COPS! Part 3

The one nice thing about writing every day is that it's easier to just write the Part 3 to a blog post trilogy the day after Part 2 instead of waiting three months like I did between parts 1 and 2. This was my final attempt to “turn myself in”.

[About the song: I always thought it was more than coincidental that Addicted was on the album

 she released when my drug use was escalating and Sober was on the album 

she released the summer I got sober. But it was ironic that I used to play this song over and over 

on my iPod and not have any idea I could have written it.]

This happened a couple of weeks after detox, but before rehab I believe. I had moved from my friend's apartment on the Lower East Side to sleep on the floor in another friend's studio in Chelsea. The reason I moved was because I became convinced that “they” had turned my other friend against me. He was still really nice to me to my face, and would even make sure I was eating and had a couple bucks if I was completely broke. But as soon as he would go into the other room, he would start screaming and cursing at me telepathically. He told me that he couldn't wait until they took me away so he didn't have to deal with them and their shit anymore. And if it weren't for me he wouldn't be in this situation. And on and on. Then he'd come back in the living room with a glass of iced tea for me and pretend that none of it ever happened. Since I knew they were coercing him into helping them and threatening him with jail, I never got angry with him for it. In fact, I also played along and pretended it didn't happen. I just was sad that I was ruining his life. So I left.

I went to stay with my friend Paris in Chelsea. I'm calling him Paris because at the time he was obsessed with Paris Hilton (or at least it seemed that way to me). I think I've seen every episode of whatever her and Nicole Richey's reality show was called (is it even worth going to Wikipedia to get the name) because of him. The good thing about staying with Paris was that his apartment was a studio. That was good because it meant that except when one of us was in the bathroom, we couldn't have telepathic conversations. By this time I was really freaked out by everything that was going on and the dichotomy between the face-to-face conversations and the telepathic ones was exhausting me. I wasn't using as much meth at this point because I didn't have unlimited resources anymore, so when I would go days without sleeping I would really feel it. And it was difficult to sleep when the person in the other room was cursing me out all night long. And then pretending to be sound asleep (snoring for effect) whenever I went past his room to go to the bathroom. So Paris' apartment was much better for my mental and emotional state.

The downside (aside from it being the size of a postage stamp and being barely big enough for one person) was that he was renovating it. The floors were ripped up. The walls were torn down. All the clothes, blankets, sheets, etc. were stuffed in plastic bags and most of those were in one of his cars. And I was sleeping on the floor. I usually would sweep the nails, splintered wood and sawdust up before lying down but occasionally I was too tired and I would just drop myself right down on top of all of it. And still, it was better than lying awake all night being verbally ripped to shreds. He was lying on his futon right next to me so there was no way he could harass me, even if they tried to make him.

As you can imagine though, the face-to-face conversations could get a little tense when two methheads are cooped up in 4-foot-square hardhat area. One particular night, he was really on my nerves – he was probably making sense and telling me I should cut my meth use down even more than I already had. Well, I wasn't going to sit there and listen to logic. I stormed out. It must have been early June because it wasn't cold out, but it was about 9 pm and I was in shorts, sleeveless shirt (nothing I owned then had sleeves – I would sweat ridiculous stains in them) and sandals. So it was a bit chilly.

Paris lived right about at the southeastern edge of Chelsea, so I started heading northwest. I ended up at the Hudson River on one of the piers near 23rd St. I think I must have loved the idea that you could get to the edges of Manhattan so easily because I always seemed to be walking toward them. I sat by the river and thought about my options. It didn't take long. I had none. I had no money, no drugs, no home, no way of making money and a really tenuous grip on reality. I was certain everything that was going on was real, but I still knew my hold on reality was flimsy at best.

I started walking back toward Paris'. I must have walked across 20th St. because before I knew it I was walking past the 10th precinct of the NYPD. Now, I still can't figure out how/why that happened because for the three previous years, I was acutely aware that the police station was there and I avoided it at all costs. But on this night I found myself standing right in front of it.

The battles with the voices were really getting to me. Calling the police on them didn't help, trying to get restraining orders on them didn't help, even trying to get myself committed for attempting suicide on the East Side Highway didn't help. And as I wrote earlier, I was plum out of options.

Then I thought of one. What if I just turned myself in? That's what they wanted. They wanted me in jail or an institution. Maybe I should just give them what they wanted. Plus, I was pretty sure the cops weren't going to let them inside the prison to continue tormenting me. It was really a win-win.

So, I walked into the police station and just stood there. At first I didn't see anyone. Then I noticed two cops around the corner talking to each other. I figured it would be rude to interrupt so I just waited. They didn't seem in any hurry to find out why I was there. Maybe they already knew. The voices had been in close contact with law enforcement for about a year now. I'm sure all these cops knew exactly who I was. It wasn't such a stretch to think that they were just waiting for me to finally come in and confess.

Finally, the guy (he was talking to a cop-ess .. wait, is it a cop-ette .. cop-tress .. I'm really not sure) turned to me and and said, “Can I help you?”

ME: Oh god I hope so. Here's the deal. I think I need to turn myself in. I'm a drug dealer (I swear to god that's EXACTLY how I said it – all matter of fact and just about right off the bat).

COP: What?

ME: I'm a drug dealer and I want to turn myself in.

COP: Ummm. You're a drug dealer? Do you have any drugs on you?

ME: Not right now. [I didn't say I was a good drug dealer]

COP: Look pal, you can't just come in and tell us to arrest you. That's not how it works. Maybe you should go home and get some sleep.

ME: [completely deflated] Really? You can't arrest me?

COP: No. Sorry. Have a good night.

That should have been the end of it right? Not quite. I went back to Paris' and made him buzz me in (I think I had thrown the key he gave me at him as I left).

ME: Where's my pipe?

PARIS: What the fuck are you talking about? You gave me your pipe and told me to keep it.

ME: Well, I fucking need it. NOW!

PARIS: What the fuck do you need it for. I know you don't have any crystal.

ME: Just give me the fucking pipe. I need it to get arrested. OK?! FUCK! Just give me my pipe.

PARIS: You're a fucking lunatic. Take the fucking pipe and get the fuck out! You're insane. Do you know that? You are crazy!

ME: Whatever. Thank you for the pipe. I gotta go.

And back I went to 20th St. I sat across the street from the police station for about an hour, but I never went in. And here's why. It wasn't that I didn't really want to get arrested. It was that I was afraid that only those same too cops would be there again and I was too embarrassed to try to hand over a pipe that barely even had any meth residue left on it. And I'm sure you know what happened next.

The Cuntessa just laughed and laughed.