Today I decided to open one item of post. It was a padded envelope, addressed to me at my parent's house.
It was only the missing package from Chemical Wire. Speed and benzos.
The speed, Isopropylphenidate was contaminated, the package tampered (see TAMPERED post). But yes I'm using it. Seeing as I'm tormented I may as well justify that. I find it super hard to sleep, especially when I'm in hell (parents house), so I'm praying to God they haven't tampered with the sleeping tablets like before. Please be genuine.
I've started researching rehabs. Not because I want to be clean at all, purely for the three months of freedom. I'm going to chose one as far away from them. No bedroom psychosis for me this time.
I'm a N's and although the gear is cut to high heaven I'm having bed psychosis. I swear I've seen a movement from under the bed in the Ribena bottle reflection. I've seen a weird shadow on N, opposite side from the gear. Almost like its Fat Cunt trying to distract me (my brother).
Go ahead bed psychosis. I'm knackered as you cut the gear too much. I can hear, faintly the Fat Cunts voice quietly repeating my monologue. He's rather good now and can predict 30% of what I'm going to say next. Simple, two syllable words of course. Typical neanderthal (Ne-And-Der-Fal). You're so fat, thick and ugly this confirms I'm the postman's daughter or adopted.
When I read 'Mum Can You Lend Me £20' or 'Heroin' the parents spend thousands bailing them out, rehab, detox, even money for gear, drug dealers, debts. They ensure the junkie child has clean fresh works, not sabotage them.
This could have been over a long time age if the family I used to love did the same. Why not put me in rehab? Why create a nightmare? I beg you read the books above. Maybe you'll learn how to help me, rather than kicking me in my metaphorical face when I'm already in the recovery position choking on my own vomit.
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