Freedom

I remember that feeling, The exhilaration, when i moved into my first apartment weeks after graduating high school. On my own, for the first time! I had never taken any trips without my parents, not even a hockey tournament as a youth, at least one parent chaperoning at all times. On the few occasions they left town, they left my older brother as well. So, When i moved into that run-down apartment, I was happier than I’d ever been. Finally, no supervision, no suspicion! I can do my own thing! I got my First real job Monday, started on Wednesday, and moved out on Friday. It was at a pub down the road, And it was fucking amazing.

I should clarify: The job was shit. I was Hired by a the fat ass-hole chef (there were two) to be the closing dishwasher. I don’t know if it was A lack of work ethic or just incompetence, but none of the other dishwashers could move nearly as fast as i could, resulting in them always getting in my way, which was frustrating, to say the least. To watch the dishes pile up on half of my station, unable to change it and knowing i could do the job better by myself, constantly pissed me off. The line cooks accepted me, however, as i worked hard and liked to drink, so it was a good environment on the hole, the second Chef was pretty awesome, and I could start drinking within minutes of closing the kitchen. After at least six years of alcoholism, I was quite good at drinking. With my own place, there was no need to hid it any longer. Wake up every morning, Brew a pot of coffee, and pour every single cup 55-25-20 Coffee-Jameson-Baileys. Now that is a hell of a drink. Polish off the pot and head to work, Close the kitchen and go hard. It was a race after work, to wash all the dishes solo before the line cooks could close line, and i won a lot, getting started at the bar. Grab a little blow while i waited, and it was a good night. What I’d do when i got home sometime after 2 would change constantly, as long as i was drunk and high. Sometimes id go work out at the under-equipped gym the apartment complex held while no one else was there. Sometimes id get wasted with my room mate, sometimes I’d just game, or lie in bed and read. Sleep, i figured, was for the week.

Things only got better when the fat fuck got fired, and we got a new head chef to keep the number at 2. Unlike the old one, who thought he was top shit but was the worst chef i know, The new chef was actually competent. Coming from a high-class restaurant in the states, he moved back to Canada both because of the toxicity of the Classical restaurant industry, and to help children like himself. Kitchens, after all, Aren’t staffed by angels. He was good at what he did, put his heart into his work, and cared about his employees as much as the now-first chef. A friend, and later a huge influence, If i had listened to him them i would probably be staring at a blank page. But, i digress.

Eventually, my hard work paid off, and i was promoted to a part-time, than full time line cook. To be promoted and trained, instead of having a new cook hired, meant more to me than it probably should have. I brought that speed to line, with somewhat lesser effects. My speed in the dish pit was mostly due to adrenaline. Every task was easily done instinctively, and it was highly repetitive. As a naturally aggressive person, it was easy to get adrenaline, But reversely, control is somewhat harder. That being said, i was intensely focused, and rarely broke a dish. I could only have control if i had focus, and that required isolation, not being disturbed constantly. On line, however, It only worked half the time. Every station was broken down in half, so that one person cooked on the equipment on the back half, while the other called bills, plated food, and communicated to the kitchen. I was excellent, as long as i was on the backside on fry. Salads was pretty good too, but i wasn’t the best, and i was horrible at working window. Splitting focus between communicating, managing bills, and cooking was exceedingly difficult for me to learn, and i was convinced the problem was i wasn’t fast enough. If only i could read faster, i thought. If only i could talk faster, plate faster, and keep everything in mind at once, i would be fine, i thought. So i kept pushing, trying to go faster, instead of trying to control my thoughts, my organization. There’s only so fast a body can go, however, and it wasn’t working nearly as well as i wanted.

Even at this time, however, I didn’t really have a drug problem. I might’ve used almost every night, but i didn’t need it. It wasn’t often id take a sniff to get me through the shift, although it did happen on occasion. I might’ve conned money and accrued debts, but that was due to a low moral standing, not the drug. I would have done that anyway. If i didn’t have anything, i was fine. The booze, well that was just fun. It had been a problem for years, although i didn’t recognize it then, but the use of street drugs was in control. I did a lot more than coke too, but that was the constant one at the time. So i thought i could handle any drugs. Even Huge benders didn’t give me a craving, a single addictive feeling. It was only for fun, and i could and did take occasional sobriety breaks (except from booze). I thought i could handle anything. I was wrong.

So, with the increasing stress of wanting to improve but failing and my love for my job, i found in front of me a choice i could never refuse. Not sure i could now. At some time, we had gotten a new cook, and he was good. Worked every station well, focused, efficient, never sweat during a rush. A master, to my blind eyes. I wanted to learn, i wanted to work like that. The fucker was faster than me! The other cooks were better, but before him, no one moved faster than me. How did he do it? Could i learn how? He liked me, as only him, the new chef and I really cared about the job we did. And, one day, He taught me his secret. He did more than that, truthfully. When he made the offer, we were in the back, just came in from a smoke, just about to start work. And, full of excitement and wonder, i walked into that little staff bathroom with him, ready to experience the best thing i could ever imagine in this life.

Methamphetamine.

He pulled out his dome pipe, turned on the water, and lit his lighter. It was loaded, and when the flame heats the glass, that beautiful crystalline substance began to melt, becoming a Brilliantly clear liquid, smoking copiously. Under his encouragement, i began to inhale, and damn did it feel good. Amazing. I hit it again and again, Filling my lungs completely each time. After around 12 hits, i left the bathroom, feeling more alive than i ever had before. From my perspective, the following shift was absolutely amazing. I never moved so fast, thought so clear, my reflexes were sharper, it was amazing. So, i switched from coke to meth, feeling more invulnerable than ever. And, for the next year, this continued. The second year, not so much. When i lost my job and my apartment in the same week, it was a devastating blow. I didn’t know what to do or where to turn, but i knew what had caused my fall from grace. Methamphetamine. I don’t know when, i don’t have many trustworthy memories from then, But at some point i lost that control i craved. My thoughts were fast, but twisted, crazy, to fast to keep up. My actions were almost purely instinctual, and uncontrolled. I never slept, i lost 150-200 pounds, and could almost see all my ribs. And the Paranoia. I’m still paranoid. I almost cant help it, but two years later i can finally control it. I went back to my parents house, back to supervision, only this time with the added pressure of it being hard to trust i was sober. I’m still questioned about it. I haven’t been able to keep a job since, relying on the continued support of mom and dad. But my brain has came back. My thoughts are almost clear, and usually my own. I don’t drink, don’t party. Since that day, Life hasn’t improved. Despite what pitiful attempts i have made, It is hard to live for ones self when happiness is no longer a concept. Even the mirth and merriment of laughter fades the moment the last chuckle passes my lips. Life has become an opaque grey mist. My goal of university seems unreachable, waiting for the first step, the college application, to be accepted. The only chance is top marks and a scholarship. Yet, since the day after i went back for my job, when the owner looked at my sober self and saw only an addict, despite my quitting without rehab, Despite the hopelessness and despair, at least i can say that I’ve learned what it is to truly live in chains, And two years later I’m still glad to be free, and if i can make it from here, I will never give myself up to the chains of desire, appreciating every day the smallest pleasure of truly being free.