A prose I suppose...

I allowed myself to believe in that false sense of happiness, or should I say, I let my brain manipulate reality so that I wouldn’t have to acknowledge the truth. Ninety-five per cent of the time I would allow the deep, unquenched emptiness inside me to be filled with the company of acquaintances who hadn’t known about those things that superficially defined me in the eyes of others: my privileged upbringing, good education, middle-upper class friendship circles and that perfectly cut and watered lawn, contained within an equally as perfect, cream picket-fence (yes, sarcasm intended).

Nothing was an achievement, even when it was. None of it made me eternally happy, even though people died for what was my birthright. No… money, class and a tertiary education at a snobby institute were all things that society coveted as being both elitist and justly divisional of social-rank. But despite this, a part of me still, paradoxically, desired to fit into the accepted social mould that I was born and raised in. However, the other parts of me yearned for something different, non-conformist… something that would destroy me, manipulate my soul and challenge my morals; something that would push me to the edge and dare me to jump; something, anything, that would pierce through the unshakeable numbness that consumed my entire being.

Searching for anything that could fill that gaping, ever-consuming void inside me, I succumbed to curiosity and began walking the tightrope between the two very different worlds. In the beginning, it seemed to be all fun and games – my own twisted form of entertainment and amusement… But as the saying goes: lie with dogs and you will get up with fleas. Ignorant, over-confident and naive, the tightrope walk between two worlds began. Not knowing the exact reason behind my willing pursuit of a world most would go out of their way to avoid, if aware of that world at all, I put my actions down to curiosity, dissatisfaction with the mundane everyday grind, emptiness (but not in a depressed sense, more in a permanently discontented sense) and boredom. One day, about a year ago, I can recall sitting cross-legged on a leather desk chair, utterly bored at about six thirty in the morning after everyone else had fallen asleep or nodded off. Still wide-awake sitting at my mates place after just another typical night, I decided, for some reason, to attempt deciphering the reasons behind my frequent substance use. Writing a short poem, which was my routine thought outlet, I came up with the train-wreck that follows:

I understand the solution, I hold the key, I know the answer, yet I sabotage me, as I open the door, and exit the car, invisible strings pull me back, but I've already gone too far.
You let me in, smile to my face, hand me the wrapped foil, as I take my place, on the moth-eaten mattress, laid on the floor, over-used and dilapidated, a place of squalor.
I tear off an aluminum sheet, and light it from below, shiny side down, I condition it slow, blacker than black, I know it's done, roll up a straw, and ignore what I've become.
As I unwrap the foil package, to reveal hard white rocks, cutting them into smaller pieces, my conscience mocks, "today is your last, as was the day before, self-deceit second nature, maybe I won't want more".
As this thought flashes, through my mind, I spark the lighter, and begin to unwind,
numbing,
dumbing,
running,
still.
There's nothing left for my brain to fill. Finally, I am granted, an empty thought, and as my reality becomes distorted, the dragon cannot be caught.
He dances in wisps, above the flame, one toke, two tokes, it's all the same, leading me away, to another place, where there is no judgement, I don't have to save face.
Time suspended, a comforting abyss, like childhood innocence, an untainted bliss, before the loss of identity, a questioning of self, before the pain, the tears, the decomposition of mental health.
Expectations dictating behavior, don't stray from the herd, freedom in a cage, a concept too absurd, uniqueness and conformity, a paradoxical glitch, exclusive concepts, between the two I switch.
Smile at strangers, have a tertiary education, know when to speak, conform to expectation, ignorance is easy, imperfection overlooked, a theatrical play, to which everyone is hooked.
But when you're alone, and the curtains have closed, the stands have emptied, and a cold wind blows, the smile fades, and unhappiness reigns, because everything else, was only feigned.
That's why I come back, and give into the escape, a short relief, to remove my painted face, blank with stupor, cognitive function impaired, a place to rest in solitude, if only someone had cared, to patch up the cracks, and remove the gun, from my shaking hand, that wants to finish what's begun.
The process slower, but still as deadly, as lead tearing apart my skull, when the triggers pulled steadily, self sabotage unstoppable, rescued too late, days and nights blurred, a death march toward my fate.

Observing, listening and mimicking the behaviour of others, the once shy, straight A student started to understand the ways of the streets, or should I say, as AJ and I called it, the ways of the jungle. The jungle was a merciless realm of smoke and mirrors, shadows and alleyways, flats and garages, cappers and brass monkeys, stand-overs and raughts, sawn-offs and soggys, disposable gloves and bleach, pipes and needles, long drives and back streets, lost hours and forgotten days, rats and dogs, bacon and hogs, gangster-fakers and boned-out faces… the list goes on. If the jungle had a fine print it would read ‘welcome to hell, oh and watch your step as your enter’. The jungle was territorial and had rules. Concrete rules. (1) Do not ever lag/rat/squeal and if you do be prepared for very unpleasant consequences. (2) DTA – Don’t Tell Anyone, Don’t Trust Anyone. (3) Don’t lie with dogs or you will get up with fleas. (4) Don’t play the game if you don’t know the game – posers, bitches and snitches end up in ditches. (5) Think before you act. Acting under the influence of blind rage or false information is messy, reckless, dangerous and can end up costing more than it’s worth. I should know.

