By Alexander Michael Ziperovich
I’ve had a thousand experiences with astonishingly demented sociopath sadist pseudo-medicine men physicians during my grand tour of all the rehabs in the universe but this is the one scumbag with a DEA license that beats them all, just cooks it black and crispy, raw meat cooked with a blow torch. This guy, I forget his name but his name isn’t important. He’s short, so he’s got the short-man complex and he’s small and square and jagged like a block of wood, burning fire internally and his eyes, it was in his eyes where you could see what he wanted, his needs, right there the beady little black fucking abominations that allowed him his vision, that the world tolerated the rapturous desecration of everything upon his gaze itself is somewhat mind boggling. Fucking animal, this “healer of men”. Like I said, it was ALL in the EYES, each eyeball having a different sort of sick and twisted agenda, each eye speaking its own language of hate and malice and deception and iniquity.
He was a machine built in hell’s own garage by the Devil himself, so help me God.
Dr. Brand, that’s his godforsaken fucking name. That man, if that is what you would call him, the things he did to me, fuck. We’ll get there. So let me explain first how I came to be in his possession. See, guys like me, we like drugs. Hard drugs. Good drugs. Bad drugs. Scary drugs. Mean drugs. Nice drugs. DRUGS. We like fucking getting fucking high as fucking shit. Around that time it was the Ketamine slash MDMA era, meaning for those that don’t know, I was playing with some very entertaining toys that affected some very special and sensitive parts of my silly little puddle of a brain. I don’t know how I can still spell T H E after all the fucking ketamine I snorted and injected. Anyhoot, I walked into this fuckers rehab smiling at flowers and basically sporting a skull with a brain inside that was in remission and upside down and inside out, the fucking thing was not working right and I was up for grabs for any sadistic motherfucker that would have it like that so thank the good Lord himself King/Queen Dahmer wasn’t around cause I would’ve been one of his masks he liked to wear around the house casually. I mean, really, I was very, very scrambled. Look, I was talking to myself, smoking huge cigars in the rain in a tank top and shorts at bus stops, hunting for nonexistent bags of cocaine with my Labrador in a suit and tie on the beach in the middle of the night, shit like that. You get the fucking picture. ALSO, please care to note that ketamine is what is commonly referred to as a dissasociative drug (its legitimate use is anesthesia for cats and horses and the other four leggers): but with human beans, you unbecome yourself experiencing ego death, you are not you, there is no you. Right. Okay. Hold on tight, grab a loved ones hand.
So, my non-self is sleeping in this shitty non-house with a cracked, crooked foundation and two rotating shifts of fat Mexicans handing out the rehab pills but wait! The fucking nurse bitches are handing out narcotics, it’s not hard to tell when you’re in a rehab jonesing so hard you would take on Tyson in his heyday for half a vicodin so word gets around, you know? So I am completely Stanley Kubricked out right now, cannot process this insanity, I just can’t make any of this make sense to me; they’re handing out morphine and oxycontin to the patients in a rehab? What the fuck kind of devious plot have they entrapped me in this time, jesus fucking christ. You shall see, my friend, you shall see.
So I’m in this scam rehab which Dr. Brand has created as essentially a pain clinic practice with a few houses to stuff some junkies in and it’s all intermingled and mixed up like salad and it makes no sense but he’s making great money, I mean, what junkie doesn’t want to go to rehab and get their pharmaceutical fix and be told that that is the correct treatment methodology? All of em do stupid! God you’re dumb.
Anyway the first time I get in the van and they take me to the “office” and he sees my drooping, amused face, eyes wandering around innocently like so many balloons in the sky at a local carnival he immediately targets me for extreme punishment, brainwashing, and physical and psychic pain and I could not have been an easier target, it was like I was a small child being told by a massive tattooed rapist that I could get a ride home if need be, and accepting that ride because the child was lost, and god damn if my child wasn’t lost as shit, deep in the slums.
