Chains, Reins, & Brains: I was Getting Out Dead or Alive, Even Though I Wasn’t Sure If I was Going to Survive

Disclaimer: This is a poetic account of my third rock bottom. In case you missed the actual articles associated with this short story, you may want to check them out before diving in to gain a better sense of what happened during this time in my life since this piece is more rhythmical.

Here they are: Rock Bottom, Rape Culture & RecoveryBlurred Lines & Hard TimesCoastlines, Crack, & Rehab FraudFalse Freedom, Captivity, & A Lot of DeceptionCoercion, Consent & Control, as well as The Last Few Days of Captivity. OK —now you’re ready.

Don’t pretend you know me. Sometimes I don’t even know myself.

I certainly didn’t back then and neither did he. It hurts that I let him take advantage of me.

It’s just, somewhere along the way, I lost myself. I was too fucked up to function and I guess I thought his dysfunction matched mine.

Spoiler alert, it didn’t.

I’d say no but he’d still expect a show. Why? Because I was chemically chained to a friend turned foe. Like even if I said it in a firm voice, he didn’t care. I had no choice. So when I’d realize I wasn’t going to win —yeah, I’d give in. I mean, anything was better than being sober while getting run over. It was that or a beating. My life had no meaning. I had no identity. Not one single goal but unfortunately, I wasn’t in control. Hell, I wasn’t even allowed to think.

Which is probably why he threw my cell phone in a drink. I wasn’t allowed to make new friends or talk to old ones and make amends. He’d bolt lock the door and call me a whore. What the actual fuck? He was the one who made me suck. I was stuck. I had bad luck and it didn’t help that I felt like an actual dump truck. I’d sit with my back to the wall and my hands? Well, they were tied.

I tried to break free but he was the one with the key.

It was that damn oxy. It made it hard for me to make any sense of reality. I mean, not only was I chemically chained, I was physically deranged. He explained that if I maintained the info he ingrained, I wouldn’t be framed. Except, it was easier said than done. So I pretended I was having fun. Spoiler alert, I was not. One word, distraught. Like I could only shower, eat, and watch T.V. when he said it was alright.

I tried to put up a fight, but I had no might and surely no appetite. I was addicted again tenfold. If I didn’t have a pill, I’d be sweating hot and freezing cold. He had the supply, but I had to earn mine. It’s like yeah, I was near the beach, but I might as well have been drinking bleach. And if I didn’t want too or refused, I’d be even more sexually abused. I was confused and downright used. I still have the scars to prove just how bruised.

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And even when I felt like death, he’d still make me undress. He said he knew best.

So yeah, I was stressed.

Like when everything hurt —from my body to my skin, I caved and said, “Fine. Let’s begin.” I knew the password (you fucking coward). With one simple word, I could get blurred. But at what cost? I was pissed off, sick and lost. I was over it and he was a fucking hypocrite. I now hated the drugs I once adored. It just didn’t seem worth it anymore. I remember sitting on the floor like the worthless whore he swore I was.

He’d say, “You’re done for if I don’t get my encore.” Followed by a, “Don’t pretend I’m not your favorite drugstore.” And he was right. He knew I wouldn’t excite without my kryptonite. So I’d accept my pills then give him cheap thrills. I mean, if I was stuck, forced to do shit I didn’t want to, what else would you expect me to do. I might as well be high, right? That’s literally why these drugs won every single fight.

As more time past, the rules became the opposite of lax.

Like worse than before; it was war. I wasn’t allowed to get my first dose of the day, without doing whatever he had to say. I’d get woken up with his privates in my face. I tried to preserve some fucking grace but it’s pretty hard when everything about you screams disgrace. I definitely couldn’t rhyme. It really was the same thing every time.

Like when we’d round third base, he’d hand me my favorite CD case —to snort the drugs that led me there in the first place. But man. At that moment, nothing mattered. Even though my heart was shattered, I could breathe. Two words, instant relief. And it was because he knew I’d eventually give in, he’d always win. I mean, if I did it all to completion, I’d get anything I wanted.

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So hell yeah, I said yes. I didn’t want too, I confess. But it was that or more distress. And yeah, he was usually one step ahead, but by the end, it was me who misled. I was getting out dead or alive even though I wasn’t sure if I was going to survive. I just hated this man. I would have run him over with a van. So, I devised an actual plan. Without delay, I was going to run the fuck away.

I had to try or at least pray.