So, those were the main rules for survival in the jungle… There are many, MANY more but they just become ingrained into your behaviour. Therefore, I can rattle off a few sentences about do’s and don’ts, but realistically, jungle rules hold no true meaning or understanding unless they are implemented through experience – and as I’ve discovered over the years they are not nice experiences either. I have been roaming the jungle for years now and I can safely say that even when you think you know it all, there is always something lurking around the corner that will make your former understanding of that environment seem pathetic and amature.

Intelligent and observational, manipulation was both my invisible weaponry and shield. In the jungle, manipulation of people and situations was basically the end game for survival. One had to be able to always remain in control of a situation, and retain the upper hand, whilst positioning everyone else around them to believe that they are the ones in control. I was a Chameleon – changing my colour to suit/blend in with/ reflect my surrounds. I was brilliant at it and I needed to be. Constantly battling through a tangled web of lies and deceit, it was second nature to read between the lines, observe body language and listen to not what was said, but what was not said. Even other Chameleons were fooled, and those rare few that weren’t applauded my technique. I watched other purer souls manipulated like puppets and then torn to shreds like un-expecting prey. I am not saying that I am proud of this skill as it is definitive of a certain type of person, but it is imperative when dealing with some of the most experienced and morally-void manipulators in Melbourne.

Being attractive and a girl often worked to my advantage, and no, I do not mean in the slutty sense either. Girlish innocence, dramatized naivity, sweet, happy, easy-going, playful nature, dumbed down intelligence and underestimation by the opposition allowed me to manipulate most peoples perception of me to my favour. Nearly everyone viewed me as innocent and harmless, thus underestimating me and consequently misjudging my capabilities. This suited me perfectly – unassuming and non-threatening, I was friends with everyone, everyone enjoyed my company and a wide circle of my adopted guys mates protected and looked after me. I had successfully created a type of double identity and that once distinct line, that separated the world I grew up in from the jungle, began to fade and blur. It was like being permanently stuck in the twilight zone… lost in limbo… always an outsider, a nomad, despite which side of the line I was on. I felt like I saw reality stripped bare. No one in my old world would understand the jungle, nor would I expect them to, as they were happy living in blissful ignorance in their protected but boring bubble. I would have given anything to be blind and happy – enjoying the simple pleasures of life with an untainted, unbroken mind and positive outlook. But this was not the case, nor ever would it be, because once broken and damaged, misled and abandoned, lost and empty, parts of me were gone forever. I could never take those experiences away, so I saw the world through cold eyes backed by a stained, hollow soul. The die was cast.

Back in the beginning, I perceived there to be a distinct segregation between the two ‘worlds’. One good, one bad. But as time lapsed, the segregation began to lessen and the two worlds drew curiously close together. I felt at home. In an attempt to allow you to gain a better understanding of the divide, I will attempt to describe it metaphorically. The best way I can explain it is if I liken the separation of the two worlds to staring through a rain-spattered windowpane. On one hand, one could look straight through the coating of rain droplets covering the glass pane, subconsciously registering them as an inconvenient obstacle that needed to be overcome and thus they were automatically and instinctively ignored. But on the other hand, one had the ability to focus directly on the rain droplets and visually register them in their own right whilst still having the ability to look through them to the other side.

This was what the two worlds were like… Imagine, what society deems as a “regular/normal“ everyday working citizen, walking down the street – do you think they would be able to pick the drug users from the non-drug users? The Centerlink dole bludgers from honest hard working people? The dealers from the crowds of people milling down the footpath? The large importers and exporters from the boardroom table in that mornings meeting? The answer is no. And before you jump to conclusions and say “well I can pick a junkie a mile away” … I say, “good for you, so can I”. So can most people. These are what we call stereotypes ladies and gentlemen – Nice, tidy, generalized and overused pigeon-holes that allow us to segregate and label members of our community in an attempt to (a) comfort and reassure ourselves that we are all-knowing and all-understanding of our environment and surrounds as we perhaps feel threatened by the unknown so we link together specific characteristics and slap a consolidating label on people; or (b) which would suggest the idea that people take solace in the illusion of stability and constancy so they create an ignorant, idealized, uniform view of the world around them and then they sit snuggly within their four conformist walls, following societies gentle ebb and flow like a school of fish gliding in unity through the water.