Prose
K is For...
Robyn Polo
Bless me Father.
“Remember the mantra.” I say to myself. “Three times before falling asleep. I remember I am awake inside my dreams. I remember I am awake inside my dreams. I remember I am awake inside my dreams.”
I wash my face and brush my teeth after oil pulling. I put on pajamas. Pajamas! Can you imagine? I used to fall asleep with sneakers and lights still on -- pencils in my hand and books in my lap studying for AP Calculus exams. But pajamas? I’m so excited that I am so excited to go to sleep!
They say a third of our life is spent asleep. I lost so many years of my life. Nevermind the K. And I just figured out the math. Basically, once I become a master lucid dreamer, not only will I have earned the life I lost back, but I will have gained even more, given I live long enough.
That year of Ketamine though. K. Kitty. Kit Kat. Special K. I was in love. Maybe I lost too much. I sure did feel alive. I used to be able to trust my feelings.
That year, rolling out of bed with quarter gram rails to wake me up. K for breakfast. K over coffee anyday. I had this special way of cutting bendy straws so I could blow it up my own nose. Like an Amazonian Hapé Shaman. Except I was in Oakland off the 580. And I doubt there was anything pure about it. Which didn’t stop me.
I had to go to Costa Rica to take care of some phantom illness thing. All the standard American scans came back normal type-thing. Thought I was dying type-thing. The plane hadn’t even taken off to Liberia and I was already calculating my arrival back to my beloved bendy straw. You might be thinking that I was sick because of the K. No. Just not true. 180 grams in my system that winter alone and nothing showing up in my blood tests? That's called love. K was keeping me alive. Stress was killing me. He was killing me.
Three days into my trip, I was processing the fact that I was physically able to walk again for the first time in three months when I found out I didn’t have a home to go back to. He took my pups. He parked my car at my mom's house, put my stuff in storage and took my pups to Chicago. And I was in Costa Rica. How was I ever going to find good K in Costa Rica? I might have to cross the border to Nicaragua. He parked my car at my mom's house and took my pups; I could walk again and all I wanted was my next hit.
I had plans to be high the rest of my life. How could he? He had already ruined so much of my life. How could he? It took me another series of expensive shamanic journeys with other white people in Central America to realize that I was what the world considered an addict. I think other people knew. They must have. Why didn’t they tell me? He was the only one who told me. And why would I listen to him? He tore down everything about me. Nothing he said was true.
The first series of ceremonies, I announced to the circle of white spiritual shamanic journeyers that the plant medicine had been too intense and that I wanted a hit of ketamine to take the edge off -- the shamanic stuff was a little too much to handle. I wanted my cozy K. The next night I politely accused everyone of those so-called spiritual white people in the circle of stealing my rose colored Ray Bans. The 1971 square vintage frames. I couldn’t believe it. Fuck. I was an addict. That's ridiculous. How could I be an addict?
Those frames meant so much to me. Once, I was driving back from a particularly magical trip to mount shasta and my baggie ran dry halfway home. Buba was having a meltdown and was howling and we still had an hour drive left to get home. It was getting dark and I was having a hard time seeing. I hated driving at night. I scrambled to find my driving glasses and threw them on my face as fast as possible and immediately I could see the road better. I was so relieved I kept making such a big deal to my friend Om who was in the passenger seat how much better I could see. Buba finally calmed down and we made it home safely. I parked the car and took the glasses off. It had been the rose colored Ray Bans the whole time.
Those white spiritual people were not going to keep those glasses from me. Over my dead body. And why didn’t any of them have any K to offer me? Since they were so fucking spiritual? They had no clue. The amount of times I was airlifted by scientists that lived in ships with laboratories in... I don’t think it was in the sky... but it wasn’t on earth. Were they aliens? They were doing surgery on me. They were saving my life. My pathetic-mostly-sober-water-fasting silent-meditation-retreats-yoga-teaching-traveling-the-world-searching-for-love-in-all-the-wrong places pathetic, lonely life. Me. Ha. An addict. Thats fucking ridiculous. Sex? Maybe. Sugar? Highly possible. But narcotics? Bless me Father.
