missedmybus
Out of the Psych Ward, into Insanity
- Feb 2, 2025
- 116
I will post stories here.
Life is beautiful when you're drunk
People ask you for directions. A smoke or just a little change
Instantly you're best friends
Lifelong friendship, or just for a moment
When you're drunk, the NOW is everything
No hooks in your head
No doubts
No expectations
Sober is a different beast.
Everything counts. Everything's serious.
It's the present, the past, and every possible future all at once.
Every problem is a problem
and you don't have the guts
to do anything about it
Drunk or wired or fucked —
No problem.
You'll swing at it.
And if not, you'll break it open or kick it down.
Why live sober?
I ask myself that
in every sober moment.
To build something?
To contribute to society?
To help fund genocide in the name of faith?
To justify slavery and exploitation
in the name of "Western values and freedoms"?
I spit in the face of this society.
So what will I do
with my free time
when I'm sober?
Send bombs
to CEOs and politicians?
3D-print pistols?
What counts as meaningful
leisure time
for someone like me?
With this disgust
for the world we live in?
I'll figure it out.
And if I don't,
THEY can go fish.
This is about 6 years ago:
APPLE DRINK
(or: How Not to Do PCP on Christmas Eve)
It was Christmas Eve.
My little Christmas present to myself had arrived the day before.
I had all these new things to try, and I wasn't going to waste time being careful.
I looked up the dosage.
The website had cheesy warnings: Flashing ambulance lights, giant red letters:
WARNING: PSYCHOSIS. MANIA. HOSPITAL.
I scrolled past all that.
I just wanted to know how much to take to feel good.
It looked like the same amount as ketamine. I had done ketamine. I knew the deal.
I eyeballed a dose and snorted it.
It crawled from my nasal cavity straight down my spine.
It was going to be a good day.
I had read that high doses could lead to K-hole-like experiences.
That sounded fine.
I kept eyeballing more bumps every ten or fifteen minutes while I put on music.
Something ambient. Something soothing.
I laid down in bed, and it felt like I was being sucked into a giant funnel.
Round and round, spinning downward.
The music set the pace, slow, syrupy, gravitational.
I saw huge monolithic structures covered in moss and vines, floating in some endless black space.
I drifted between them like a ghost in a post-apocalyptic jungle.
It felt like a movie.
At some point, maybe the twelfth time the album repeated, I realized something was wrong.
The effects were only supposed to last six hours.
I'd been like this for double that. Maybe more.
I grabbed my phone and reopened the website.
The red text exploded out of the screen.
WARNING: PSYCHOSIS. MANIA. AMBULANCE. HOSPITAL.
The flashing GIFs of sirens and ambulance lights stung my eyes.
I had taken at least ten times the high-end dose.
"Oh fuck," I said out loud.
"Oh fuck fuck fuck."
The panic slammed through me like a lightning bolt.
My heart was a jackhammer.
I started pacing the apartment, manic energy rising like floodwater.
I looked for alcohol, nothing. Not even a beer.
"My little stash!"
I ran to the drawer and dumped the contents onto the table.
Neon-coloured pills and powders scattered everywhere.
Ten different shapes. Ten different possibilities.
Some of them shimmered. Some looked like candy.
I had no idea what was what.
Fuck!
Which ones are benzos?
Which ones are psychedelics?
Which ones will knock me out?
Which ones will shatter me?
I tried calling people. Everyone was busy with family dinners and Christmas parties.
No answer.
Voicemail.
Radio silence.
Then finally, one of my classmates picked up.
He was chill, a bit weird himself.
I begged him to come over.
Told him he could take anything he wanted from the stash, just help me sort it out.
"Also," I added, "bring some apple drink."
He said okay.
About an hour later, he arrived.
I opened the door, pupils like dinner plates, probably sweating like a junkyard dog.
He handed me a plastic bottle.
I stared at it.
"Wait… what the fuck is this?"
"Apple juice," he said.
I blinked. "I meant cider. Like… alcohol. Something to take the edge off."
He looked at me, deadpan.
"You said apple drink. What did you expect?"
I had to laugh.
Even in the middle of a chemical meltdown, I had to laugh.
The stupidity was too perfect.
We sat down. He helped me identify the benzos.
