Mac Miller is dead. I always said if I’d heard his Delusional Thomas album when I was suicidal, in the throws of my addiction, I woulda been pushed over the edge. I would be dead. Now he’s dead. He was getting better. Not sober. But better. More connected to positivity, to reality. At least his music reflected as much. Maybe reality is not so positive as it’s given credit for. Maybe I read too much into his music. But surely any departure from that sick psychopath I connected with in Delusion Thomas has to stand for improvement.
I’ve been better too. Been sober a week. He was a source of comfort for me, a source of inspiration, now he’s dead. What do I do with myself. An overwhelming feeling. I did so many lines listening to his music. Now all I wanna do is drown in a pharmacological sea. I guess you can only swim so long. Was ‘Swimming’ a cry for help? I’m treading water, someone throw me a fucking floatation device PLEASE!?! I was so excited when the Ariana break happened cause I thought it would be a return to his drugged out reckless rap. I separated the art from the artist. I didn’t think this is the extent we’d reach. I guess it’s the classic trope really. How do you kill a junky? You get him briefly sober then he doses to the tolerance he’s accustomed. Is that what happened?
He promised his mama that he’d bless her with some grandkids. What kind of promises, what kind of goals, do I stand to lose if I pursue his path. Certainly nothing I’ve expounded so publicly. It’s insane to the literal definition how much I’m reeling over this. It’s not like I knew the guy. But the personal connection I felt through his music – this is my Kurt Cobain. I knew where the guy was at. I was there too. I just never thought this. Perhaps I should heed that as warning to myself. I never think I’ll overdose I’ll just get unspeakably high. But that’s how it happens. Certainly every girl I’ve called girlfriend has had the experience of not being able to sleep beside me after a heavy night of use, as she waited for each breath, her’s baited.
I can’t imagine the result was an intentional one. We use and use and use and we do that to cover our pain, to dull our pain, but not to eliminate our existence. The only time I tried to kill myself I knew I was doing it and I was scared. I ordered Clomethiazole, a divergent compound from my usual cocktail. I hid it. I put it off as long as I could and longer. Kept using ‘normally’, which is to say at incredibly high doses but still within the realm of ‘I expect to be alive and conscious again at some point’, the Clomethiazole tucked harmlessly in an apartment light-fixture. Then, the month coming to an end, my father entering the city to help me move, the time came. And still it sat there. He started the process and I lost days. Then the day came. Time was up. It was now or never. I can’t so much remember but I probably did drugs just to get myself in the spirit of doing this one. I knew the intention when I purchased it and I knew that day what was on the itinerary. When the opportunity arose – when my girlfriend left the apartment – I retrieved the substance and fixed myself what I conceived to be one last cocktail. Stimulants, dissociatives, alcohol, benzos and finally, the fatal Clomethiazole. Known only as the drug that killed the drummer of The Who. A fluke of barbiturate banning. Still easily available for internet order. Still as deadly. The only reason I am here to type this out is I spilled that cocktail. Having drunk half I became immediately too intoxicated, too outside my senses, to continue the task at hand. It’s not like my plan was to sip at it over the afternoon. It was a direct rush and a potent one. I laid out on the bed, covered in tarot cards cause I’m an aesthetic fuck, and passed out. The rest of that day I know only through accounts passed down to me. That’s it. That’s how a plan to die works. Perhaps today was similar for Mac. But more likely it was an accident. And that’s perhaps more frightening than anything.