Live Reading of “A Man of My Word” with Derrick Broze, Pt 2

All right, welcome everybody. This is episode 2 of my live reading of my memoir, A Man of My Word: How I Overcame Addiction, Depression, and Mental and Physical Prisons. We are live right now across YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, Odyssey, and Substack, I think, for the first time. So that's cool. And, uh, if you didn't catch the first week, well, just jump you in real quick. All I'm doing is reading my memoir, which I released in December. It's called A Man of My Word. You can go to amanofmyword.com if you want to pick up your own copy. And, um, that's what we're doing every week. So not really much to be said. First week I read the intro and the first 2 chapters. Now we're going to jump into chapter 3. As the title implies, this is some of my worst, craziest stories getting into drugs, addiction, depression, self-harm, and overcoming that. This is a prequel to all of my activism and journalism, and it takes place in 2003 to 2008-ish. Okay, so chapter 3, The Summer of Love and Mayhem. Stan and I were not alone in our efforts to live fast and not die young. That summer, we ended up recruiting 2 more misfits into our crew. There was Shrek, so named because he was a towering figure with long wavy hair who didn't take shit from anyone. In the world of high school cliques, Shrek came from the jocks, who were mostly football players and preppy boys with pretty girlfriends. They were snobs who I never felt connected to or welcomed by. Shrek hung with the jocks only because he liked football and drinking, but he didn't completely fit in with that crowd. His streak of madness and taste for living on the edge set him apart. He and I had a special connection, closer than he had with the rest of our crazy crew. Then there was Cali, a short, cocky Mexican dude who loved basketball, women, and weed. You'd usually see Cali rocking some dark sunglasses and talking shit with his characteristic SoCal swag. He was one of my childhood friends who moved back to California a few years earlier and had just recently moved— returned to Houston. Callie grew up with a military father who provided for his family financially but showed little to no love for his son. It wasn't hard to see why Callie had a chip on his shoulder and felt like he had something to prove. He definitely harbored hurt, trauma, and anger— anger that would erupt and boil over from time to time. The 4 of us each had our own unique relationship with one another. Callie would drive Stan crazy, consistently talking shit and constantly talking shit and calling Stan Tubby because of his size. Shrek and Stan had their own battle of egos and wills. They were both big dudes, but Shrek was far more aggressive than Stan and wasn't— and was ready to fight at a moment's notice. I tended to get along with all of them. I think I was the glue holding the whole crew together. We called ourselves Project Mayhem, or simply PM, after the terrorist group that committed random acts of violence in the book and film Fight Club. While our efforts to cause terror in the local population never involved bombs, we created our fair share of lunatic events that took us to the edge and back. A favorite activity of ours was driving— and these are all true stories, by the way— a favorite activity of ours was driving around with fireworks and letting them loose on the highway. One of my clearest memories, though, is the night Shrek and I were driving down I-10 with a couple of artillery shells in the car. These shells were some— were small balls with long fuses that you load with explosives. They're placed inside a tube that shoots them into the air before they explode into the night sky. We figured it'd be fun to wreak havoc by throwing the shells onto a freeway filled with unsuspecting drivers. Are you fucking ready? Shrek asked me, his voice filled with nervous giddiness as he drove down the freeway. I got the lighter, just, just drive steady while I light this, I replied with a psychotic smile. Shrek was laughing hysterically in disbelief at what we were preparing to do. I was sitting behind him. I rolled down the back seat window, lit the fuse on the ball, and was on the verge of tossing it at the poor saps driving behind us. But before I could let it fly, the fuse melted onto my thumb, burning me and causing me to drop it on the floor of Shrek's car. What the fuck are you doing, man? screamed Shrek, who was watching me in his rearview mirror. Dude, it fucking burned me!

Hold on!

