|Seeminly Happy Elliott a few months before his death in 2003|
|Photo from a photo shoot, probably a album promotion.|
|This is a photo of Elliott when he was really stung out, in 2001 or 2002|
I Love you Mister Smith. Steven Smith, not the name they call you with. You're just somebody I'll never know.
Has anyone else listened to the Lyrics for the song "Little One" from Elliott's posthumous album, "From a Basement on a Hill"? If you haven't, you must scroll down and read the lyrics, and then listen to the song. Even if you hate me, you don't have to read my drivel if you love Elliott Smith, but don't know the lyrics to "LITTLE ONE", then I encourage to scroll.
I learned the lyrics way back in 2011, aged 28.
Picture it, early fall, I've been off Suboxone for a good 6 or 7 months, and have been on a major relapse pretty much since the day I got a craving after my pills ran out. I have thinned out after gaining tons of weight from being on Methadone and then Suboxone for so many years. Plus all the exercise I endured not having a car and needing to get around on a bike to get dope all summer. That fall I tried to kill myself, and of course was put in the loony bin for a few weeks. I had promised myself I would never end up there again. That attempt was suppose to be my last "attempted suicide" and be my actual suicide.
I remember when I got out of the Psych. hospital back in 2011, and went directly to in-patient 28 day drug treatment. Where I had been three times before, each time lasting fewer and fewer days, before either getting kicked out, or for skipping out in the middle of the night because I was there as an alternative to revocation P.O. hold. This last time I only lasted 19 hours. I got there around 10 a.m. just in time for the first and longest group therapy session of the day. Three, count them, 1, 2, 3 full fucking hours of listening to a bunch of asshole drunks, and druggies going on and on about how they want sobriety. In that first day I got the jist of everyone's "story", mostly alcoholics, a few crack heads. Some pill heads, and me. The morning I got there, the only other IV heroin user was graduating, and going home right after that group session.
I remember that ache for just one more high. One last shot, a loaded hot shot to put me out of my misery, put my parents out of the misery of seeing me waste my life. Their only living daughter, doing nothing, going no where, waiting for the end of the world. Everybody's intrest was/is stronger than mine. Anyway, after getting though that day in treatment, when all the groups were over, and the AA meeting finally ended, I went up to my room that I shared with a girl who was 19, addicted to Adderall. In group that morning she had talked about how she had tried to kill herself by taking ten. 0.5 mgs. of Clonazepam. *eye roll* Bitch, that is nothing! I once took ninety 1 mg Clonazepam, mixed with 140 mgs. of methadone, and my dad's blood pressure medication, or rather what was left of his blood pressure pills. I think there was only 4 pills in there, and ( I laugh about this now) I took my dogs anti anxiety meds we give her for flying. Mind you she weighs 6.5 lb. at her heaviest, so I doubt those even touched me. Then I took two Tylenol PM's. I have learned over the years not to try an OD on Tylenol, Aspirin or Advil, not even the PM's. Not Lithium, and pretty much all other anti depressants, as well as mood stabilizers won't work because they make you violently ill, and end up vomiting the deadly Over Dose into the kitchen sink *nod to Elliott for line*. Although I did keep 500 Aspirin down for three hours before my ears began to ring, and started getting nauseous before passing out during one of my three major, sober suicide attempts.
When I went out to smoke that night at the Jackie Nitchzeke drug and alchohol treatment center, I was listening to Elliott Smith's, "From a Basement on a Hill", on my MP3 play, and my roomate just happend to be out there smoking. I had some wisdom about suicide, and I thought why not help this you girl out. If she want's to die, I'll tell her all the things I've done wrong, to save her the hospital stays, and the pain you cause your family...so I went on to explain to her that if she really wants to die, She's going to have to take a lot more than ten 0.5 mgs of Clonazepam, maybe ten 2mgs of Xanax bars, and a bottle of your favorite liquor would do the job. Even then with booze you always have the chance of puking. I then went on and told her it would be even faster, and even enjoyable if she could get her hands on some strong opiates, some Morphine Sulfate, Oxycontin, etc. I told her to stay away from the Vicodin and Percocets, because they will probably make you vomit before they are dissolved. I even went as far as to explain why she would be better of injecting the opiate, so even if you vomit, there is no chance of vomiting up the precious suicide pills. Xanax won't make you vomit, but alcohol will, and a lot of people who use opiates vomit when they are high. It's often called the "Good Sick". I don't remember he name, I just call her, "That poor girl". That poor girl looked at me like I was fucking insate, bat shit crazy, and nuts. She was actually insulted, she thought I wanted her to die. I tried to explain that I was just trying to be helpful. Then she told me she had a 14 month old daughter, and that she was no longer suicidal. I smiled, and said, "That's good, I'm not suicidal either,*wink wink* its just something I like to think about...all the time". Needless to say, she put out her menthol cigarette, and went up to the second floor where our room was to get ready to take her shower.