He immediately barks at one of his nurses “Two milligrams intramuscular Ativan, stat!” and I fucking love benzodiazepines so I’m like YAY! and I pull my pants down and take a nice shot, stinging in my butt like some dramatic part in a symphony. Ahhh, relaxxxxeeeeed. “Come into my office, let me get to know what’s going on with you so I can help you to recover.” I oblige. And then it starts.
Note this if you may. Now. To be honest, my biggest problem as a writer writing autobiographically is that I have taken so many fucking benzodiazepines (xanax, valium, klonopin, ativan, serax) I have no memory or what little memory I have is very foggy and vague, like you can see the lighthouse through the storm, but only because you can see the light IN the lighthouse because without the light there is no lighthouse in my world. Good, I’m glad we’re together on this.
So I can’t tell you every single fucking word this evil cretin spit out at me in my very suggestible, relaxxxxeeed, ativan filled state, but let us just say this: he convinced me my parents hated me (opposite of the truth although they should), that I was probably gang raped by an entire Mexican drug cartel at some satanic initiation ritual in the desert when I was 8 or 12 and all other types of sordid insane shit. He was just having his little fun with me, toying around, and I had no where to go because my mind, it was weak, it was weak, my mind it was Edgar Allen Poe delirious and dying in the streets of London, collapsed, my mind it was Tyson after years of drugs getting a Maori tattoo and fighting MMA, my mind it was weak, it was the bodies’ antibodies trying to fight off the bubonic plague without penicillin, I mean WEAK. I had no defense whatsoever and he would bring me in every fucking day, unlike the other people in the house, and just sit me in an exam room and mindfuck me for hours, I mean this guy really, really was enjoying himself and who am I to say NO to a fucking shot of ativan, what are you kidding? I absolutely love that shit, I live for it. I knew what he was doing but I liked the ativan poke in my butt so I kinda just let it happen, like a girl that really doesn’t want to have sex but says “Fuck it, I’ll get something out of this, maybe some perfume.” The perfume was my ativan was my perfume was the ativan. So, I let him fuck me between the ears every day.
Okay, so that’s happening every day and each day I am becoming more and more lucid and my head is clearing up from all the lovely chemistry experimentation I performed in there and I begin to pace around the empty pool at the house calling my mom begging for her to come rescue me from this evil sadist fuck. No. Fuck.
Then it happens.
It’s sunny and I assume I’m going for another fucking glorious mindfuck session plus some ativan if I’m a good boy and do as the nice doctor tells me and I repeat after him type shit. I arrive at his office and I’m sitting there in his waiting room reading a pamphlet on how suboxone saved some Mexican woman’s life from heroin addiction and how a housewife in Wisconsin, formerly addicted to oxycontin, believes it to be essentially the same as insulin for a diabetic. [I AM COMING OFF SUBUTEX/SUBOXONE (SAME THING) RIGHT NOW AGAIN AS I WRITE IT IS NOT GOOD IT IS NOT EASY TO GET OFF OF IT IS A HELLISH, EVIL, HORRIFYING SUBSTITUTE ADDICTION THAT WILL EAT YOUR HEART AND LIVER AND SPLEEN AND MAKE A SALAD WITH IT AND SERVE IT TO YOU WITH A NICE VINEGARETTE SPRINKLED WITH THE PEPPERCORNS OF YOUR BROKEN SOUL] Where was I? Oh. Right. The waiting room, waiting, waiting for my ativan brainwashing therapy injection conference. The short little ignoble goblin bastard walks in and pulls my ass into the back dungeon area where he performs his Dachau experiments and he brings me to a totally different room I’ve never been privy to before and he lays me in this bizarre Hannibal Lecter leather chair contraption and begins to explain to me, and this is after a particularly massive dose of IM ativan (I believe he had his nurse adminster 4 fucking milligrams so I was on drool-mode) that my addiction wasn’t actually addiction but rather it was physical PAIN! Yes yes, physical pain emanating from my neck, yes he could tell by examining the way I walked and spoke and stood and that was my problem, yes, yes, there would be no more fuss over some so-called “heroin addiction” no, no I deserved to be treated humanely didn’t I? Of course I did and my neck, it was my neck, he knew that it was just because he knew and he was a maniacal but loving sociopathic genius and he would repair my life this moment and-