Ignoring the pain coursing through my finger, I grabbed the artillery shell, tossed it out the window, and turned around just in time to see it explode in a blinding white light on the road behind us. We laughed our asses off. Neither of us could believe we'd actually done it and gotten away with it. As far as I know, no one was injured or killed. The local news didn't mention any car wrecks on I-10 that night. Not that we cared about the consequences. We were so caught up in our youthful exhilaration, so lost in our lust for chaos, that it never dawned on us that someone might get hurt. We didn't want to hurt anyone. We only wanted mayhem. But when we created it, we didn't factor in the potential for collateral damage. I was often the instigator of this mayhem. Something inside me wanted to see people freak out, wanted to shake people from their slumber. Maybe there was a deeper philosophical motivation to my actions. Maybe I was just a fucked up teenager trying to feel something, anything. All I know is that we were regularly scheming and dreaming up ways to break up the monotony of suburban life. It wasn't just fireworks and shells that we tossed out the car window. Our more regular habit was to throw less dangerous objects at oncoming cars. If I had a plastic bottle or a Styrofoam cup filled with soda, I'd open the passenger side window and throw it over the top of the vehicle so that when perfectly timed, it would smash onto the windshield of the poor driver coming at us from other directions. It was a trip watching the liquid splatter everywhere. One time, Shrek and I was, was getting in Shrek was driving and I was getting in my usual target practice, only to realize the instant I let go of the bottle that it wasn't just any old car headed towards us. It was a cop car. We watched in horror as the soda exploded all over the cop's windshield. Shrek instinctively hit the gas as the cop car made a rapid U-turn. We gunned the engine all the way to my mom's nearby apartment complex, where we had— where we barely had time to jump out and hide in the bushes. We watched with amusement as the cop drove around the entire complex furiously searching for us. Our schemes began to escalate over crime. At some point, Shrek and I started to plan a robbery of a local Taco Bell. We used to spend many a night hanging out at 24-hour diners— at a 24-hour diner, scarfing down apple crisp with ice cream after a few hours of hard drinking. One time, Shrek and I were eating our desserts and sharing stupid stories when a stranger sitting a couple tables away overheard us and said, you guys want to get into some real trouble? Again, this is a true story. Random people you meet at 2 AM. Now mind you, this was 2 in the morning and there was literally no one but the waiters in the diner. Feeling adventurous, we struck up with a convers— a conversation with this guy, Justin, I think his name was, and ended up going back to his apartment where we drank and smoked till the sun came up. After that, we started hanging out at Justin's whenever we needed a spot to brew up some— to meet and brew up some trouble. One night, we were at his apartment throwing old microwaves off the balcony and bemusedly watching them smash to pieces in the parking lot below when the discussion turned to the possibility of trying to pull off a robbery. What started as light joking and theorizing about how to execute the perfect crime evolved into very real discussions on what it would take to succeed. Shrek would be the getaway driver. I was going to be the inside man since I worked at our target restaurant. Justin agreed to commit the robbery. We just needed to convince Callie and Stan to join so we'd have more than enough eyes and ears in case anything went wrong. After several late-night strategy sessions, we came to our senses and decided to call off the Taco Bell heist. One of our other bright ideas was to pull what are sometimes known as beer runs. Now, for a normal person, a beer run simply means running to the local corner store and picking up a 6-pack. But for us, a beer run meant robbing a local grocery store. That summer of mayhem, we committed dozens of beer runs. Our procedure was simple and required only 2 or 3 perps to get the job done. One person drove the car, and ideally there were 2 of us who went inside and loaded up a grocery cart with as many cases of beers as it as it could hold. While the driver pulled up to the side of the store and parked right outside an emergency exit, the other, the other 2 did their best to look casual as they strolled in, put random items in their cart, gradually made their way to the alcohol aisle, and topped off their carts with cases and cases of beer. After taking a few, few deep breaths and screwing up their confidence, the thieves would push their carts towards the emergency exits, bust through the doors, which set off the store's alarm system, and immediately load the booze into the car. They jumped in the back seat as the getaway driver hauled ass. When it worked, which it did for many nights, we would head to the pool and drink the rest of the night away. Sure, there were several close calls with grocery store employees