I’m sober now. Two years in February. But I still believe it saved my life. I'll take that with me to my grave. I’ll just add that it almost killed me.
He was the addict.
My brother was the addict. My sister was the addict. They were the addicts.
I left.
I flew.
I ran.
I escaped.
I went to college for God’s sake. I was not the addict.
The last time I saw my brother he was sleeping on a patch of grass at a busy intersection with his cheek pressing on the sidewalk. He smelled like actual, literal, out-of-your-backend crap. His face was unrecognizable. He wasn’t high though. He had been sleeping. So he wasn’t high.
I layed down next to him on the concrete and hugged him. He rolled over to face me and hugged me back. “Hey Sis.” We were breathing in exhaust. He wasn’t high though.
He was 21 when I moved to New York. I didn’t speak much to him after that. He always took care of me when we were younger. He was my big brother... And I left. I left him. To be forgotten. To collect bottles and cans for coins for his next hit. I don’t remember much else right now. It's hard to talk about.
He wasn’t the addict.
I was. This whole time.
So I lost a year. No big deal. I’ll just dream it back. And then some.
Truthfully it was more like three years, four if you count the wine year. The two other years my ex supplied the K. He did it everyday when we started dating. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. He was a high-functioning entreprenuer and drove a convertible Nissan 350Z really well. And did drugs everyday. He seemed so... together. But that was it. And before I knew what was happening...
Ketamine was being used clinically to treat depression. I had been chronically depressed since I learned my abc’s. Some periods of time were better than others. But on K, I was invincible. I was light as a feather. I was the life of the party. I could sprint up steep mountain trails. I could juggle training pups and managing a team, dealing with clients, cooking and cleaning, and entertaining guests. I started and ran a six figure business. I was more functional in ways that I had never been before.
The third year was the wine year -- I was broke that year. Left him. Closed the business. The fourth year I managed to buy it on my own. I was very proud of that year. It was such a special year. The year the aliens came and did cosmic brain procedures on me and would replant me back on earth in an amniotic sac hooked up to the roots of redwoods in a forest on the outside of town. I never really knew what forest. Or what town. But somehow I always made it back home. Stronger than I had been the day before. More optimistic. Happier. Healing from the breakup. And the abuse, I guess. And with enough money somehow to keep the high going. I had tried leaving him so many times.
The wine year I was sleeping on a twin bed in a room without a door. My roommate was a 50 year old sex worker and her ass was tighter than mine. I only knew that because -- well, it was just one time. The guy was really attractive and there wasn’t any actual sex. $200 and I didn’t even have to give him a blowjob? But I did cum. I was absolutely wasted. I did bite her ass, I think. I definitely slapped it. Unarguably tighter than mine. I’m a Christian now.
My pups were with me the whole time. Two bichons and me in a twin bed. They were also twins. Well, littermates. Can I just say that having two bichons is a pretty bougie thing? It was ridiculous. Buba and Lala. Even their names were ridiculous.
We were a short walk across the street from the Richmond bay. They loved chasing the geese in the park by the water, but wouldn’t dare get their bougie little paws wet. One time Lala got skunked the same day that she ripped into a tin full of weed edibles. She was so high her head wobbled if she tried to lift it. Just like her mama. And later that same day she got skunked? I looked up the meaning of skunk energy in an animal spirit guide book. It was relevant somehow. They’ve been gone two years now. As long as I have been sober.
God sent me to Costa Rica. The night I thought I was dying. God told me to go to Costa Rica. Since then I’ve started reading the Bible again. I think I’ve always been a Christian. But, I started taking my love for God to heart. Jesus and I definitely hang out. He told me once when I was scrambling to make a flower offering that all he wanted from me was my love. I sobbed hearing that. I’m not sure if I will read much else than the Word from now on.
Except for books on lucid dreaming. I'm getting my life back in my dreams. Bless me Father, I can’t wait to go to sleep tonight.
“Remember the mantra.” I say to myself. “Three times before falling asleep. I remember I am awake inside my dreams. I remember I am awake inside my dreams. I remember I am awake inside my dreams.”
