Tag Archives: sydney

SotC: Script Ideas by (ERROR)

This is a piece that’s not written by me, but copied word for word by someone I know. It was titled “Script Ideas” and found in his house nearly 4 years ago. I’ve never shared or shown it to anyone as it took me a long time to process the words. The first part is an awkward read because it starts off with a rudimentary script outline (which I tried my best to format in the same way he did), but ends off as something else entirely. Take it as you may, but the words are quite shocking. Everything that I couldn’t read in his handwriting are marked as (UNINTELLIGIBLE).

 

Knowledge that might be of value: The Wall was a place in Sydney where underage sex workers would go for work. Quite literally, it’s a wall in the suburb of Darlinghurst. Another thing that’s helpful to know is that Kings Cross (The Cross) is a suburb in Sydney know as a good place to party and to pick up escorts and find drugs.

 

It took nearly 4 years of mental back and forth to decide to transcribe his words to electronic form and share them. I won’t confirm how autobiographical his words are. At best, take everything that’s written with a pinch of salt.  

 

SCRIPT IDEAS

 

  1. The Downward Spiral

 

Intersplice credits on black background with splices of an explicit sex scene. An overweight middle-aged lebanese man (not pretty) is fucking someone, but we can’t see who it is, just quick flashes of their skin. The sex gets harder, more intense (he’s fucking the daylights out of this person) and then he comes.

 

  • CUT TO FINAL DIRECTOR CREDIT
  • CUT TO MAN, IN A BATHROBE, VERY GUARDED “You can’t stay here. My wife will be home soon. You’ll be able to get a cab around the corner.” CUT TO Dan, 14, looking tired, not showered, being polite.

 

DAN “Well I’ll just get that money & I’ll get out of your hair.

Man gets his wallet. “It was 50, right?”

 

DAN “Ah, no, it was $100.”

 

MAN “You said 50.”

 

DAN “No I told you 100 in the car. It was 50 for a headjob, a fuck is 100.”

 

MAN “Well I’ve only got 50,” he offers it to DAN, who’s looking uncomfortable, “You want it or not?” DAN takes the $50. “Now get the fuck out of my house.” Opens the front door, DAN doesn’t leave. “Fuck off before I beat the shit out of you, you little fuck. Fuck off!”

 

DAN leaves.

 

  1. English Class

 

Pan through quiet classroom, people taking notes from text on the blackboard. Zoom on DAN looking at the book on his desk, he’s in another world.

 

School A 13 y/o – A grade student, represents school at events and performances. Is coming to terms with his homosexuality. Is quite innocent, and looking for acceptance. Has lots of friends at school, none of them close. Except for Brad, who he’s in love with. Living at refuge. At school, trying hard. Talks about problems with mum (but very innocent, doesn’t know why) & how he’s going to go live with his Dad up north, but he has to wait till Dad organises everything. Period at refuge ends (3 month rule) and goes back to mum & step dad & little brother. Things are (UNINTELLIGIBLE), but cold & empty. Mum drinks a lot & takes it out on Dan. Comes in to his bedroom one night, drunk, and tells him he’s destroying the family and to get out. Lets him take a sports bag of belongings. He leaves, goes to local shopping centre (closed) & sleeps in a clothing bin.

 

Goes to school next day, keeps quiet. This goes on for a few weeks him in clothing bin, showering at school in the mornings. Grades drop dramatically. He calls his Dad after school, he’s gone on a fishing trip, won’t be back for a month. It’s his girlfriend. At the end of the conversation, she wishes him a happy birthday (14). He goes to clothing bin, cries, decides to go to Sydney. Gets lost all over town for hours, finally finds Kings Cross, walks around flabbergasted. Sees a gay couple holding hands, is transfixed, follows them through streets. Ends up lost again. A cute 40’s guy approaches Dan, offers him a place to stay. They have sex, gives him $200, he stays the night and goes to school the next day with a pep in his step. A week goes by, grades & behaviour get worse. He goes back to the Cross, stumbles upon the wall but doesn’t know what it is. One of the boys talk to him, explains, and tells him the ground rules. Dan starts working.