chased us into the parking lot screaming, stop thieves, at the top of their lungs as if their lives depended on catching us. We were lucky enough to escape each time. Each time, that is, until the last time. Our beer runs came crashing to a halt in August 2003 when Shrek and Stan attempted to pull off what they called the biggest beer run ever. As word spread about our minor crime spree, these beer runs became fodder for teenage gossip. Some of Shrek's jock friends wanted to get in on the fun, but they suggested taking it to the next level. Danny and Reggie and some other of the boys want to join us on the next run, Shrek told me and Stan one night with more than a hint of mischief gleaming in his eyes. They want to make it bigger than it's ever been. They want to make it bigger than we've ever done. No shit. How many cases do you think we can get? Stan asked as he puffed on a Marlboro. his eyes growing wider by the moment. I don't know, man, was my doubt-filled reply. I don't really trust those dudes. Dude, you don't trust anyone. We can't get enough— we can get enough beer to last a week, Shrek shot back. He was visibly frustrated by my lack of excitement over the proposition. Let me think about it, I said, shaking my head. Don't be a pussy, Shrek said as he grabbed me by the shoulder. We are going with or without you, brother, but it'd be a lot cooler if you came. And, you know, excuse the crude language, if you will. This is just how I talked with friends back then. When the night finally arrived to pull off the beer run, I opted to stay behind. I told Stan I had a bad feeling about the plan, so I would chill at the house and see them when they got back. I truly suspected that something would go wrong. My intuition ended up being correct. The boys of Project Mayhem and Co. were arrested for the attempted robbery and ended up getting several months of probation. I have to admit, however, that I was also motivated to remain at home because Burnett and I had begun fooling around when no one else was there. And for those who missed the previous chapter, Burnett was my best friend's younger sister that I was living with after getting kicked out, out of dry school. It started out with Stan, Burnett, and me staying up to watch movies. One night, Stan went to bed early and I decided to keep watching. So did Burnett. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, Burnett and I were embroiled in a secret love affair. She knew I was still with Casey. She didn't care. In her eyes, I was the hot older rebel without a cause who happened to be friends with her brother. For a few months, we were inseparable, or at least as inseparable as 2 people can be when they are hiding their feelings from family and friends. Ironically, the only people who were privy to my relationship with Burnett were Shrek and Callie. They were both sworn to secrecy, and I was positive they'd never betray my trust. There were times when I felt like a total asshole going behind Stan's back. Other times, I didn't think anything of it. I guess I just expected him to deal with it if he ever found out. That was typical of my selfish teenage ways, a manifestation of me being so enraptured with my own life that I didn't care whom I hurt in pursuit of what I wanted. As the summer dragged on, Burnett and I continued our affair privately. We celebrated the moments when we could openly express affection for each other around a few friends who we knew would keep quiet. I kept the relationship hidden from Casey, but it became more and more emotionally difficult to deceive her. Not only that, but I developed a real love for Burnett, and my growing feelings for her were hard to suppress. Stan found out about my tryst with his sister shortly after I introduced her to X. While Stan was down to take tabs and roll all night with friends, the idea of his little sister, only 15 at the time, being introduced to the drug was not something he could condone. But that's exactly what happened. One night, Shrek was having a party over at his mom's place, and I brought Burnett. Most everyone there was doing the usual, drinking and smoking. I had other plans. I wanted to roll with Burnett and spend the night alone with her at Shrek's. Just before the party got underway, Burnett and I both took our X. Then the party began. We were in the garage. The music was bumping. People were drinking from kegs and passing blunts and talking. Burnett and I tuned them out and tuned into each other. We existed in our own time and space. Everything and everyone around us disappeared. Burnett was so full of energy and life that she couldn't stop dancing. She had glow sticks in her hands and was raving for hours straight, spinning her body while twisting her hands into mandalas of light. We were finally hanging out together in public, and it felt magical. That is, until Stan walked into the garage. He was fuming. What the fuck, man? That's my little sister! Stan said, seizing Bernadette by the arm. We're getting the fuck out of here! Stanley, no, I'm fine! Let me go! Bernadette screamed back, calling her big brother by his full name. Dude, my bad. She's gonna be fine, bro, I responded sheepishly. Then