I took one. Then another.
He picked out something mild for himself and we spent the next few hours playing video games, watching TV, and talking about nothing.
I was still dissociated, still far from baseline, but the edge had dulled.
By 3 AM, I felt something like calm return.
---
The next morning.
I open the curtains.
The streets outside are vertical.
Like they're leading straight up into the sky.
The gaps between the pavement tiles and the bricks on the walls glow neon green and blue.
I blink.
They keep flashing.
I have to catch a train to my hometown. Family Christmas.
I shuffle to the station, eyes low, limbs uncooperative.
Everything looks wrong. Everything hums.
On the train, I take another benzo.
By the time I get there, I'm quiet. Smiling, nodding, pretending to be hungover.
No one suspects a thing.
Black Panther - Draft 1
It had been a year since my break-up. Valentine's was coming up. I'd love to say I didn't care, but I was feeling lonely, depressed and worried about relapsing.
I arrived at the venue unfashionably early. Desperately trying to not look desperate, I was walking from vague acquaintance to smoking area to vague acquaintance. Trying to look like I was walking with purpose.
I wasn't some lonely loser just killing time, I was mingling. No, networking even. Working an office job had really given the bullshit I tell myself an air of professionalism.
While these small existential crises are happening, I keep making eye contact with a pretty goth girl. At one point my nervous tic kicks in and I accidentally wink at her. Not wanting to look like a creep, I walk over and say hi.
"I like your make-up!"
Nice save, asshole.
She gives me a big smile and excitedly says thank you. I guess somehow that worked.
I ask her if she's been to the venue before. It's the first time I've seen her around, and I think I would've remembered her.
She's from a different town, and it's her first time going out in the city. As we chit-chat a bit, I notice she keeps making too much eye contact. She's wearing all fishnets, leopard-print and shiny shiny leather, yet comes across a bit young and immature.
Are you a fashion student or something? I ask while pointing out her outfit. Again that big smile.
No. High school.
I shrink away visibly. Nausea hits me.
"But I'm nineteen! I'm doing exam commission!"
I feel a bit less disquieted with myself. But still quickly say my goodbyes and go to smoke a cigarette with some people that I know.
In the corner of my eye, I see her looking at me. This makes me anxious. On the one hand it would be pretty disgusting. On the other hand it's also very tempting.
I push the depravity out of my mind, but my body stays wound up. The bands are starting now, so I get to the front. Hopefully bouncing around to some fast and loud music will tire me out.
As soon as I look to my side, she's right there. Of course.
She keeps dancing and bumping into me, trying to grab my hands and arms.
After thirty minutes of this, I give up. The last few weeks I've been feeling lonely, sad and frustrated.
I need a win.
I grab her wrists and turn her towards me. Maybe a bit too forceful, but she smiles and bites her lip. As she tries to hug me, I lift her up and start spinning around while bouncing to the music. She tightly wraps her legs around me. Our eyes meet and she looks like she's in love. Big smile. Big eyes. Laughing. Her lips keep brushing my neck.
After the bands finish, I am thrown back into the grim reality of the situation.
People are drunk now. She's drunk as well. Immediately my protective side kicks in. I had my small win, and now it's time to redeem myself.
She doesn't remember the way back to the station. I offer to take her there. She asks to come back to my place.
Too young. Too drunk.
I tell her I have to get up early the next morning. That I feel I would be taking advantage of the situation.
She says she understands.
Walking back to the station, she tells me that she writes poetry. That she's been in a psych ward. That she enjoys drugs with names that sound like math equations.
She reminds me of a younger, wilder me.
I'm sober now, but I tell her that I understand. I try to give her advice. Try to give her a less bleak perspective on life.
She says she understands.
When we get to the station, I tell her I'm very attracted to her — both looks and personality — but that she is too young.
Again those big eyes. That big smile.
We exchange numbers, and she kisses me goodbye. My heart skips a beat.
Walking home alone, in the rain, I feel dejected. Every off-licence that sells beer calls my name as I walk by.
Tonight I will not sleep well.
Then, a message from her. A song about
forbidden love, and a poem she wrote.
I can't sleep — yet I'm dreaming.
I am drunk now for the first time in years so this thread might go off the rails. I have about 80s stories like this. Somehow they all get added to the original post.