I wash my face and brush my teeth after oil pulling. I put on pajamas. Pajamas! Can you imagine? I used to fall asleep with sneakers and lights still on -- pencils in my hand and books in my lap studying for AP Calculus exams. But pajamas? I’m so excited that I am so excited to go to sleep!
They say a third of our life is spent asleep. I lost so many years of my life. Nevermind the K. And I just figured out the math. Basically, once I become a master lucid dreamer, not only will I have earned the life I lost back, but I will have gained even more, given I live long enough.
That year of Ketamine though. K. Kitty. Kit Kat. Special K. I was in love. Maybe I lost too much. I sure did feel alive. I used to be able to trust my feelings.
That year, rolling out of bed with quarter gram rails to wake me up. K for breakfast. K over coffee anyday. I had this special way of cutting bendy straws so I could blow it up my own nose. Like an Amazonian Hapé Shaman. Except I was in Oakland off the 580. And I doubt there was anything pure about it. Which didn’t stop me.
I had to go to Costa Rica to take care of some phantom illness thing. All the standard American scans came back normal type-thing. Thought I was dying type-thing. The plane hadn’t even taken off to Liberia and I was already calculating my arrival back to my beloved bendy straw. You might be thinking that I was sick because of the K. No. Just not true. 180 grams in my system that winter alone and nothing showing up in my blood tests? That's called love. K was keeping me alive. Stress was killing me. He was killing me.
Three days into my trip, I was processing the fact that I was physically able to walk again for the first time in three months when I found out I didn’t have a home to go back to. He took my pups. He parked my car at my mom's house, put my stuff in storage and took my pups to Chicago. And I was in Costa Rica. How was I ever going to find good K in Costa Rica? I might have to cross the border to Nicaragua. He parked my car at my mom's house and took my pups; I could walk again and all I wanted was my next hit.
I had plans to be high the rest of my life. How could he? He had already ruined so much of my life. How could he? It took me another series of expensive shamanic journeys with other white people in Central America to realize that I was what the world considered an addict. I think other people knew. They must have. Why didn’t they tell me? He was the only one who told me. And why would I listen to him? He tore down everything about me. Nothing he said was true.
The first series of ceremonies, I announced to the circle of white spiritual shamanic journeyers that the plant medicine had been too intense and that I wanted a hit of ketamine to take the edge off -- the shamanic stuff was a little too much to handle. I wanted my cozy K. The next night I politely accused everyone of those so-called spiritual white people in the circle of stealing my rose colored Ray Bans. The 1971 square vintage frames. I couldn’t believe it. Fuck. I was an addict. That's ridiculous. How could I be an addict?
Those frames meant so much to me. Once, I was driving back from a particularly magical trip to mount shasta and my baggie ran dry halfway home. Buba was having a meltdown and was howling and we still had an hour drive left to get home. It was getting dark and I was having a hard time seeing. I hated driving at night. I scrambled to find my driving glasses and threw them on my face as fast as possible and immediately I could see the road better. I was so relieved I kept making such a big deal to my friend Om who was in the passenger seat how much better I could see. Buba finally calmed down and we made it home safely. I parked the car and took the glasses off. It had been the rose colored Ray Bans the whole time.
Those white spiritual people were not going to keep those glasses from me. Over my dead body. And why didn’t any of them have any K to offer me? Since they were so fucking spiritual? They had no clue. The amount of times I was airlifted by scientists that lived in ships with laboratories in... I don’t think it was in the sky... but it wasn’t on earth. Were they aliens? They were doing surgery on me. They were saving my life. My pathetic-mostly-sober-water-fasting silent-meditation-retreats-yoga-teaching-traveling-the-world-searching-for-love-in-all-the-wrong places pathetic, lonely life. Me. Ha. An addict. Thats fucking ridiculous. Sex? Maybe. Sugar? Highly possible. But narcotics? Bless me Father.
I’m sober now. Two years in February. But I still believe it saved my life. I'll take that with me to my grave. I’ll just add that it almost killed me.
He was the addict.
My brother was the addict. My sister was the addict. They were the addicts.
I left.
I flew.
I ran.
I escaped.