 

Months go by. School by day, the wall by night. Attendance starts to drop, money starts to come in. All the boys do heavy drugs but Dan won’t. He watches them shoot up though. He meets Darren, a heavy junkie (very cute though) & he falls instantly for him (puppy love). A few nights later a mug takes Dan to a house where 5 guys are waiting. They gang rape him without condoms, beat him up & dump him.

 

He tells Darren, who dumps him. Dan goes to a dealer and asks him to shoot up (Heroin). It wasn’t a pleasant experience. In the morning he goes to (UNINTELLIGIBLE) for an AIDS test (has to wait 3 months), and asks the doctor to teach him how to shoot up, so he’ll be safe if he does it. Reluctantly he does.

 

Dan lasts about 3 more weeks at school. He gets angry & cold & aggressive, full of hatred. But he feels happy on the wall on drugs. He moves to the Cross, gets fucked twice a week by the landlord for rent. Becomes more and more empty inside, covers it with drugs.

 

He’s making a fortune – all going up his arm. Becomes a full blown junkie, lives for the next hit. Does anything for cash. Is paid $400 to be the “slot machine” at a party for 20 men all over 40.

 

A year goes by. There is no trace of the boy we first met. He thinks about suicide all the time. He calls his mum, for the first time, tells her he’s gay. He fixes a hit (with intent to overdose) and shoots up.

 

THE END.

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An Open Letter to S.S

I knew it was a mistake to go with you. After months of worrying about my visa being renewed for New Zealand and finally getting approved for it, I decided to jump with a glimmer of hope into something I had little faith in. I left behind a good job, amazing friends, and a place I truly felt at home for this whirlwind adventure I was promised. We were best friends, so I put my trust in that and nosedived into this plan of yours.

 

But oh did it spectacularly fail.

 

What were we thinking? We relied on a friendship built on bad deeds and party days. The bond we had was always reinforced by distance. We didn’t have depth over distance, and that’s why we failed.

 

Coked up nights in the Toronto scene and days spent wondering why you couldn’t be my friend when the sun was up, I would sit in the Canadian spring air writing stories about rape as you holed up in your bedroom unable to make the slightest gesture to even pretend you wanted to be there with me. Fighting those long days away and snorting the long nights together, I was cornered in a world I thought we had moved past. Was our friendship doomed to repeat the same circles? Glass pipes in one and lines of white in another?

 

Financially you kept the nightmare going for me when I should’ve let it die the second you asked me to do two years of travel together. 

 

I had so much going for me. After years of rough times and days spent crying I had found a world where I belonged. Now I sit unable to find the person I was before Toronto, unable to find the passion of putting trust in people. You always wanted me to be like you, and now I’m like you more than ever and you’re nowhere to be seen in my Newsfeed.

 

Our end crashed hard like our beginning. But hey at least someone didn’t die this time around.

 

I do miss you a lot, but maybe it’s the distance talking.

 

Love,

Cody.

A Cunt Named Troy: How I Didn’t Have A Low Self Esteem That One Time

People who know me know that I have the self-esteem of a wet mop. A bipolar wet mop. A bipolar wet mop with the fashion sense of a schizophrenic lamp. On rare occasions I am empowered and strut the streets like a sexy goddess, but most of the time I feel like I could be described with words such as frog, praying mantis, potato, and greasy McDonald’s takeaway bag. I reflect all of my life’s negativities inwards and it makes me very vile to myself. It’s something I am working on, but that’s not the story I wanted to tell. This is a story about a time I felt like a frog but came out strutting like a goddess.

Oh yeah, and fuck you Troy.

If you’ve never read any of my other blog posts or don’t know me, I’ll give you a quick recap that will give you mega wtf whiplash. Ready? Ok – I used to be a meth-addicted prostitute living in Sydney, Australia. Cool – now go see a physiotherapist for your neck and lets move on.