Stan noticed that Burnett was drinking orange juice, which we believed increased the potency of the X, and he became even more pissed off. What the fuck, man? he repeated, snatching the glass of juice and tossing it in the trash. He was still holding on to Burnett's arm. I'd never seen Stan this mad at me, yet he didn't try to fight me. It's not that he was afraid of me. I think it was more that he loved me as a brother and he felt betrayed by me, and he loved his sister and wanted to protect her. I felt like shit at that moment. But not enough to stop seeing her. Only enough to feel bad for a couple minutes. Somehow, Burnett and I convinced Stan to let us stay— let her stay, and instead he bailed. She and I ended up spending our first night together in Shrek's mom's garage. As summer turned to fall, my mental state became unstable, inconsistent, due in part, no doubt, to my heavy drinking. It wasn't unusual to see me at a party taking 10 or more shots of whatever— it may have been whiskey— or attempting to beat my record of downing 20 2 beer bongs. I'd often end up blacking out, puking all over myself, and falling down everywhere. Casey loved to party too, so when she was with me, she didn't think anything of my constantly inebriated condition and its consequences. But several friends were repelled by my non-stop drinking and eating ecstasy. No one asked me if I was doing okay or if I needed help, but I could see the worry on their faces. As cliché as it might sound, my partying and my thirst for trouble can be both can both be traced back to junior high when my youthful mischief began turning into teenage crime. I'd spent most of my younger years saddened by the absence of my birth father, Troy. He had been in and out of my life ever since I was 2 years old, ever since his drug addiction began leading to him being locked up. As a child, I was confused by the experience of visiting him in prison.

Excuse me.

I'd wonder why he had a black eye and why we could only see him for an hour or two. Nevertheless, my brother, my sister, and I would hang all over him during that family time and then cry our eyes out when visiting hours were up. Life without a father at home was all we knew. The same pattern of incarceration followed by release over and over and over again was all we knew. Between our trips to see his TDCJ unit— Texas Department of Justice Criminal Justice unit— he would send us pictures one of his cellmates had drawn for our birthdays and write letters promising to never hurt us again. As soon as he— as soon as he'd serve his latest sentence, he'd show up out of the blue on his Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Then he'd take us out to eat or to the park to play, or he would buy us small gifts. But before we could get to know our dad in the free world, Mom would sit all 3 of us down and tell us that he wouldn't be coming by the house again, that he'd messed up and was back behind bars. This cycle continued for years until Mom said she was so sick of watching her children break into every— into 2 every time he went back that she wouldn't let us see him until we were older, until— or until he permanently stayed out of prison. For Christmas 1998, my grandfather was going to let my father show up for the annual Bros family gathering. This was a big deal because my father and my grandpa did not have a healthy relationship, and as far as I'd seen, had never communicated at all. I'd heard that my father had stolen a wedding ring from my grandma and that my grandpa had refused to forgive him. Regardless of the reason for this falling out, my dad had been recently released from prison and was being welcomed at the Christmas Eve party. I remember this day so vividly. I had turned 14 on the first day of December. That was when I showed my first outward signs of aggression by getting into fights. It felt like my sanity hinged on the outcome of this night. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, this might actually be the time my dad stays out of prison so we can put our family back together. I had been holding on to a fantasy of my mother and father reuniting and all 5 of us being a whole family. I had to imagine how it would feel to be an intact family since it had never existed in my real life. So yes, even after 12 years of false promises and outright lies, I held a sliver of hope that my father was going to be there at my grandparents' house and that this might be the beginning of my fantasy coming true. But the moment we arrived at the Christmas party and my grandma opened the door, I could feel something was wrong. Why didn't he answer the door? I thought to myself. I walked into the living room and saw a massive tree surrounded by dozens of tightly wrapped gifts, all waiting to be opened by the younger kids in the family. I scanned the entire room but didn't see my dad anywhere. I started to feel anxious. My chest tightened. I slowly made my way to the bathroom to calm down. As I passed my grandparents' bedroom, I overheard my grandma telling my mom, yeah, he's already been caught. He's already been locked up again. I entered the bathroom and shut the door behind me as fast as I could. Tears