I couldn’t make it another day. I mean, I hadn’t been outside in weeks, which, of course, was one of his controlling techniques. Technically, “rehab” would have been over in a few, but things got so bad, I couldn’t wait for time to brew. I was finally ready to bid adieu. Two words, breakthrough. Then out of the blue, since I was behaving so well, he gave me permission to leave hell —at least for the afternoon, which was when I decided, this is how I’ll make my move.

There happened to be some Jets game playing at this local bar that wasn’t too far. So on that fateful day, I pretended everything was OK. We walk in and get a spot in the back, which was around the time, I started having an anxiety attack. But I had to play it cool. I was done playing the fool. Long story short, I sneak into the women’s bathroom and ask a random lady standing with a drink if I could make a quick call right here by the sink.

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She hands me her phone, but no one in my family was fucking home. Bruce was faster (what a disaster). He claimed that my “fake therapist” left him a voicemail, so he calls my family saying I was with some guy named Dale —a.k.a. another pill-popping boy, which was obviously a fucking ploy. Except, it could have been true. I think that’s why it was so easy for them to not come through.

“Macey is at it again. I just got a call from Glen.”

“I can’t believe what I’m about to say. But she freaking ran away.”

“OK —what should we do? It’s up to you.”

I mean, I already said yes.

I agreed to go along with this fucking mess. So with me backing out now, it did, in fact, look like I was a lying cow. Except, it’s impossible to run away from a place that never existed. And yet, I was still blacklisted? I was until I fixed it. Back then though, my friend turned foe chased me around that entire place. I think he forgot that I wasn’t about to forfeit this race. He sure was trying, but this girl was done complying.

Three broken phones later, I beat Darth Vader.

I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. And even though, I cried and almost died, I was about to make it to the other side. For once, I was invading, which was when I saw my white knight (Liam) waiting. Earlier, I managed to get one person on the phone —this local boy with really nice cologne. So yeah, Bruce was having a fit, I admit. Why? Because he just got hit. Damn. I loved Liam’s grit and the fact that he wouldn’t quit.

I was free —lickety-split. I couldn’t fucking believe it.

We run to Liam’s car. I didn’t think we would have made it this far. But we did and it’s because of that kid. It definitely wasn’t over; at least I was closer. It’s just, I had to earn back my family’s trust. But if I can be honest, I hated them for not answering my call. Nevertheless, I knew I still had to forgive them all. I also had to forgive myself, me. I mean, I was the girl who made this all come to be. At that moment though, I was happy.

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Long story short, my dad takes me to Naples where he resided. I was more than delighted, yet the opposite of excited. I mean, I still hated everyone and everything for a little while longer. But you know what? Nowadays, I’m stronger. On one hand, I was sent to Satan himself and when I asked for help, I was shunned away. But let me say —on the other, I was the evil stepmother. Today though, I finally see color.

Can any of you relate?

If so, let me advocate. You’re not your abuse. You’re more like the Greek GOD Zeus. You’re not your trauma. I know you will rise above the drama. Because you’re the cleverness that survived —so don’t forget that you’re still alive. And even though I can’t erase the fact that maybe we were raped, above all, you’re the courage that escaped. So, if any of you have been on the receiving side of a metaphorical gun, please remember that it usually seems impossible until it’s done. Because guess what guys? I fucking won.

xoxo,

macey bee

I want my story to be a cautionary tale that imparts a strong “Don’t do this to yourself” warning about the powerful effects illegal drugs have on the human brain. I mean, if I wasn’t addicted to pills, I wouldn’t have befriended this guy in the first place. But there’s no point in having regrets.

Because eventually, I got out. It did take a shit ton of courage and a bunch of dumb luck but you know what? I managed to pull off a miracle and escaped. If you have any questions about my trauma or are confused regarding the timeline of events, please don’t hesitate to reach out. I am an open book. Thank you!

*names and some details have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals involved. 

Disclaimer: This is a poetic account of my third rock bottom. In case you missed the actual articles associated with this short story, you may want to check them out before reading the above to gain a better sense of what happened during this time in my life since this piece is more rhythmical.

Here they are: Rock Bottom, Rape Culture & RecoveryBlurred Lines & Hard TimesCoastlines, Crack, & Rehab FraudFalse Freedom, Captivity, & A Lot of DeceptionCoercion, Consent & Control, as well as The Last Few Days of Captivity.

16 thoughts on “Chains, Reins, & Brains: I was Getting Out Dead or Alive, Even Though I Wasn’t Sure If I was Going to Survive

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