One of the managers of the brothel was named Troy. I wanted to give him an ugly fake name because he’s pretty good looking and well liked but I was too lazy. So yes, Troy is his real name. He’s totally bald, so at least he’s a failure at something.

Troy seemed to have this weird thing against me. I thought he was a pretty cool guy and I tried to get to know him like I did the other managers, but he seemed to have this chip on his shoulder towards me and some of the other boys. The last time I ever talked to him he really fucked me over so my overall dislike for him doesn’t actually come from this story.

There was about six of us boys in the brothel that night. A few of the boys were very good-looking and fairly popular with clients. I could hold my own against them – I was also popular with the clients – so they weren’t competition for me. It was a quiet shift, not a single client had come by. We were lounging about the Boy’s Room watching tv and playing games on our phones, periodically making small talk amongst ourselves.

When the client bell announced the arrival of an unknown person we all sat up. Someone moaned, “FINALLY!” We could hear the muffled sound in the hallway of Troy opening the front door to let the client inside and the quiet shuffle to the office, where the client would be asked what he was looking for.

There was two ways the client would choose the boy he wanted: The first was that the client would look through photos of us in the office and select boys to interview based on the photos and bio alone. The second was that the client would request to see all of us for an interview. The interviews would be done one by one until the client had seen all of the boys he wanted to see and then he would decide which boy he would spend time with.

Troy opened the door to the Boy’s Room and announced that the client wanted to see everyone for an interview. But then he turned to me and said, “Except you, Cody. There’s no point in going in there, he won’t choose you.”

I was a bit baffled because no one had ever been asked to hang back when a client asked to see all the boys for an interview.

The first boy that went in – a muscular Irish guy – came back and said to Troy, who was standing at the door of the Boy’s Room, “Holy shit! The client is so hot!”

Troy gave him a smirk and said, “I know.”

One by one the boy’s went in for their interview with the client, and one by one they all came back and exclaimed about how hot he was. I felt dejected and disappointed – it was obvious that Troy thought I wasn’t good looking enough for the client. I was also very embarrassed because it was apparent to everyone else as well. In a normal case the manager should’ve just let everyone go in to the interview, regardless if the manager thought the boy would be chosen or not. It was the polite way. Troy purposfully chose to make me look like a fool, and to this day I still have no idea why. Maybe he was mad because I had a full set of luscious hair.

The boy’s all finished their interviews and were giggling like girls about how exciting it would be if they got chosen. Troy left the Boy’s Room and went back to the office to see who the client would pick.

I sat alone in the back corner.

Troy was taking longer than usual to come back to tell us who was chosen. The boy’s started joking that Troy was snogging the client himself and they started laughing hysterically. I thought about going out to the yard to have a cigarette when Troy finally came back into the room.

Troy said, “Cody, can you go see the client in the office.”

“I thought there was no point.” I stated.

“Well he didn’t want any of the other boys. I told him that you’re probably not his type but he still wants to see you. Go, quickly.”

I got up and moved towards the office, resisting the urge to glare at Troy as I walked past him out of the Boy’s Room.

Opening the door to the office was like being hit with a nuclear bomb. The being that sat on the couch could not be human. He was muscular like a bodybuilder, had a jawline like an icepick, had a voice like melted caramel, and was over six feet tall – everything that would make a basic bitch swoon. He was hot as fuck. I sat next to him and told him my info and we had a quick conversation. He rested his hand on my thigh at one point and I blacked out for a few seconds. When I came to I said something corny like “Maybe I’ll see you later” before I went back into the Boy’s Room.

Troy proceeded back into the office once again. He wasn’t even gone for more than 30 seconds before he came back, red with embarrassment and envy, and announced, “Cody, I don’t know why, but he wants you.”

Confetti fell from the ceiling. A chorus of angels materialised and a red carpet unrolled away from me towards the door of the boy’s room. People stood up and applauded. Troy took his real form and reanimated as a snake. I signed a cheque of a million dollars and I cut a red ribbon with a pair of scissors as big as a pair of scissors that are really big.