were already streaming down my face. I gritted my teeth and let out a cry. Not again! He fucking did it again! I was overcome with deep sadness in the pit of my stomach. It was pulling me down. down, down. Then I felt consumed by rage. I stared in the mirror, looked at my pitiful face, and said, fuck this. I'm never gonna let anyone hurt me again. That was the moment I swore to turn my sadness into anger and make my anger a strength. I would cover up my pain with strong hatred. This mindset directly influenced my state of being in junior high and into high school. In 1998, when I was in 7th grade, I was suspended twice— once for fighting, the other time for having written down a joke a joke hit list of the kids I hated. As 1998 turned into 1999, I spent most of 8th grade getting into ever more trouble. After Christmas and my deliberate turn to the dark side, I found myself being suspended and ticketed by the local police for, for blurting out that I was going to, quote, burn the school down. Those words had come out during a fit of frustration following my visit to the principal's office for another unrelated incident. These sort of habits fighting and making wild threats followed me into high school. On more than one occasion, my teachers had meetings to discuss how to handle my outbursts. They realized that sending to me— sending me to what was called in-school suspension was not a punishment. I made a mockery of ISS by cussing out the teacher overseeing me and running out of the school into the neighboring woods. There was one hilarious scene where the high school security guard was chasing me on his golf cart. He eventually caught me in the deep woods next to the school. I had tripped and fallen to the ground, laughing the whole time. I took none of this stuff seriously. Making a joke of everything was how I made my miserable life manageable. That and drinking and abusing drugs. I wasn't consciously drinking to drown my sorrows, but it wasn't hard for anyone who knew me to figure out that I was avoiding something. A lot of things. My favorite ways to avoid thinking and feeling were chasing women, blacking out on booze, and taking X. The women temporarily gratified my lust. booze temporarily made me forget my misery, and the X made me temporarily feeling— gave me a temporary feeling of joy. But there's only so long you can keep up this tumultuous lifestyle before your body and mind start feeling the effects. After taking X through the summer and into the fall, I began to feel like a zombie. I wasn't exactly depressed. I described it as emptiness, as apathy, as nothingness. Now I realize the void I felt was the result of the regular depletion of my serotonin Without this neurotransmitter, my ability to experience the ups and downs, the joys and the heartbreaks of life, was greatly diminished. I was left with a giant blank slate for a brain. I was living in a black and white world lacking substance, beauty, and meaning. In crazy contrast to this absence of emotion, I was wildly consumed by what I thought was love for Casey and Burnett. My love for them was one thing I knew for certain, but I sensed there was no way I could keep both young ladies in my life for much longer. The conflict that would eventually arise from my dividing heart between them was inevitable. I needed to wake up from this ex-induced zombification and get my shit together. That's chapter 3. I'm looking at chapter 4. Let me know in the comments, should I read chapter 4? I gotta have dinner shortly, so I don't want to be on here too long, but let me see. Chapter 4 is only like 5 or 6 pages. Can I get a thumbs up or a comment if you'd like me to read chapter 4? Thank you all for being here. I'm reading my memoir, How I Overcame Addiction, Depression, and Mental and Physical Prisons. You can find it at amanofmyword.com. And this isn't the audiobook, but I will be doing an audiobook in the future. I'm just doing this reading because it feels good for me personally to read it and to get it out more and to share it with more people. And the reason I wrote this book is to try to help people who might be going through addiction or know people. Cool, I got one yes. That's enough for me. I'll go forward. We're gonna read chapter 4 and then we will get out of here. Chapter 4. Oh, this one's pretty intense. A Slice of My Heart. Shortly after Stan found Burnett partying with me, I moved out of his family's house. They were moving anyway, but it was time for me to go my own way. Stan and I were still buds and were hanging out even after the summer came to an end. We continued to plot about getting an apartment together and making some legit money somehow. Burnett and I were also still seeing each other. I was walking miles across town to get to her house, sneaking in the window, hiding in her closet, nearly getting caught many times, and actually getting caught once by her mom. Although we were still passionately in love, Burnett was beginning to question me about our future and wanted to know when I would break up with Casey. B, as I called her, was a kind soul with a fiery heart, but she had little patience for bullshit. She had recently started her freshman