Most of my young life I was always told by my voices that I would die when I was of 27 years old. Like the rest of the “greats”.
Believed if fully, believed it strong enough to try to compact as much hard living, drug using, sexy time, into the smallest amount of time. Explains the cocaine nights in sex clubs. The mushrooms witches, the acid cults.
Hedonism was a friend of mine, and we got along well. I was the one of my friends who took everything too far, did to much, was going to die or end up in prison. I did neither. They did.
I always “knew” I would die young. As the days ticked shorter and shorter towards turning 28, I imagined my chances of dying increasing day to day, to a certainty on the last day of my 27th year.
My life style came to a peak, and I was blacked out for a few days. I couldn’t handle it sober, couldn’t handle the past 13 years sober. I’m sure I overdosed, I’m not sure how I survived.
Lucky the delusion didn’t drift into a unsafe place of me believing I was dead.
I came too a few days into the age, drugs running out. I proceeded to finish taking anything I had as my mom drove me two hours away.
I agree’d to rehab, and was inpatient that day. Never touched a lot of things after that. I’ve had my slips, but I haven’t given up on the wagon.
Part of me still wonders, probably always will. I can say for certain that I walked away, and am better off for it.
Thank you for reading my rant/vent/bleat.