I strutted so hard past the other boys that when my feet fell they cracked the floor. I basically hair flipped as I past Troy, smirking as I said, “I guess you should’ve let me go in the first place.”

Exiting the Boy’s Room I was flashed with the bulbs of a million paparazzi cameras. I opened the door to the office, and with the dramatic swing of the door I entered with a wink and said, “You called?”

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t Cross Your Arms

When a person crosses their arms it usually means they are either hiding something or trying to protect something. It’s a natural instinct built into the human race.

She sat across from me in her white doctors’ uniform. Her hands were folded on top of the clipboard on her lap. She was going off script – I could tell by the hesitation followed by not being able to look me in the eye. Routinely, when I am getting a sexual heath checkup, they ask the normal questions; the questions written down on the page on the clipboard. They ask about my sexual history, they ask about escorting, they inform me about the dangers of sex work and STD’s and I’s and HIV.

I can answer these questions robotically, having been asked them dozens of times before. It doesn’t faze me or embarrass me – my answers are without emotion. But this time I really fucked up. I really, really fucked up and now the doctor was going off script.

In a perfect routine of questions and robotic answers, the doctor will ask questions about escorting (“How long were you in sex work?” “Did you use protection?” “Did you provide full service?” ect.) and then they will brush on the ultimate question: “Have you ever had sex that you didn’t consent to?”

I had developed such a methodical and resounding ‘no’ to that question they would usually move on to the next question immediately.

This time when I was asked by this particular doctor, “Have you ever had sex that you didn’t consent to?” I fucked it all up. Instead of answering her, I lifted my hands off my lap and crossed them. It’s such a stupidly small gesture, one that can go easily unnoticed, but this doctor was perceptive. I don’t know why I allowed myself to do it. Immediate regret flooded through me. She put the clipboard down on her lap and rested her hands on top of it. She was looking down, I could tell she was building her off-script sentence in her mind.

The doctor looks up at me earnestly and asks, “Cody, have you ever been raped?”

I keep my arms crossed. I am uncomfortable but doing my best not to show it, especially in my voice. But my voice betrays me and it wavers slightly as I answer, “Yes.”

“Was it through sex work?”

“No.”

She sits up straight in her chair, “You know we have crisis counsellors here, right? If you ever need someone to talk too about it we offer our counsellors at no charge.”

I swallow hard. I wear an imitation smile and respond, “Thanks, but I’ve dealt with it all myself. I don’t need help.”

“They are always here. If you find you’re having a hard time then please don’t hesitate to contact us and we can set you up with an appointment.”

I smile harder as if I am trying to prove something to the entire world, “Thanks so much, but I am honestly fine.”

 

 

 

The Guy

Sometimes I feel like an empty shell; a vessel that others have dug away and dug away until there’s nothing left but some skin and bones. I sit alone with a cigarette and look off into the distance at nothing, wondering how I haven’t killed myself already. At the street corner I am always one step away from going in front of that speeding bus. I look at the people around me and wonder what would happen if I bash their faces in – would I feel something then?

/

Other times I feel filled with emotion – with life. My inclinations are multifaceted as I laugh and cry and sing and anger seemingly at the same time. My friends are lovers are enemies are friends – I am unable to keep one label attached to them. I chuckle earnestly and love openly. The world seems more colourful even on the gloomiest of days. I want to hug and kiss everyone and tell them how much I love them – about how much I love life.

 

Evil vs Good.

Evil vs Good.

Evil vs Good.

Evil vs Good.

 

The guy that used me as a vessel for sex for a year while making me think he felt something for me / The guy that helped me sort my life out when times got hard.

 

The guy that was my best friend who told me I was too ugly and skinny and weird / The guy that would stay up late with me as we talked about love and life and everything in between.

 

The guy that I relapsed back into crystal meth with / The guy that cried when I cried when I showed him a song* that meant a lot to me.

 

The guy that first broke my young heart when he ran away to Las Vegas with a porn star / The guy that would Eskimo kiss* me and it was adorable.

 

The guy that was an off duty police officer that wouldn’t stop having sex with me even when I told him to / The guy that noticed me in the club and for the first time I felt that I was worth noticing.