year in high school and was growing increasingly impatient with my secrecy and indecisiveness. This would be a theme throughout our relationship— me seeking to hide our affair but also refusing to let go so she could be with somebody who would openly love her. I took advantage of me being older than she was and assumed she would put up with it, and she did for a while. I was also still seeing Casey regularly. Now that I was homeless again, I spent some nights at my mom's apartment complex, either sleeping in its 24-hour fitness room or breaking into her place when she was out all night. The other nights I camped out on Casey's tiny front porch. And when I say porch, I don't mean some sprawling patio with furniture and a mosquito net where you relax and read books on a sultry summer evening. I mean the 2-foot-by-2-foot concrete slab you stand on as you wait for someone to answer the door. But because Casey's mom was a hoarder, the house was so messy and overcrowded that no one could enter. They also had dozens of cats, so the house smelled like cat piss. When I was there, Casey and I would either hang out in the backyard We had a tent set up there for months at a time, or chill on the driveway and talk. When day turned to night, if we wanted to stay together, we would bring out blankets and pillows and lay them on her front porch so we could sleep together through the night. This was the cost of love, I assumed. Casey was not only a bassist but was also an incredibly talented artist who loved to be creative and express herself with colored pencils and digital art, as well as through her outfits, her makeup, and the music that she jammed. She valued friends and community and especially liked hanging out with others who rejected the mainstream as she did. Our love was both the mutual rejection of society and its norms and deep feelings for another wounded, flawed human being. We felt under— we felt misunderstood by the world but understood by each other. When we argued, things could get heated, even volatile. Being stubborn, neither of us backed down. We were too young to appreciate the benefits of having a rational conversation and actually listening to one another. Instead, whenever we were struggling to communicate, we would resort to cutting ourselves. If our fights became too intense, I would punch myself or try to hurt myself in some other way in front of her in a futile attempt to defuse things. I don't know why I thought this was going to help. One time we were outside of her mom's house screaming at each other in fits of rage. Stan was there trying to cool us down. For some reason, I decided to grab the garden hose and start strangling myself with it. Stan was not unaccustomed to seeing me act quote-unquote crazy. He came to expect me to lose control at any moment and raise a ruckus from time to time. My lack of restraint could and did lead to either getting into fights, getting arrested, or getting really fucked up on substances. Stan was pretty much down for all of the above. He was also not unfamiliar with me hurting myself. One time while we were sharing his room, he witnessed one of my attempts to kill myself. He was at work and I was at the house with— I was at the house alone with Burnett. I don't recall what was going through my head, but I know I felt deeply depressed. It wasn't the first time. This was a path I'd trod many times before. I would be overcome by an intense grief I couldn't explain. Anyway, on that day, my teenage mind and heart were in overwhelming pain. I couldn't explain why. I just knew I wanted to die. I actually spent many nights thinking about dying. It was not unusual around this time in my life for me to sit on a curb on a busy street watching cars fly by at 50 miles an hour. Some nights I would walk into the middle of the street and stand still waiting for the cars to pummel me into the concrete. I stood there immobile, gazing into the headlights as they drew closer and closer, blinding me in my potential last moments. But I never had the courage to go through with it. I'd always jump back onto the curb at the last moment. On this night, I didn't even have the strength to walk into the streets to put— be put out of my misery. I felt so lost. Some of my torment related to Casey and Burnett. Some of it was likely related to my growing realization that I was the architect of my own agony. And probably another bit of it was related to my father. All of these emotions, plus my X-induced apathy, made for one topsy-turvy mental state. I decided that I just needed to die, and the way I would do so would be to overdose on lots and lots of pills. I searched Stan's bathroom and bedroom for some substance that might do the trick. I found nothing that would take me out quickly, but I did find bottles of Tylenol Extra Strength. I swallowed dozens and dozens of these tablets, hoping they would put me to sleep forever. As the hours passed, I started to feel extremely slow Heavy, limp, weak. Burnett noticed I was out of my norm. What's wrong, baby? You don't seem like yourself, she asked from the doorway of the bedroom. I don't know what to do anymore, I mumbled under my breath as I lay on Stan's bed.

