The Story of a Song (If You Ever Wanted To Read the Story of How I Went To Jail, Part of It’s Written Here)

by Noise Pollution

“And even if I’m not alone / then I will be, someday.”

At the onset of the last relationship I was in, (this was around… four or five years ago now. Christ, the thought of that much time having passed makes me want to throw up) I wrote a song about how little faith I had in it. It was called “Alone” and I posted it to Youtube at the time, and the person I was with was so goddamn dense that she didn’t even get it. It was pretty obvious, too. Maybe I lied about. Maybe I told her it was about some relationship prior to her. I don’t know, that sounds like something I would do. I was completely non-confrontational, but so obsessed with my art that I was unwilling to keep anything I created under wraps, even if it was incriminating in some way. So I probably lied about. To avoid confrontation but still be able to wave my heart around on a stick. I still think that due to some of the specific sentiments expressed in the song that it was incredibly obvious, so I’m not taking back my statement about her being dense. She was. Not just about that, but about a million things. She was… she was anime-character spacey. That’s a level of distance from reality that most people don’t get to experience, but that’s kind of how she was. Anyways, I’ve digressed. The song.

I’m actually really proud of the song. I feel like it was a really mature expression, especially considering where I was at in life at the time, and how things ended up with that girl. I did eventually lose perspective and get attached, but the fact that I had any perspective to begin with is impressive to me. My first instinct after getting into a new relationship was not to write a love song, but instead to wrong a song about my misgivings about all of it. I wish I had listened to myself.

You see, the main idea of the song was based on the fact that you can still feel lonely even when you’re not alone, and that this relationship felt like a painstakingly-handcrafted display of that concept. She never got me. She took care of me, she praised me, she gave me a lot, but she never understood me. She saw me as something else. Some other entity, some being far cooler and more capable than I actually was. In reality, I was a seventeen-year-old kid who was afraid to leave his house unless it was with her or drugs were involved in some way. To her, I was a punk-rocker musician with a hidden talent that nobody truly understood but her who used to drugs to escape from his complicated emotions. But I wasn’t that, and she didn’t fucking understand. My emotions weren’t that fucking complicated, and I was getting high because it was the only thing that felt like real life at the time. She didn’t understand. Not that… I don’t know. Expecting her to understand me on the level that I wanted her to may have been too high of an expectation. Its not like I ever went out my way to present who I really was. I was content to have her fawn over me, and that was the thing. I was content in our relationship. I think that’s what got me to write the song. I felt out-of-place in our relationship. I felt like I didn’t belong in it, but the attention was something I needed so badly at the time that I couldn’t bring myself to change anything about it. And I felt like having those feelings made me a bad person, and I was scared of the future and… yeah, there were a lot of things going on in my mind.

I often wonder if I had actually met someone else during that time if I would have stuck around with her. I did stick with her, but I worry it was out of necessity. If it wasn’t necessity, than it was definitely a moral thing. I wasn’t even going to think of another girl while I was with her, and, you know, I didn’t. It would have been nice to have been afforded that same courtesy, but “everything’s gotta end some time,” right?

When all of that shit happened, I was far to busy having panic attacks to go back to the song I wrote. If I had taken the time to do that, maybe I would have been able to accept it all easier. As it was, I was chain-smoking cigarettes on my porch, spending money I needed for rent on drugs, booze, and more cigarettes, or pacing around my living space in such a way that my roommates probably couldn’t handle it. I wound up asking my parents for money that month. not for rent. I said it was for rent. Instead, I bought a huge bag of mushrooms. there was more to it than that, I guess. My roommates went in on it with me. We spent that entire day trying to buy drugs and every single fucking deal fell through. You’d think I would’ve seen that as a sign, but no. We kept pushing it until we found a batch that our dealer specifically said gave him and his girlfriend a horrible trip and recommended highly against us buying it.

We bought it.

I took a lot. I was escaping from something. I was escaping from the fact that the girl who practically worshiped me had cheated on me. And… there was more to the end of that relationship, too. She wasn’t fair about it. She lied to me about the fact that she cheated. She absolutely did, 100% cheat on me, and she never admitted it. She lied about that, and then rather than end our relationship there, had us “take a break” for a few weeks to see where we were at. That’s not how fucking breaks work. Taking a break implies that we need a bit of time apart to think. Taking a break does not imply that we need some time apart to test out other relationship possibilities and if they don’t work out I guess I’ll stay with you for a little bit longer, which is what she meant by it. God. I’m still bitter about it, and this happened to years ago. That was a level of disgusting behavior that I didn’t know anyone was capable of. I was on that break for about a day before calling her over to officially break up with her. I knew. I knew what she was fucking doing, and it was so disgustingly manipulative that I couldn’t allow myself the injustice of ever being with her again, even though I wanted to be with her so badly. I just knew that there was something wrong with the world if after all this, we wound up together again. If after all of this horrible shit I just had to go on and pretend she loved me when it was so obvious that she was just along for the ride until someone else came to pick her up… It was wrong. So I did it. I manned up and I broke it off. For good. That didn’t fix any of my emotions. Even after doing that, there was still no closure. She still never apologized, or even admitted that she had done something wrong. She constantly excused her actions by saying she wasn’t in control of how her heart felt. And maybe she wasn’t. She was in control of the numerous times she went off to be alone with this guy until she wanted to be with him full-time. She was in control of all of the times she made out with him in an empty movie theater at her work while I was at home, waiting for her late shift to be over. She had full control over that.

