STORY 5- If The Walls Could Talk

In the season of all-season, it’s safe to say I got up to a lot of mischief. At the time, I was 27, full of energy, in full party mode and living on the mantra- ill sleep when I’m dead.

*CONTENT WARNING*

During what I describe as the best season of my life, I lived in a house known as ‘The Hippy House’. I shared this house with seven of the most amazing people I have ever met; these people were my international family. The Hippy House was a run down piece of shit but centrally located in town and massive in size. It was three bedrooms, one and a half bathroom, with two lounge rooms and a big kitchen with a built-in dining area. The balcony that surrounded the house was the highlight, breathtaking views of the Rockies in which we lived.

This view almost made up for the house’s shortcomings. In the large bathroom, only the shower worked, the only useable toilet in the house was the downstairs one, due to the lack of rooms the upstairs landing was converted into another bedroom just to fit us all in. The house came decorated with holes, missing tiles, wobbly handrails and very questionable looking carpet. However, as much as the house looked like a hot mess, I loved it. There was something so special about that house, it had a certain vibe to it. One could say the vibe was there because of the people that lived in it, but I think the house had an energy all on its own.

Our house was the towns party house, and that was fine with all of us. Everyone we knew and associated with would come round, invite or not, and hangout. We had a ‘the door is always open’ policy. However, this meant with the number of people that were always there, nearly every night turned into a party; a party with all of our companions, beer, spirits, wine, cigarettes, weed, MDMA, coke, and one night even acid.

The money I spent on narcotics that season was outrageous. After paying bills and rent, the only other place my money went, was on alcohol, cigarettes and to our friend who supplied the goods. Our friend was not a drug dealer, just a housemate and buddy who always had a stash when the party got going.

One random evening I had just returned home from work, and as soon as I walked in the door, I knew there would be no sleeping for me. Everyone was over, already half-cut and I could see the party favours were in the process of being passed around. A couple of friends walked straight over to me, took my hand and lead me to the kitchen. My gift for following, a scrunched up tissue that contained a wad of MDMA. Just as I was about to put the whole thing in my mouth, I thought to myself; you don’t know how strong this is or how much is in the tissue, maybe have a look and start slow. Five gold stars for that decision, it had a hell of a punch to it.

At one point in the evening all high, euphoric and full of wonder, I found a large, unused cupboard which I sat in for two and a half hours. I entertained myself by engraving all of the housemate’s and our close friend’s names in the wood. Fellow party-goers frequently stopped by to have a cigarette with me and to check out my progress. That same night, even after telling a certain someone not to give me any at any point, I ended up taking acid. My enhanced trip was entertaining, though the fact that I couldn’t sleep for nearly two days after was not.

This night, like many of the other party nights, I spent cuddled up on beds and couches smoking, talking to friends about our lives and how much we all adored each other. The drugs that coursed throughout our veins, undoubtedly amplifying the love and lust we felt in that particular moment. I have memories of dancing, laughing, beer pong, and hanging out on the roof watching that stars. The memories we created this night, the warped and distorted ones, have a special place in my heart, and I will cherish till the end of time.

These memories belong between us and the house now.

My apology, is to me.
I’m sorry I got carried away with the excessive drug use that season, my mind and body took a hit for it. I’m sorry that one night while drunk and high, I snowboarded down the stairs and split the back of my head open. I’m sorry for thinking it was ok to blow off friends one morning because you couldn’t get out of bed because you were so hungover and coming down off a bender. I’m sorry I spent so much money on wasted nights when I could have used that money to do more travelling around Canada. I’m sorry, I got caught up in the party.

I apologise.

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6 thoughts on “STORY 5- If The Walls Could Talk

  1. Your post touched me for some reason. Though you had great memories there, I’m glad you’re not in that house anymore. I think you got important lessons out of that season, and I hope you no longer blame yourself for those decisions.

    Liked by 1 person

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