“I could tell you ‘bout me weekend. That’s all it was; it’s a party, it’s some downtime, it’s a breather. That blew me apart like a supernova and left me on the bathroom floor, feeling dirty, trying to scrape myself clean,”
July 2007, Adelaide
I found in Adelaide that the best way to get a woman’s attention is to slap her excellent bottom and await the reaction. Now guys, that is not advice you should follow because the only reaction any self respecting woman will give to this action from a stranger is:
b) Drink over the head…then SLAP!
c) PUNCH! Drink over the head…then SLAP…as you try to get up!
But Goth Pooh Bear aka Shay aka Immortal God didn’t care because the world and everyone in it was his. However, immortality doesn’t exist outside of fiction or the delusions of a psychotic mind. No matter how powerful you feel you are it’s very simple to leave someone on that bathroom floor.
Whilst out on the piss one night in pursuit of the feisty fillies who populate that strange South Australian city, I began to feel very strange myself and until last year remembered little detail of events which took place due to my fragile organ sealing them up. Things had been pretty traumatizing enough that year and my brain – especially since the breakdown – wasn’t coping. Even directly after the even I knew only what happened and fragments of specifics I leaned in time. This was an effect of the drug (commonly referred to as a date with bunch of flowers drug) that had been slipped into G&T as I pursued a flaming red head.
One quote I’ve always remembered from the great Methos is Just because I choose not to fight doesn’t mean
I don’t know how because it applies to me. I may look like someone who, if he slapped an excellent bottom during a fruit scented adult erotic literature moment, would produce only the feelings of a feather landing on her flesh – but if I want to, I could leave a lovely handprint or two. I can, only if necessary and/or provoked, defend myself and/or others in danger with a violent Spike-like relish. It’s very un-Addy of me not to. That night however, because of the drug, I was unable to. Which meant that when some guy opted to give me a bunch of flowers there was nothing I could do to stop him.
When I came to the following morning I was groggy, badly bruised and in a fair amount of pain. I’m used to bruises, I’ve inflicted enough on myself over the years, but the drug fuelled amnesiac petals from the flowers I didn’t know what to do with. I felt dirty, repulsive, degraded, insulted, weak, angry, shameful, guilty, confused, hollow, guilty, and in pain…so I dealt with it the only way I knew how, more pain followed by the internet.
I returned to where I was staying and showered (scrubbed for hours. With my flesh still rare and creeping I took a knife and cut myself to ease the pain (the irony of self harm) and on some level punishing myself for being weak.
Once the bruises and cuts were tended to I went to the nearest internet café to take my mind off things with a trip to Lizzy Sam land, random sites, self help sites and emails. Ahhh, Kathy, as always with the perfect timing! They very last thing I needed was more attack and abuse. I severed contact and threw myself into a tree.
A trip to the hospital and I said nothing of the flowers I’d been given. The cuts which accompanied the bruises and welts made it easy: I was just another naughty self-harmer. What was the cute nurse gonna do, spank me? The “high” I was still floating in made it easier to maintain the lie and I left with some sedatives which knocked me out.
I’ve always believed the sedatives added to the amnesiac effect but I’ll never really know. Nightmare images continued to flash through my head and not even Megan Fox’s denim clad legs could shake them. My mood, it was becoming clear, had started to end. I thought about telling people what had happened, but who? Mae was too closely entwined with Kathy’s life, and the last person I wanted to know of this latest event was Kathy. She already thought me weak and repulsive for not working hard enough whilst I had glandular fever and the mental illnesses. She would have adored the bunch of flowers bestowed on me, seen them as the beautiful payback she believed I deserved for not helping or caring about people enough. Maybe that’s what they were for anyway. Grace, also, too close to Kathy. Plus, they were both female. I felt degraded and emasculated enough as it was. My family, nope, not going there. Psychologists, too expensive. Mensline I tried, but couldn’t. It was like Kathy had said, I was weak and worthless and I was like a cancer, I deserved it and so much more – she had already taught me what to do anyway.
You must always hide your problems and pain from the world. If you don’t, you’re liable to be dumped by text message and abused for five months for not making everyone happy. It’s what we must do, always make people happy and never share our problems. Ever.
From those chaotic traumatic times I self-harmed a lot and the isolation from those I cared about increased the depression I was slipping into. Three memories stand out:
1. A night stay over in Ararat where I spent the night in tears trying to make sense of the previous few weeks. I needed a hug. I needed a friend. I needed to be strong. Always.
2. Sitting on the balcony of the flat which was home for a while in Melbourne, Grace’s number lit up on the screen of my phone; she would be angry for going dark, annoyed at being bothered, she was going on holiday so I couldn’t upset her anyway. You have to make everyone happy, always, never share problems.
3. The opening and closing scenes of Gridlock, which reminded me even my hero can feel pain
As the months went by the bunch of flowers remained bloomed as I pushed onwards to prove my strength. Physically the bruising had healed and all I had to deal with was a renewed polynoidal sinus and infection which I have always assumed was a result of the flowers. Then everything that year got too much.
October 2007, Dandenongs.
That wacky day of fun!
With all it had had to deal with my brain erected it’s own fences and fertilizers that were needed to protect me from memories and all that was left after a few weeks were the fallen petals around my sweat ravaged bedsheets every morning.
August 2009, Alice Springs
For some random reason my brain decided to unleash that bunch of flowers into full bloom as if in some grand 3D glasses cinema glory at this moment in time. I’ve never been able to figure out why my brain was so evil. The colours, smells and feelings the flowers had provided me came back, affecting all in my ‘new life’: new town, relationship, friends, bipolar, job and associated stresses. The impact was immense. As I ran from the petals my mind collapsed, medication increased, friends lost and damage ravaged. I tried to tell Diana in light detail, but her reactions were laughter. As suspected, never tell anyone your problems, must make everyone happy, always. A joke. I was a joke, just as the bullies and Kathy had said.
The bunch of flowers cost me much: relationships, friendships, intimacy, trust and more issues to deal with. It played into all Kathy and the bullies had ingrained, fed off my mental illnesses and made everything so much harder.
It is just another event for me to deal with and never speak of. Like all traumas it leaves long standing scars: it’s doubtful I’ll ever return to Adelaide, smells, clothes, gin and memories remind me of those times and petals, whilst my trust/intimacy hopes have been badly damaged. If not smashed forever in conjunction with issues from Lucy, Kathy and Diane. As I said, it played into all Kathy and the bullies had said, and I believed them more, always will, like the song says.
“I’ve got a tattoo, of a bleeding heart and a moon inside a sun. I wear it everywhere, it’s a part of me and how I see everyone,”
A guy admitting to be given a bunch of flowers it unlikely to be believed. Fine, think and do whatever you want, I seriously don’t care anymore. However, this has been spoken and referenced on this blog as far back as the day I began writing it, plus in several emails, phone calls and other incidents in real life. It’s called subtext. It’s called not being allowed to talk about the problems we have in life, ever.