Ugh. This isn’t what this blog post was even supposed to be about! I just fucking hate her! I just hate her so fucking much and nothing ever came of my goddamn hate and it just festers inside me and I want to punch somebody in the goddamn face and I want to make someone bleed besides myself FOR ONCE! GOD FUCKING DAMMIT, I JUST WANT TO SCREAM AT SOMEONE, BUT I HAD TO MOVE AWAY AND THERE’S NOBODY LEFT TO FUCKING SCREAM AT!

So yeah… after that breakup happened was when the night with the mushrooms happened. I don’t remember much of it.

I remember flashes of the night. I was laying on the kitchen floor. People asking if I was okay. I remember saying no, like, a lot. I didn’t feel okay. It was hot. I was sweating. The edges of my vision were blurred. Who was I again? Where were we? Why is everyone so freaked out? Why aren’t we all friends right now? My roommate, she’s throwing up. I can see black pouring out of her mouth, like something out of a horror movie. Her boyfriend is in the hall, yelling at someone. I was in the hall. Was he yelling at me? I asked him a question. I don’t remember what question I asked, so I asked it again before he could answer. People throwing up. Was I in the bathroom? Or was this the kitchen? What was the difference anyway? Puking. Black sludge. Blackness, everywhere. Hallway again. Roommate’s boyfriend, on the phone. I ask something. Something something. Was I okay? Was he okay? Are we not friends anymore? We’re all friends, right? We’ve been friends for years. What’s wrong? Are any of these words even coming out of my mouth? Something’s coming out of my mouth. I can’t tell if they’re words or if they’re the black sludge. Like Venom, from… from that, that show. He’s freaked out. We’re okay right? I think I say that. “I fucked up, I fucked up!” He shouts, over and over. Swearing. Angry. He’s mad at me? No, he’s mad at himself. Maybe me. But himself, for sure. Then nothingness.

Then light. There’s people. The light is bright. We’re all in the main room. They start asking things. They pick things up that aren’t theirs. Something’s wrong, but I don’t know what. Flashlights. My eyes. Someone’s hand is on my arm. Wrapping something around my arm? When’s my birthday? I don’t remember. He asks me when my birthday is. I know that means numbers. I say some numbers. He didn’t ask that again. He asked what my name was. I knew that one! I announce it proudly, but I can’t get the words all the way out of my mouth because it’s so dry. I ask for some water. He asks what my name was. He didn’t give me water. I manage to say it. Time passes. Lots of talking, lots of standing. These people are strangers.

SLAM. I’m against a wall. Why am I here? This hurts, hurts. I say that I’m hurting. My friend yells at the man. He keeps hurting me. Then… something uncomfortable. On my hands? No, my wrists. They feel tight. My wrists feel tight, there’s something on them. I ask them if they could move them, I’m uncomfortable. SLAM. The wall. There’s not even much wall here, it’s half doorjam. It hurt, it really hurts, and now… it’s definitely metal. There’s metal on my wrists. I don’t like this metal, I think I tell them. I really don’t like this metal. I’m moving. I’m walking? No, every few seconds there’s a hand pushing my back, hard. I’m not walking. I’m being walked. Like a dog. I’m a dog? No. I’m me. They asked me who I was, and I told them. I told them my name. I didn’t tell them I was a dog. I’m me. What was wrong with that? I said sorry. I said sorry a lot. That didn’t make anyone happy. Maybe it did. I remember laughter. It was usually followed by another SLAM or something. I said I think I died. I knew I died. I told them, I was dying. I was dying, dying, dying. I was in a seat. It was small. There was metal on my arms. I tried to take it off. Why would I have metal on my arms? It wouldn’t come off.

Yeah, I had been arrested. I wasn’t able to comprehend what was happening, though. Eventually I was sitting in a room, chained by my handcuffs to a bench. I was still somewhere, something else. They sat down a man who was covered in tattoos next to me. I was a space cadet. I tried talking to him, but according to my friends who were there and, you know, not actively dying and needing medical attention, I said some pretty offensive stuff. The man spit in my face and said the second he got out, he would murder me. He used that word. In my head, I was too busy trying to figure out where I was, and what was happening. I had managed to come to the conclusion that everything in the world is arbitrary, and everything was meaningless. All of the words I heard people say, they sounded like gibberish. I heard all of they words, but the sentences people were saying sounded… they sounded surreal, like something out of a poorly-translated video game. They weren’t making sense. And the entire world felt like that. The whole world felt like a word that I had said too many times until it sounded like noise. I had lost all context. Everything was arbitrary. I almost peed myself. I came extremely close a few times. Apparently the hard-wiring I have for “don’t piss your pants” is super intense and insane due to some sort of childhood trauma, because my friend who was not nearly as lost as I was totally did. I didn’t fully come to my senses again until I was in a cell. I was in the “drunk tank”, the special cells where they toss everyone who’s too high or drunk to go through the bureaucracy yet. I was in there for at least six or seven hours. It was a nightmare. I was conscious, but my blood pressure was all sorts of fucked up, so they couldn’t let me out. But yeah.

That’s the story of how I went to jail. I didn’t actually mean to tell that one this time, but whatever. It happened. I’ll talk about the actual experience of being in jail another time. As for now, I have a story about a song to wrap up!

It’s crazy how the story of the song from after writing it is significantly longer than that of the story from before. There was so much about the ending of that relationship that that song could have eased, had I been emotionally able to listen to it and accept the words I was saying. In the end, my refusal to listen to myself landed me in jail. It was… well, it was obviously pretty fucked up. I think that next time I make an observation like that one, I’ll pay some fucking attention to it.

Anyways, here’s the song in question.