I sat outside and smoked another cigarette, going over in my head the one sided conversation, or rather monolouge I just had or preformed for this 19 year old girl. I wasn't listening to the lyrics of any of the songs I had playing in my ears. I have most of Elliott's song lyrics memorized. For instance..."I'm floating in a black balloon, OD on Easter Afternoon. My Mama told me, baby stay clean. there's no in-between." YOU DISAPPOINT ME, YOU PEOPLE RAKING IN ON THE WORLD, THE DEVILS SCRIPT SELLS YOU THE HEART OF A BLACK BIRD. Shine on me baby, cause it's raining in my heart. *He killed himself with a knife to his heart* GOD KNOWS WHY MY COUNTRY DON'T GIVE A FUCK. FUCK. SHINE ON ME BABY, CAUSE IT'S RAINING IN MY HEART.
I MISSED A FEW LYRICS, LIKE, "RAIN DROPPING ACID BOUGHT UP IN THE SKY."
I recently found my newest favorite song by Elliott, it is a song that was not released before his death, except as a b-side, the song is called "Some Song", a b-side to Needle in the Hay. The hook goes, "Help me kill my time, cause I'll never be fine."
Okay back to the song "Little One". That night in treatment I couldn't sleep, I hadn't slept in what seemed like weeks, the entire time I was in the nut house I couldn't sleep, couldn't read, couldn't watch T.V., Couldn't write, Couldn't talk, just isolate. If you've ever been locked up in the Psych ward, listen to "Memory Lane" one the "From a Basement on a Hill" album. Which is another song I had never really paid much attention to before, because of it's somewhat upbeat music, but the lyrics are anything but. The song "Little One", is not up beat. You know the song this whole post is about, I listened to on repeat that night in Treatment. It is a soothing song. I'd go as far as to call it a lullaby. It is a lullaby with profoundly sad lyrics. It's hard to hear the really dark lyrics, because there is a overlay of harmonizing background singers, who are singing different lyrics, so at first you think, did I really just hear him just sing that? So you listen to the song over and over, and still, you are not sure if it's really what he is singing, or if it's just what you want to hear.
"Little One" is one of the songs that his ex girlfriend produced, and mixed after his death. Which, and I'm totally guessing here, she may have intentionally have had the harmonizing overlaying his voice and guitar because the lyrics are about suicide by OD'ing on presumably heroin. I don't know of any other drug that you inject that puts you to sleep, and doesn't give you a reason to fight for your life, it doesn't even let you know that you are dying. It's just happening. Your breathing gets shallower, and shallower, until it stops. I can't think of a more peaceful way to kill yourself. I've bought dope many a times with the intention of killing myself, but I always want to enjoy the first shot, and I get high first on a little bit larger dose than I usually use, thinking the next one I make I'm going to use the other three bags in one. So why not enjoy this last human life high, but when I get high I'm too euphoric, and not to mention nodding to. Nodding too much so, that trying to kill myself would be fucked up. I've accidentally OD'ed on dope. The most recent accident, was after taking too many Clonazepam that morning, under the assumption I wouldn't have enough money to buy a bag that day, and then a by some stuck of luck I get my hands on a bag, and I end up forgetting I took a handfull of Clonazepam to try an sleep that day away *even though I know it won't help in the least bit, I always insist on trying to take Clonazepam to help me sleep when I'm dope sick, and craving bad* I forget because I'll be so focused on getting that disappearing ink we call heroin, into my viens, that the memory of popping pills that morning fades, just I fade as I undo the belt from around my arm, and fall forward, as my junky friends are waiting for me to finish with the syringe, so they can get high too* Yes we shared needles, because we were to lazy to ride our bikes the half mile maybe threee quarters of a mile to the AIDS clinic to get a weeks worth of all works, for each of us. That is if we were smart enough to all go in and get our own bags of works. Instead one of the four or five of us would go in and get a bag of works, that lasts us a few days at most. After taking an hour, sometimes longer, to find a vein that's not too scarred to get a flash from, or to keep the flash, and push the disappearing ink home into the vien, and then making sure the vein is big enough, and doesn't blow. It always felt like after the first three uses, the syringes are dull as fuck, or the rubber on the plunger gets stuck, and the plastic part of the plunger pulls out of the rubber. *hint for people still using dope IV, when you feel your rig's rubber on top of the plunger getting hard to pull back without pulling out the actually stick that pushes the rubber to the top, put the rubber part on top of the plunger in your ear, and get ear wax on it. I swear by it. It really does work very good, and gives at least two more shots before the rig is unusable.* I don't know why I'm using Astrid's (is that what they are called?) *hahaha* like they are suppose to be me telling you what I'm doing physically. Like *sigh* I'm such a fucking loser. I Hate Myself and Want to Die, by Anna Young. So here it is, first the lyrics, and under that a fucking youtube video of the song, "Little One" by Elliott Smith, off "From a Basement on a Hill" Or Visca Versa, Either/Or
I love you Elliott Smith, Steven Smith, I didn't get to know you, but I think I could love you anyway.