Paranoia Will Destroia

I'm surprised I haven't been busted, raped, ambushed or murdered in the last ten years.

I don't remember the last time I even worried about being busted, raped, ambushed or murdered. I used to worry about it a lot. Every day. All day long. For real. I'm not kidding.

Every time I had dope in the house or in my car or on my person, I'd worry about getting busted. That translates into 24/7 because I always had dope in my house, in my car, or on my person. Except when I was searching for it. I rarely ran out, though. On the rare occasions when I did run out, my obsession with getting busted quickly morphed into an obsession to re-stock. Drug-seeking was my career for a long time.

I worried a lot about being raped. I went into a lot of rough neighborhoods to find my drugs of choice. I didn't like going there, but I really had no alternative. Sometimes I found myself in houses or apartments with 7 or 8 men I didn't know. I was the only woman there. Everyone was fucked up. It is hard enough to predict another person's behavior when the other person is straight. Predicting behavior when one's mind is altered in countless ways is next to impossible. Sometimes I had to drive through 'projects' and 'the hood' to score. A few times I had men who I thought wanted to sell me dope actually wanting something very different. One time I ended up in an abandoned house getting high with two men I sometimes bought cocaine from in Jacksonville, Florida who thought I wanted more than their dope. I didn't. They didn't believe me. I ended up leaving my car parked in front of that house and running through the backyards of that neighborhood, lost, scared, wondering if they were chasing me. I thought I heard them chasing me, but I never saw them. It was dark. I found my way back to a main road and eventually made it home. A day or two later, with two friends, I felt safe enough to retrieve my car. I never saw those men again. The experience, though, kept my fear of being raped in the obsessive state.

I also feared being ambushed, and ultimately murdered. Every time I left my house, I took precautions. I put toys and other objects in front of closet doors so that I'd know if anyone waited in the closets of my home when I returned. I put little objects next to the window locks so I'd know if anyone opened a window to break into my home while I was gone. I always figured someone would. I put little slips of paper between the door and the door jamb so when I opened the door, it would flutter out. If it didn't, if it had already fallen out, that meant someone had entered before me, that meant someone was waiting inside to ambush and probably murder me.

One time I took all these precautions - I put toys in front of the closet doors, tiny objects on all the windows, a torn slip of paper between the door and the door jamb - and I went to a friend's apartment in another building. I stayed there for a couple of hours and then returned to my own apartment building. I opened the door and the little torn slip of paper floated to the ground. Good. I quickly went to all the bedrooms and checked under the beds. No one there. Good. I checked all the windows and all the objects were still there. Sigh. Good. I went to the kitchen, feeling safe, feeling relieved to know that tonight was not the night I'd be ambushed and murdered. When I entered the kitchen, I stopped cold. The toy I had placed in front of the pantry door was not there. That could only mean one thing: Someone was in the pantry waiting to ambush and murder me. I panicked. I turned and ran through the living room and out the front door. I ran all the way back to my friend's apartment. I arrived out of breath, my heart pounding out of my chest. Scott answered the door.

"What's wrong, Maze?"

"Someone is in my house. Someone is trying to kill me."

I told Scott about the slips of paper wedged in the door jambs, about the tiny objects on the windows, about the toys strategically placed in front of all the interior doors of the apartment. Then I told him about the missing toy in front of the pantry door. I expected compassion, some empathy, shared fear and panic. Instead, Scott laughed. Amy told him, "Go back to her apartment with her and check it out, Scott." So we walked back to my apartment together. The front door was wide open.

"See? Someone is in there!" This is what I told Scott.

He said, "Did you close the door when you tore out of here to come back to my place?"

"I think I did. Surely I would have. I don't remember."

Scott laughed again. I told him it wasn't funny.

"I know it's not really funny, Maze. I just keep thinking about you putting toys and shit in front of all the doors and on all the windows. I never imagined you were so paranoid. You hide it well."

We checked out the entire house. Nobody lurked under the beds, in the closets, behind the shower curtain or even in the kitchen pantry. Scott stayed with me for a little while, told me I might want to lay off the speed and the cocaine when I was going to be home alone. I told him the drugs had nothing to do with it. It was a feeling I had, a gut-feeling, a knowing... I just knew that someday I'd be ambushed and murdered and I wanted to know when it was coming. Hell, I wanted to avoid it for as long as I could. Scott just shook his head and hugged me as he left.

I locked the door behind him.

Then I checked all the windows and made sure the little items were set for the night. I locked my bedroom door, put the knife under my pillow, the baseball bat next to the bed, and the cordless phone under the covers with me and settled in for a peaceful night's sleep.

I’m Maze. I’m an addict.