What do you mean? What happened?

she demanded, her patience growing short. I took all these pills, I said, holding up the bottle. I don't want to do this anymore. Burnett began to freak out, alternate— alternately crying and cursing me out for being so stupid. A little while later, Stan showed up. He too was annoyed with me. It's not that they couldn't see my state of depression, but neither of them saw suicide as a way out. I felt like an idiot laying there throbbing in pain, wanting to die even more at this point than when I took the first pill. I felt especially dumb when we realized that yes, acetaminophen, the key ingredient in Tylenol, can kill you, but first it will destroy your liver. Not a very quick way to go. Stan made me throw up everything I could. After a miserable night of puking for hours, I lived to hate another day. Now that I had moved out of Stan's house and his family had moved further away and Burnett was no longer within walking distance, it was harder to continue our romance. The distance did help relieve some of the stress I was under. I wasn't expected to see her as often and thus could spend less time worrying about us getting caught by Casey. Inevitably though, Casey learned about Burnett anyway. We'd been seen by too many people at this point, it was difficult to keep hiding. Obviously, Casey was angry at me, but she was even more angry at Burnett. Though I was no longer in high school, Casey was a junior and Burnett a freshman in the same school, which meant that this was B's first year of high school. On one of the first days, Casey walked right up to B and punched her straight in the face in front of hundreds of fellow students. B called me from the school and shouted, your fucking girlfriend just beat me up! I remember that clear as day. Stan was naturally pissed at me and, and at Casey for a good while. This was just another stain on our friendship, another mark against me that created doubt in his mind about whether or not I was deserving of the title best friend. I was doing a piss-poor job of navigating the situation, I must admit. I was causing emotional and physical pain to Casey, to Burnett, and to Stan. Knowing this compounded my mental struggles and pushed me into more guilt and self-hate. I simply could not see again, once again, that I was shooting myself in the foot, making my own life not to mention everyone else's lives, but that much harder. This was another pattern I would follow for years to come. The worst fight Casey and I ever had related, not surprisingly, to me seeing Burnett and other girls. Casey and I were out walking the streets one night, arguing for hours about whether or not I was going to stop seeing B. We were physically exhausted, mentally drained, and emotionally sapped by the time we got back to my mom's apartment complex. But Casey, still feeling stung and scorned, was livid with rage. I just can't believe you keep seeing her, Derek! Casey screamed as we entered Mom's place. Look, I already apologized. I promise it's over between us, I said, knowing full well that I was lying to her face. You've been saying that for months now. You keep going back to fuck her, she replied, shoving me. Right then, there was a knock on the door. It was Stan. Yo, what's up, party people? he crowed as he hugged Casey and dapped me up. Not much, bro, I said with a sigh. Stan picked up on the vibe right away and did his best to keep us calm. It wasn't his job to prevent us from killing each other, but he was attempting to help us maintain some sanity. At this point, things got kind of fuzzy for me. I don't remember exactly what Casey said, but I knew she accompanied her verbal assault with a smack on my face. I recall starting to black out. My vision blurred. I disappeared. What Stan told me afterwards That was what I was— that I looked shocked as hell after the slap. I walked over to my mom's dishwasher, slammed it open, grabbed the biggest knife I could find, growled, this is what you want, and hacked at my forearm twice. The next thing I remember is Stan tackling me, throwing the knife away, wrapping my arm with the towel, rushing me to his car, and yelling at Casey to stay back. She was screaming and crying. I was barely conscious, so I don't recall if I said anything to her