Jekyll and Hyde
I saw the face behind my eyes, a stranger's skin, familiar lies.
In the depths of my drinking, it felt like something inside me would snap without warning. One moment, I was calm, even in control, and the next, it was as if a stranger had hijacked my thoughts and emotions.
The changes weren't gradual or subtle they were sudden and jarring, like being yanked from my own body and replaced by something unrecognizable. Those closest to me saw it, too, their reactions shifting from confusion to outright fear. My bizarre thoughts and unpredictable emotions surfaced without warning, sending a chill through the room before I even understood what I had done.
At one point, they were so disturbed by what they saw that they even suggested performing an exorcism to rid me of whatever was overtaking me. I wanted to tell them they were wrong, but deep down, I wasn't sure they were.
Growing up Catholic, the idea of an exorcism wasn't as far-fetched as it might sound to others. The religious environment I grew up in made it easy to believe in such things.
And in my desperation, the idea took root. A strange sense of relief washed over me at the thought maybe the monster wasn't me after all, but something darker, something external, something I could fight instead of something I had to accept.
This belief provided a peculiar comfort. It allowed me to externalize the chaos, to treat it as something separate from myself a shadow to be cast out, not confronted. If I could blame an outside force, maybe I wouldn't have to admit that the darkness had always been inside me.
In those moments of desperation, I turned to rituals, trying to find relief in external actions. I lit candles, placed Mary statues around my apartment, and prayed fervently, hoping these symbols of faith would calm the fire within me. Sometimes, I'd even steal blessed candles from church and sit in the parking lot or a nearby cemetery to drink, as if being near the dead would bring me closer to an answer. In the stillness of the cemetery, I felt a haunting clarity, as if only the dead remembered the one chance they had. For a moment, I could almost believe I still had mine.
These rituals worked briefly, offering a flicker of peace, but the relief never lasted. Instead, the chaos returned twice as fierce, leaving me with nothing but empty bottles and the same restless fire.
There were moments during those Jekyll-and-Hyde transformations when I was acutely aware of my words and actions. I could feel the anger, sadness, and madness pouring out of me, but I couldn't stop it. Other times, I felt utterly disconnected, like an observer watching someone else take over my body and say things I didn't recognize.
That disconnection terrified me. It made me question whether I deserved help because how do you save someone who isn't even there?
In those moments, I sometimes turned to physical pain as a way to ground myself. I'd hit a wall until my knuckles ached or pressed the blade of a knife against my skin, just enough to feel the sharp sting. I pressed just hard enough to draw a little blood and feel a little pain - just enough to feel something real. It wasn't about causing serious harm; it was about channeling the overwhelming chaos into something tangible, something I could control.
The pain became a strange relief, giving me a fleeting sense of focus when my emotions felt too vast to contain. It wasn't self-hatred; it was desperation the only way I knew to make the chaos small enough to hold in my hands, if only for a moment.
Every drink became a gamble: would I be the quiet observer or the twisted stranger?
That unpredictability, more than anything, left me questioning my sanity. Alcohol was unravelling all the emotions I had buried deep inside. Each sip loosened something in me, letting long-buried emotions claw their way to the surface, tangled with the stress ofmy life. The chaos felt like both a release and a punishment, dragging up everything I had buried and then shredding me from the inside out.
In hindsight, I see how much I clung to that chaos, even as it destroyed me. There was something strangely addictive about the madness a thrill in the unpredictability, in pushing myself to the edge and then over it.
I told myself it was freedom, but in reality, it was a trap. The villain doesn't answer to the constraints or expectations of the hero.
There was a freedom in that a false, fleeting power in being untethered to rules or judgment. The more I lost control, the more I convinced myself I was winning. The chaos, as destructive as it was, felt like proof that I was alive flawed, broken, but still fighting.
But fighting against what? Myself? Sobriety? The fear of what might be left if the chaos was gone?
One particular incident stands out. I had managed to stop drinking for a few days and felt like I was finally back in control. I was proud of myself, believing I could handle the anxiety and chaos inside without alcohol. But as the days passed, the unease crept back in, whispering doubts I couldn't silence. What if I was too small? Too insignificant? I felt fearful that my relationship would fall apart and that I wasn't enough.
The anxiety gnawed at me, and I reached for the easiest thing to quiet it - a couple of beers. Just a couple.
But those couple of beers quickly turned into half a case. My body didn't handle it well, and my mind spiraled into paranoia.
Thoughts of my girlfriend cheating on me flooded my mind, entirely fabricated by alcohol-induced delusions. The switch flipped, and I was drowning in irrational thoughts that felt real. I called her, entirely out of touch with reality, telling her how depressed I was and even saying I wanted to die. Somewhere in my mind, I knew I was spiraling, but I couldn't stop myself. I ranted about an imaginary figure named "Chester," who was supposedly coming after me as if I was trapped in some elaborate, delusional narrative.
Concerned for my safety, she called the police for a wellness check. When the cops arrived, one of them put on gloves as he entered, clearly expecting trouble. That image burned itself into my mind the slow, deliberate movement, the silent warning. In my chaotic state, I shouted, "You better not try to take me down!" I wasn't in my body anymore. I was somewhere else, convinced they were my enemy, convinced I was in danger.
To their credit, the officers remained calm and talked me down. Eventually, I settled and passed out. When I woke up, I was consumed by confusion and fear. I didn't recognize the person I had been the night before. The thoughts, the emotions they felt foreign, disconnected from the person I thought I was. How had I let it get this far? How many more times would I wake up wondering what I had done?
Each time I promised I'd never let it happen again, but chaos doesn't bargain it waits. It waits for silence. It waits for stillness. It waits for the moment when I start believing I've finally escaped.
It took years to realize that the monster wasn't something I could fight; it was something I had to understand. The chaos wasn't a villain to be defeated it was a part of me, tangled in years of pain, shame, and fear, waiting to be untangled.
The Jekyll and Hyde split in me was never just madness — it was a survival trick. Jekyll kept me charming enough to pass in daylight, Hyde kept the wolves away at night. But the more I fed Hyde, the more he fed on me, until I couldn’t tell if I was wearing the mask… or if the mask was wearing me.