 

The guy who’s mouth hung open horrifically when he took too much meth.

 

The guy that slept with me because I looked like his step son.

 

The guy that pretended to like me to try and get me into an orgy.

 

The guy that tried to blackmail me for sex.

 

The guy I had to push down the stairs to protect someone I loved.

 

The guy that used to take bodies out on his boat and dispose them in the harbour.

 

The guy that clawed at me while screaming that he was going to kill me.

 

The guy that wasn’t there.

 

The guy …

The guy

The guy

 

Is this why I feel dead inside? 

 

 

(*song was Little Lady by Ed Sheeran feat. Mikill Pane) 

(*Eskimo kiss is when you rub the tip of your noses together)

 

 

An Open Letter to Deniro

Dear Deniro, 

Well fuck, look at us now. From startling beginnings to tragic ends, our story was always one for the books. Remember when you hated me? That was a weird time for us both. Through unfortunate circumstances we were forced to become allies. You were pretty good at taking care of yourself but at the same time you needed a lot of help from me. I wasn’t ok with it at first as our friendship hadn’t started yet. Scott loved you so much and I was morally obliged to try and love you as much as he did. There were things I did to you that you hated, but they were necessary. I’m sorry you wouldn’t talk to me for a day after I helped wash you. I’m sorry you didn’t like when I had to give you your medication. I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job at making sure you were healthier and happier. 

We were at our best when we would walk around the parks, the sidewalks gleaming with late night dew. Near the end you were so protective of me. Our bond so unshakable that when Scott returned he was surprised at how well we became friends. You helped me learn to take care of something. You were the prelude to taking care of a larger problem. I still remember Scott screaming in pain those first few weeks. He’d scream, and moan, and beg and I would lay there covering my ears. I would hear you run from my bedroom to his aide instantaneously – the second he was in trouble you were his number one man.

 I knew Scott was in bad shape when I wouldn’t see you for days. You’d come down the stairs looking almost as emancipated as he did. When he started to get better we all started to get better. We healed together, you and me and him and our little townhouse in Chippendale. 

I left you alone with him. I’m so sorry I left you alone. I thought everything was getting better. I ignored the signs. They were there – just beneath the surface. I could’ve seen them. 

You’d be so happy when I came to visit. I remember my nickname for you was “The Perfect Boyfriend”, which is weird thing to say because, well, you are a dog. 

Thanks for protecting me and making me feel safe. I know you miss him as much as I do. I’m so sorry you had to be there to witness it – but you were always the strong one. 

Me? I’m in a much better place now. And I hope you are too – wherever in the world you are. You are all the love that Scott had to give manifested through another being. You carried around the best of him. 

I miss him as much as you do, 

Cody

An Overdose

Some know basic details, few know the full story. It’s hard to explain what happened to me on that night. There are two perspectives of the story: One from my point of view and one from my friend Cheryl. Cheryl’s perspective paints the fuller picture but for personal reasons I am not going to write from her perspective because I find it too disturbing. So, as confusing as telling the story from my perspective will be, you’ll be able to enjoy the confusion I felt as it was happening.

I had relapsed back into my addiction with crystal meth, though it’s hard to say whether that played a part in my overdose or not. See, I technically didn’t overdose on crystal meth. It was on a drug that used to be legal in Australia two years ago, a drug that is still legal in Canada:

Synthetic weed.

Cheryl and I had just arrived to her house after watching a concert. I had a couple glasses of wine at the concert and I was keen to get stoned. She grabbed the bong and told me where to find the marijuana – it was in the coffee table drawer. The drawer was filled with all kinds of things; papers for rolling, lighters, small trinkets. In the back of the drawer I found a little bag of what I presumed to be weed. I brought the baggie to my nose and inhaled; it had an odd, chemical-like smell. I didn’t think much of it.