I went to college for God’s sake. I was not the addict.
The last time I saw my brother he was sleeping on a patch of grass at a busy intersection with his cheek pressing on the sidewalk. He smelled like actual, literal, out-of-your-backend crap. His face was unrecognizable. He wasn’t high though. He had been sleeping. So he wasn’t high.
I layed down next to him on the concrete and hugged him. He rolled over to face me and hugged me back. “Hey Sis.” We were breathing in exhaust. He wasn’t high though.
He was 21 when I moved to New York. I didn’t speak much to him after that. He always took care of me when we were younger. He was my big brother... And I left. I left him. To be forgotten. To collect bottles and cans for coins for his next hit. I don’t remember much else right now. It's hard to talk about.
He wasn’t the addict.
I was. This whole time.
So I lost a year. No big deal. I’ll just dream it back. And then some.
Truthfully it was more like three years, four if you count the wine year. The two other years my ex supplied the K. He did it everyday when we started dating. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. He was a high-functioning entreprenuer and drove a convertible Nissan 350Z really well. And did drugs everyday. He seemed so... together. But that was it. And before I knew what was happening...
Ketamine was being used clinically to treat depression. I had been chronically depressed since I learned my abc’s. Some periods of time were better than others. But on K, I was invincible. I was light as a feather. I was the life of the party. I could sprint up steep mountain trails. I could juggle training pups and managing a team, dealing with clients, cooking and cleaning, and entertaining guests. I started and ran a six figure business. I was more functional in ways that I had never been before.
The third year was the wine year -- I was broke that year. Left him. Closed the business. The fourth year I managed to buy it on my own. I was very proud of that year. It was such a special year. The year the aliens came and did cosmic brain procedures on me and would replant me back on earth in an amniotic sac hooked up to the roots of redwoods in a forest on the outside of town. I never really knew what forest. Or what town. But somehow I always made it back home. Stronger than I had been the day before. More optimistic. Happier. Healing from the breakup. And the abuse, I guess. And with enough money somehow to keep the high going. I had tried leaving him so many times.
The wine year I was sleeping on a twin bed in a room without a door. My roommate was a 50 year old sex worker and her ass was tighter than mine. I only knew that because -- well, it was just one time. The guy was really attractive and there wasn’t any actual sex. $200 and I didn’t even have to give him a blowjob? But I did cum. I was absolutely wasted. I did bite her ass, I think. I definitely slapped it. Unarguably tighter than mine. I’m a Christian now.
My pups were with me the whole time. Two bichons and me in a twin bed. They were also twins. Well, littermates. Can I just say that having two bichons is a pretty bougie thing? It was ridiculous. Buba and Lala. Even their names were ridiculous.
We were a short walk across the street from the Richmond bay. They loved chasing the geese in the park by the water, but wouldn’t dare get their bougie little paws wet. One time Lala got skunked the same day that she ripped into a tin full of weed edibles. She was so high her head wobbled if she tried to lift it. Just like her mama. And later that same day she got skunked? I looked up the meaning of skunk energy in an animal spirit guide book. It was relevant somehow. They’ve been gone two years now. As long as I have been sober.
God sent me to Costa Rica. The night I thought I was dying. God told me to go to Costa Rica. Since then I’ve started reading the Bible again. I think I’ve always been a Christian. But, I started taking my love for God to heart. Jesus and I definitely hang out. He told me once when I was scrambling to make a flower offering that all he wanted from me was my love. I sobbed hearing that. I’m not sure if I will read much else than the Word from now on.
Except for books on lucid dreaming. I'm getting my life back in my dreams. Bless me Father, I can’t wait to go to sleep tonight.
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Robyn Polo is a trained performance artist, student, teacher of esoteric studies, and creative writer whose passion for storytelling and personal experiences have inspired a short abstract account about addiction. In this semi-autobiographical account called "K is For..." she offers readers a syncopated rhythmic expression of her memories of addiction as they relate to her unquenchable thirst and search for that which is bigger than her. With a personal spin on the complexities of human nature and a commitment to personal growth, Robyn encourages contemplation of the transformative nature of suffering, resilience, and shamelessness.
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