He begins to place his hard stubby fingers into the nerves in my neck so hard I begin twitching and shaking and he begets me so much pain that I am screaming now, screaming at the top of my lungs and of course he hollers for a nurse and orders me up some dopiates, I think he gave me two Lortabs that first time (equivelent to four regular Vicodin) and one 10 mg Opana and I am dizzy with pain but at the same time he’s giving me the drug I love so I am bound to him in our chemical romance and as I stagger away from his torture center he walks up behind me all cool and casual and does his neck pinch again, just once, a few nurses and patients around and DROPS ME TO MY MOTHERFUCKING KNEES with a pinch, I mean I gotta give this piece of shit fuck credit, he knew how to hit nerves god damn he did, I mean literally I am barely walking away, trying to run away after I took my pills to go smoke a cigarette and ponder all this insanity in the sun outside and he literally has the ability to walk up behind me and drop me like a fucking person falling off a building WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS MAN MADE OF? I believe he is a concoction of one part demon, one part sugar, one part black tar heroin, one part DEA, one part penitentiary rape, one part love for hatred, one part Nazi, one part Jew, one part Stalin, one part Mao, and the rest of him was basically the Khmer Rouge with Pol Pot on his left shoulder and a headless child victim of the regime on his right shoulder all singing Symphonies of brutality and damnation to him. In other words, he is a fucking MAD MAN from hell itself on steroids with his confidante being Dante’s guide. What the fuck?
My neck is fucked. He hurt me bad. I am in serious fucking pain and I am so fucking terrified that this insane doctor has injured me for life that I start calling non-stop back home to Seattle, back to headquarters of rehab placement to get me the FUCK out of THERE NOW I am being decimated by a Doctor Evil Please Help MOMMY, SERIOUSLY, this is no joke. None of that matters to them but the second I mention he gave me opiates, my dad the doctor and my mom the caretaker of a long time opiate addict switch gears quick as lightning and reverse their stance completely- apparently there is a one doctor to another conversation that takes place where there is an explanation for giving an opiate addict opiates and he tells my dad the same fucking thing, that I injured my neck playing football and THAT is the reason I keep getting high, not cause I’m an addict or anything even though I’ll snort smoke or shoot anything you have anytime you have it. My parents are not convinced of this doctors methods but they don’t immediately pull me but I don’t give this cocksucker another chance to shatter my spine any more I just won’t let him touch me, he can talk his brainwash shit, which is still in full effect AND working but no, no, he CANNOT touch my fucking, god damned neck, yeah I’m in pain and I want some painkillers dumbfuck doctor fuck face a million but you CAN’T do what you did I’m already fucked up from the one time you did touch me. His explanation is that he simply brought out the pain that was already there and I was somehow psychologically repressing, ummm yeah dude, right, just give me my pills asshole and you can tell me Hitler had me raped at God’s request I don’ fucking care.
Finally, finally, finally, in all its grand finality, I am released from the iron grip of this medical dictator torturer magician and I am moved to a new, very comfortable rehab in Malibu, California which is extremely plush and chill but which I fuck up anyway but fucking around every chance I get even though I have a king bed and gourmet food. Whatever. Got kicked out of there too, oops. I had beef with this beak-nosed counselor who I would always out-smart in group and make look like a foolish crow. Ha. Like I’m not used to being sent around to different places, psych wards, etc? Come come, this is me we’re talking about, my rehab count at this point is already in its late teens. The bitch that got me kicked out of plushville rehab was named Helen I believe and she truly needed to get fucking FUCKED out of her mind. Sorry, but she really did, dumb cunt probably couldn’t get a guy to get within ten feet of her on consideration of her nose might fly out of her face like a bald eagle and attack.