We went out onto her balcony and I sat on a chair opposite Cheryl. I packed a bowl for myself, sparked the lighter, and finished the cone in one giant hit. It tasted like bleach and I thought of how weird that was. It was hardly a few seconds before I felt something was wrong. I remember saying to my friend, “This is really strong.” She chuckled. But right after I said it I thought, this isn’t strong, this is really bad. Something is really wrong. I tried to scream for help but nothing came out of my mouth, instead Cheryl slowly blurred out of my vision. Everything went black.

The next part is hard to describe and I can hardly understand what happened myself, but after everything went black I still knew what was going on. I couldn’t feel anything, see anything, smell anything – all my senses were switched off and I was all alone in my own head. I seemed to be in my head for a while, wondering why everything went black, wondering why I was unable to feel anything. Was I dead?

Suddenly a flash – my vision was blindingly white. I could hear a familiar voice say, “He’s going to throw up.” I felt like I was spinning around in a dryer. Something was rammed down my throat and my whole body wretched. Everything went black again.

After an unspecified time of total darkness a white speck appeared in my vision. It was so tiny I hardly noticed it at first. The appearance of the speck was accompanied by a high pitched sound that sounded like the dial tone of a telephone, just at a higher frequency. The dot started moving in slow spirals. The movement of the dot caused the noise to grow louder. The dot started moving faster and faster and the noise began to get louder and louder. It was hell. I was sure of it. I was in hell. The noise became so loud I couldn’t even bare it anymore. It was splitting my mind apart. I was being ripped to shreds because of it.

I thought it couldn’t get any worse until a second dot appeared, this time accompanied by another high pitched wail. The old speck started to vanish but the noise it made remained at the splintering frequency. This new dot started spinning like the first, it’s noise also getting louder. Now I heard two different frequencies that were so unbearable I wanted to die. I actually was wishing for death. I’m not being dramatic or overreacting, the sensation was so powerful that I was hoping it was the prelude to death. I only wished for silence.

The sequence repeated with a third dot. And with a fourth. And with a fifth, and a sixth, a seventh, an eighth, ninth, tenth, twentieth, fiftieth… it seemed never ending. I was lost in eternity with a hundred different frequencies that looped over themselves.

But then there was silence. There was darkness. I was relieved. Maybe now I was dead.

The first sense to come back to me was my hearing. I heard a bunch of voices, one of whom seemed to be yelling at me but the words were muffled.

Next I was able to feel. I couldn’t move my arms. What the fuck is wrong with my arms?

I was underwater. I’m drowning, I’m fucking drowning. Air wasn’t passing through my oesophagus.

What is that fucking noise?

It sounded robotic.

Suddenly, I could see light. It was so white.

Someone was still yelling but the words didn’t make sense to me. I thought I heard a female voice yell, “Breathe Cody! Keep breathing!”

How can I breathe when I’m underwater?

I tried to move my arms again but I was still unable to move them. I felt claustrophobic and started to move my body around violently.

“Stay still, Cody!” The voice said, “And remember to breathe…. BREATHE!”

I was holding my breath. The voice got closer but I could only see white light. The voice said, “Cody, I know it feels weird, but you need to breathe. You have a breathing apparatus on which is why it feels weird.”

Something was ripped from my face and I could suddenly see blurry figures. A woman was bent over close to my face and she said, “Hey Cody, did you hear me? You have a breathing apparatus on and I need you to breathe. You need to inflate your lungs and deflate them. It’s weird because you can’t feel the air but I assure you everything is fine.”

My head hurt so much and her words took a long time to make sense. I stopped holding my breath and I could feel my lungs expand even though air wasn’t passing through my mouth.

I realised then that my mouth felt like it was pried open. I could feel something down my throat.

The blurry figures were slowly coming into focus. I tired to lift my head but the woman said firmly, “Don’t move your head.”

I tried to yell at her but something was pressing my tongue to the floor of my mouth.

I finally understood why I couldn’t move my arms; they were tied up. I started to panic again and began to pull at my restraints. Tears rolled down my cheeks. The woman said to me, “Cody, don’t pull at the ties. We had to restrain you because you kept ripping out your IV’s during your seizures.”

