the high had run out but my mind hadn't kicked back on yet. i don't remember the day it was but i remember thinking, "christ, i've been out all week." things were still really hazy. i still moved weird. talked weird. my memories don't make much sense, like many memories i made around that time.
i was lying on my couch. i had a blanket tacked up over my window, casting the room with dull brown and yellowish light. i don't know exactly what i was feeling—the reason i used that drug was because it muted what i felt—but it wasn't good. if i had more mental energy maybe it would have been rage. maybe sorrow, maybe i would have collapsed to the floor in grief. whatever it was, it was bad, and it was aimed squarely at me.
i got up and decided i wasn't going to keep feeling this way. i'm gonna get it out. i got a trash bag and walked around my house, collecting empty beer bottles, wine bottles, vodka, whiskey, some mason jars, some old cups i didn't care about. i dragged it to my front door, the sound of the bottles clinking together piercing my eardrums already, i pulled the thing down my porch and into my yard, and started walking.