Life is beautiful when you're drunk
People ask you for directions. A smoke or just a little change
Instantly you're best friends
Lifelong friendship, or just for a moment
When you're drunk, the NOW is everything
No hooks in your head
No doubts
No expectations
Sober is a different beast.
Everything counts. Everything's serious.
It's the present, the past, and every possible future all at once.
Every problem is a problem
and you don't have the guts
to do anything about it
Drunk or wired or fucked —
No problem.
You'll swing at it.
And if not, you'll break it open or kick it down.
Why live sober?
I ask myself that
in every sober moment.
To build something?
To contribute to society?
To help fund genocide in the name of faith?
To justify slavery and exploitation
in the name of "Western values and freedoms"?
I spit in the face of this society.
So what will I do
with my free time
when I'm sober?
Send bombs
to CEOs and politicians?
3D-print pistols?
What counts as meaningful
leisure time
for someone like me?
With this disgust
for the world we live in?
I'll figure it out.
And if I don't,
THEY can go fish.
This is about 6 years ago:
APPLE DRINK
(or: How Not to Do PCP on Christmas Eve)
It was Christmas Eve.
My little Christmas present to myself had arrived the day before.
I had all these new things to try, and I wasn't going to waste time being careful.
I looked up the dosage.
The website had cheesy warnings: Flashing ambulance lights, giant red letters:
WARNING: PSYCHOSIS. MANIA. HOSPITAL.
I scrolled past all that.
I just wanted to know how much to take to feel good.
It looked like the same amount as ketamine. I had done ketamine. I knew the deal.
I eyeballed a dose and snorted it.
It crawled from my nasal cavity straight down my spine.
It was going to be a good day.
I had read that high doses could lead to K-hole-like experiences.
That sounded fine.
I kept eyeballing more bumps every ten or fifteen minutes while I put on music.
Something ambient. Something soothing.
I laid down in bed, and it felt like I was being sucked into a giant funnel.
Round and round, spinning downward.
The music set the pace, slow, syrupy, gravitational.
I saw huge monolithic structures covered in moss and vines, floating in some endless black space.
I drifted between them like a ghost in a post-apocalyptic jungle.
It felt like a movie.
At some point, maybe the twelfth time the album repeated, I realized something was wrong.
The effects were only supposed to last six hours.
I'd been like this for double that. Maybe more.
I grabbed my phone and reopened the website.
The red text exploded out of the screen.
WARNING: PSYCHOSIS. MANIA. AMBULANCE. HOSPITAL.
The flashing GIFs of sirens and ambulance lights stung my eyes.
I had taken at least ten times the high-end dose.
"Oh fuck," I said out loud.
"Oh fuck fuck fuck."
The panic slammed through me like a lightning bolt.
My heart was a jackhammer.
I started pacing the apartment, manic energy rising like floodwater.
I looked for alcohol, nothing. Not even a beer.
"My little stash!"
I ran to the drawer and dumped the contents onto the table.
Neon-coloured pills and powders scattered everywhere.
Ten different shapes. Ten different possibilities.
Some of them shimmered. Some looked like candy.
I had no idea what was what.
Fuck!
Which ones are benzos?
Which ones are psychedelics?
Which ones will knock me out?
Which ones will shatter me?
I tried calling people. Everyone was busy with family dinners and Christmas parties.
No answer.
Voicemail.
Radio silence.
Then finally, one of my classmates picked up.
He was chill, a bit weird himself.
I begged him to come over.
Told him he could take anything he wanted from the stash, just help me sort it out.
"Also," I added, "bring some apple drink."
He said okay.
About an hour later, he arrived.
I opened the door, pupils like dinner plates, probably sweating like a junkyard dog.
He handed me a plastic bottle.
I stared at it.
"Wait… what the fuck is this?"
"Apple juice," he said.
I blinked. "I meant cider. Like… alcohol. Something to take the edge off."
He looked at me, deadpan.
"You said apple drink. What did you expect?"
I had to laugh.
Even in the middle of a chemical meltdown, I had to laugh.
The stupidity was too perfect.
We sat down. He helped me identify the benzos.
I took one. Then another.