My seizures? What seizures?

The woman continued, “I’m gonna untie you now though, but please don’t move around. Can you do that for me?”

I obviously couldn’t answer her but I stopped struggling.

“Ok I’m going to untie you now.”

As soon as my one hand was free I brought it up to my face, ignoring what the woman said. A large apparatus protruded from my mouth, it felt plastic. The woman grabbed my hand and said, “We will remove the breathing apparatus soon, but please keep your arms by your side.” I put my arm back down. My vision was coming into focus and I could see that she was in a nurse uniform. The nurse untied my other hand. There were two other people standing around me as well: one looked like a man and the other was definitely a woman.

“Cody, we will remove your breathing apparatus now. We just need you to hold still please.”

Someone unclipped something close to my face. I felt a pressure being relieved around my mouth.

“Ok, we are going to remove the tube now. It’s going to feel really uncomfortable so please don’t struggle. Ok, removing it now.”

I could feel something rip up from inside my body right out of my throat. It scratched as it rose and made me unable to breathe for a second. I coughed as air passed through my mouth for the first time. I was catching my breath and trying to speak, my voice was weak and hoarse, but I managed to say, “Where am I?”

The one nurse got close to my face and said, “You’re in the hospital. You had some seizures and are coming out of a medically induced coma.”

I was too fuzzy to even try to make sense of what she was saying. I lifted my head slowly and saw three IV’s coming out of my left arm, two coming out of my right.

I noticed I had two hoses going up my nose as well and I realised there was something snaking up my leg and right to my… FUCK! I thought, NO NO NO NO! It was a catheter.

I slowly drifted from being fuzzy to slightly less fuzzy. I was exhausted. I wondered where my friend Cheryl was. The nurses were trying to get my medical insurance details from me but I was hardly in the mood for formalities and didn’t know where my insurance card was.

The nurse handed me a phone, it was Cheryl on the line. She said, “I’m so sorry, Cody. I had to go to work and I thought that Shane” – another friend of mine – “would be there when you woke up. I’m so sorry.” She offered to go to my house after her work and look for my insurance card. I understood why Cheryl was unable to stay, she had a very prestigious job. She’s an amazing friend for keeping me well until the ambulance arrived when I first started having the seizures. I love her to bits.

Shane arrived not long after the phone call and sat with me all day. He’s the greatest friend I could ask for.

Aldo brought me flowers and came to see me even though he was hungover. He’s so special to me it’s insane.

My friend Kathleen brought me underwear (I woke up naked and in a diaper for gods sake! They had to cut all the clothes off me in the ambulance.) She’s like my fairy godmother.

I was visited by another friend and he brought me some soul food… McDonalds. It was awesome. There was a couple other’s as well who came and I am so happy they did.

The doctor came when all my friends were by my side and officially explained what had happened. He said I had about sixteen seizures in a row and was placed into a medically induced coma to stop them. When I arrived to the hospital in the ambulance I had stopped breathing and was a code red (I can’t remember what the code was actually called but lets just say it was ‘red’), which meant that all the doctors in ICU had to stop what they were doing immediately and come help me. All up I had eight doctors trying to save my life. I thank them for their work.

When I heard the story from Cheryl’s perspective I was deeply disturbed. What happened during my seizures is something I never would want to witness myself and I am deeply thankful to Cheryl for keeping her composure.

I am thankful every day for the friends who came to see me after I woke out of the coma. They’ve always been like family to me and I keep them close to my heart always.

I am now predisposed to have seizures. Because I am more susceptible I have a blacklist of things I’m not allowed to do to my brain; including taking crystal meth. So in a way, my overdose on synthetics saved my life. I’ve been free from crystal meth for a year and a half now.

The first day I was discharged from hospital I was with Cheryl and we went to this market that was outside in the parking lot. In the market I saw two earrings: A bird and an elephant. I bought them and wore them for a year and a half. I thought of them as my ‘healing earrings’. This weekend I took them out for the first time and replaced them with two new earrings: A peace symbol and a diamond.

May I never overdose again.