as we jumped in Stan's car. Blood was gushing everywhere, all over my mom's apartment and all over Stan's car. What the fuck did I do? I really fucked up this time. Dude, dude, stay awake! You're gonna be okay! Stan shouted at me as we sped onto the freeway and towards the hospital. I was in tears. I was panicking. I'm gonna fucking die, bro, I whimpered. Stan looked me in the eye and sternly said, no, you're not. Don't fucking say that. He turned on the car stereo and found our favorite song from our favorite pop, uh, pop punk band. Sing it with me, man. You're not gonna fucking die. We shouted the words to the song as we hauled ass to the hospital. Tell me what you thought about when you were gone and so alone. The worst is over, you can have the best of me. We got older, but we're still young. We never grew out of this feeling that we won't give up. That's from The Starting Line. Shout out to anybody who remembers them. I ended up getting about 20 stitches on my left, left wrist to close up the 2 deep cuts. I couldn't bring myself to look at my arm, but I was told that I had cut through the first couple layers of skin and muscle. This was the most bodily damage I'd ever done to myself and the most public display of self-harm. Despite my attempt to deceive the hospital staff, they knew I was the author of my own pain and self-destruction. As they evaluated me, I did my best to downplay my craziness so I could go home. They wanted to prescribe some antidepressants and other meds for my so-called bipolar disorder. I refused. When she got home, my mom was horrified to find blood splattered all over her kitchen, all over the floor, and on part of her new couch. She spent hours steam cleaning the carpet to remove the blood. The oddest thing was that after she cleaned everything, more blood stains appeared in the carpet. She frantically called the apartment managers to find out what the hell was going on. They couldn't give her full details but hinted that someone had committed suicide in her apartment. This macabre news, combined with my mom's memory of my sister and me having told her we once saw a woman in a white dress walking through the apartment, convinced my mom that the place was possessed by the devil. When my mom learned about my self-mutilation, she chalked it up to being yet another manifestation of demonic possession. Despite the insanity of the night, it strangely bought— brought Casey and me closer together, at least temporarily. Within the days of the incident, we were rolling on X once again, feeling the lust we mistook for love and putting our troubles behind us. This wasn't the first time that severe stress seemed to bring us closer together. Throughout our rocky couple of years together, we had often bonded over our trauma and isolated ourselves from the outside world. Our relationship was becoming increasingly chaotic. The more drugs I explored, the more out of touch with day-to-day reality I became.

Boom!

End of chapter four. Next week, probably Friday or Saturday, chapter five: Blacking Out just gets worse. It's gonna get worse for a few more chapters, guys. Thank you for the comments. Thank you for reading. Appreciate if you want to pick up a copy of it. go to amanofmyword.com, check it out there. Um, thank you so much. My goal is to get these into as many treatment centers as possible, as many rehabs, as many AA centers, to a friend or family member you guys know who is struggling. I'm happy to send you them for free if somebody really, really needs this. And, uh, you know, because obviously this is just the beginning. I overcome these things. So let me know. Till next time, guys, remember, you are powerful, you're beautiful, you are free. Have a beautiful night.

Since 2012, the Conscious Resistance Network has been an independent media organization focused on empowering individuals through education, philosophy, health, and community organizing. We work to create a world where corporate and state power do not rule over the lives of free human beings. Our motto is leading by example and helping others in their pursuit of freedom. Visit theconsciousresistance.com to find our articles, documentaries, interviews, podcasts, books, and more. Remember, you are powerful, you are beautiful, and you are free.