wanted to sink deeper into the mattress. I just wanted to go away - get out.
I attempted to focus on the future.
One time, long ago, I harbored great plans. Living in some posh house in the Hollywood Hills with a handsome young lover, famous from my literary achievements, attending parties, television spots on celebrity talk shows, getting written up in the papers - all faded into mist. I had no future.
Over the years, I apparently acquired a mental state of such downward bleakness, whenever I did deliberate of that hopeful future, I was confronted instead with a dark, cold abyss in my mind’s eye.
The depression sunk me lower on those spinning memories. I never felt as sad, alone, and hopeless as I did at that moment. What was the point of going on when there was no point? I should simply die. It struck me as quite logical. Who would miss me? I would miss no one. I wouldn’t have to worry about jobs, rent, my shit being stolen by these damn naco junkies.
My face wrinkled into worry and melancholy. I glanced over to my end table - scorch marks, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and empty meth bags strewn across it.
I picked up my only meth pipe, held it between thumb and forefinger. Inspected its charred glass sides - precious residue hid in some streaks along the shaft, behind black char. My rage blossomed. It was this shits fault. All the blame of this fucking addiction I acquired. God, how it controlled me! In anger, I flung the pipe across the room and shattered it against the white-washed concrete wall.
I yelped and leapt out of bed toward the shards lying on the dirty carpet. I picked up two big chunks, cradling those precious pieces. What have I done? Oh jeez! Now I have to go buy another one from some bitch I couldn’t stand. I examined the pieces and felt an emotional pity for the broken parts. I felt a dismayed, kindred spirit toward the little fucker and I just killed it!
Feeling so sad, so sad. Especially at the stupidity of the situation, it coursed over me. There was nothing. I had nothing.
I rose and stumbled into the kitchen and, removing a butcher knife out of the drawer, I knew what I wanted to do. Why not? What reason was there for me to continue like this? Nothing. Who would care if I was still around? Nothing. My friends would had forgotten me in a week. Nothing. My parents didn’t give a shit, so why should I? Nothing, nothing, nothing…
I stood grasping the knife, clutched it in my right hand. I balled my left fist and raised my left arm. The steel felt cold against my skin as I made that first slice. A trickle of blood formed and streamed a thin line down to the elbow.
Suddenly, I was terrified. What the fuck was I doing?! I threw the knife into the sink and grabbed a ragged towel to stop the bleeding. Then the tingling pain began to throb. I was embarrassed more than anything - mortified at the foolish attempt I had committed.
I dashed into the bathroom and grabbed a wet towel - it seemed I didn’t cut that deep.
I went to the corner farmacia and purchased a roll of bandages from an unconcerned clerk; returned home to wrap my arm.
Shortly afterwards, I sat in a nearby park. Kids jovially played, vendors sold balloons and frozen flavored ice, couples strolled in love, the sky a bright, cloudless blue. Around me the ever present heartbeat of life.
I sat there; a disgusting stain on this idyllic painting - a vulgar mark on the world. Such a depression.
Trembling, I held my head, cigarette dangling from my chapped lips - what a failure I am. Such a failure. I have failed at so many attempts to better my life and today I failed at ending it.
Composing myself, I stood up and walked over toward Coahuila Avenue to buy some more junk and get a new pipe.
- Tijuana, 1992