He picked out something mild for himself and we spent the next few hours playing video games, watching TV, and talking about nothing.
I was still dissociated, still far from baseline, but the edge had dulled.
By 3 AM, I felt something like calm return.
---
The next morning.
I open the curtains.
The streets outside are vertical.
Like they're leading straight up into the sky.
The gaps between the pavement tiles and the bricks on the walls glow neon green and blue.
I blink.
They keep flashing.
I have to catch a train to my hometown. Family Christmas.
I shuffle to the station, eyes low, limbs uncooperative.
Everything looks wrong. Everything hums.
On the train, I take another benzo.
By the time I get there, I'm quiet. Smiling, nodding, pretending to be hungover.
No one suspects a thing.
Black Panther - Draft 1
It had been a year since my break-up. Valentine's was coming up. I'd love to say I didn't care, but I was feeling lonely, depressed and worried about relapsing.
I arrived at the venue unfashionably early. Desperately trying to not look desperate, I was walking from vague acquaintance to smoking area to vague acquaintance. Trying to look like I was walking with purpose.
I wasn't some lonely loser just killing time, I was mingling. No, networking even. Working an office job had really given the bullshit I tell myself an air of professionalism.
While these small existential crises are happening, I keep making eye contact with a pretty goth girl. At one point my nervous tic kicks in and I accidentally wink at her. Not wanting to look like a creep, I walk over and say hi.
"I like your make-up!"
Nice save, asshole.
She gives me a big smile and excitedly says thank you. I guess somehow that worked.
I ask her if she's been to the venue before. It's the first time I've seen her around, and I think I would've remembered her.
She's from a different town, and it's her first time going out in the city. As we chit-chat a bit, I notice she keeps making too much eye contact. She's wearing all fishnets, leopard-print and shiny shiny leather, yet comes across a bit young and immature.
Are you a fashion student or something? I ask while pointing out her outfit. Again that big smile.
No. High school.
I shrink away visibly. Nausea hits me.
"But I'm nineteen! I'm doing exam commission!"
I feel a bit less disquieted with myself. But still quickly say my goodbyes and go to smoke a cigarette with some people that I know.
In the corner of my eye, I see her looking at me. This makes me anxious. On the one hand it would be pretty disgusting. On the other hand it's also very tempting.
I push the depravity out of my mind, but my body stays wound up. The bands are starting now, so I get to the front. Hopefully bouncing around to some fast and loud music will tire me out.
As soon as I look to my side, she's right there. Of course.
She keeps dancing and bumping into me, trying to grab my hands and arms.
After thirty minutes of this, I give up. The last few weeks I've been feeling lonely, sad and frustrated.
I need a win.
I grab her wrists and turn her towards me. Maybe a bit too forceful, but she smiles and bites her lip. As she tries to hug me, I lift her up and start spinning around while bouncing to the music. She tightly wraps her legs around me. Our eyes meet and she looks like she's in love. Big smile. Big eyes. Laughing. Her lips keep brushing my neck.
After the bands finish, I am thrown back into the grim reality of the situation.
People are drunk now. She's drunk as well. Immediately my protective side kicks in. I had my small win, and now it's time to redeem myself.
She doesn't remember the way back to the station. I offer to take her there. She asks to come back to my place.
Too young. Too drunk.
I tell her I have to get up early the next morning. That I feel I would be taking advantage of the situation.
She says she understands.
Walking back to the station, she tells me that she writes poetry. That she's been in a psych ward. That she enjoys drugs with names that sound like math equations.
She reminds me of a younger, wilder me.
I'm sober now, but I tell her that I understand. I try to give her advice. Try to give her a less bleak perspective on life.
She says she understands.
When we get to the station, I tell her I'm very attracted to her — both looks and personality — but that she is too young.
Again those big eyes. That big smile.
We exchange numbers, and she kisses me goodbye. My heart skips a beat.
Walking home alone, in the rain, I feel dejected. Every off-licence that sells beer calls my name as I walk by.
Tonight I will not sleep well.
Then, a message from her. A song about
forbidden love, and a poem she wrote.
I can't sleep — yet I'm dreaming.
I am drunk now for the first time in years so this thread might go off the rails. I have about 80s stories like this. Somehow they all get added to the original post.
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