Contradictions I've Been Sold

A multi-faceted disease of conflict. At first there are the obvious internal dialogues, a never-ending stream of contradictory consciousness. I know something to be true, but I know this same thing to be false. I say one thing but do another.

Quite rightly this gives me a bad rep. I’m branded a liar, cheater, manipulative. It’s hard for me to argue I’ve been mislabelled when faced with such accusations, these things are true, I do them shamelessly and without second thought.

Fact: your addict, or you the addict, will have uttered the words “I want to get better, I want to stop, I am done, I never want to take a drink or a drug ever again”. Something to that effect is said or heard frequently. I mean, most normal people who’ve had one to many the night before wake up and say things like “shit I feel rough, I’m not drinking ever again”.

Swearing off alcohol the morning after can be taken with a pinch of salt, most people would admit they have no intention of going teetotal on such a whim. You might be seriously considering it though when you open your eyes, splitting headache, a trembling mess with no recollection of the previous night. So you come downstairs at midday announcing to your significant other that you’re getting too old for these hangovers. Last night will not happen again.

There is no such thing as too much Morpheus.

You chug some water, get an IV, greasy spoon brekkie, whatever your personal preference, and depending which, you start feeling better in a matter of hours to days. What’s certain is you do recover, you feel fit as a fiddle come Wednesday and despite remembering how awful you felt just a few days prior, you’re on the good side of hump day and decide you will attend your oh-so-important-social-or-work-related function of superficial surface encounters and you decide to drink to take the edge off how fucking terrible this party is. You’re not an alcoholic, you’re sensible, you drink less than the weekend before, still waking up with a hangover, just not quite of biblical standards like last time.

Liar. You broke my trust. You promised you wouldn’t do that again. Fair? Unfair? For me, somewhere in between.

We suffer from a disease from which there is no known cure. Clearly, there has been a paradigm shift in recent decades away from the idea of substance dependence as a moral failing towards its acceptance as a disease. It seems many people today generally accept addiction as a disease and addicts get better treatment and support than in days gone by, but I’m not sure how many people really believe this. Tons of addicts themselves refuse to accept addiction as a disease, so it’s understandable that normies might be skeptical too.

I accept addiction as a disease. Most diseases target specific areas of the body, this one targets the part of the brain that controls decision making. These days, I try to make rational, sensible choices in my daily life. In the past, I would wake up and wish I hadn’t. I wanted to die. At this juncture, merely taking some drugs to numb this pain seems a reasonably sensible choice when compared with the alternative. Today I do not want to die, but there is sometimes so much going on in my head, it might even be good stuff, but when it becomes overwhelming and I feel like I can no longer cope, my instinct is to shut it down.  

'Di.' Jeffrey Schaler - During masturbation one may get carried away, forget to aim, and accidentally take a jizzload in the eye, thereby blinding oneself. Medical hoax? I think not. 

In the depth of my despair, I say things I do truly mean and these things are a product of my current state of mind, environment, what I’m feeling in the here and now. Right now, I don’t feel like heroin would offer me much. I think I’ve now been on this merry-go-round long enough to accept that heroin is not the solution, it is merely a solution. A last resort in the event the plane goes down, it’s my parachute. 

I used to say this thing all the time, it went something like “I want to want it”. I don’t think anyone gets long-term sobriety if they don’t want it. For so long, I witnessed destruction happening in my life and was unfazed. I was so emotionally disconnected, I could see what was happening as if I was a bird watching from above. As I watched events unfold below, I could tell things were nasty, but my little bird brain wasn’t able to compute the feelings associated with the actions, and so I shrugged my shoulders and carried on about my business, accepting these events as simply a part of everyday existence. Destruction was normalized. My rational mind knew that something going on was abnormal, but with an inability to actually feel what was happening I was unable to connect the dots. I knew that I wanted change, but the underlying emotions which would be the catalyst to change were non-existent. Hence the phrase, I want to want it.

Do I want it today? I'm not sure I even know what it is. It’s hard to make good decisions when the irrational becomes rational. 

The podcast about drugs, addiction and dumb shit. The highlight of my week, every week. Check it out if you haven't already, it's hilarious. 

Check out Dopey Podcast's exit music if you haven't heard it, Good So Bad, think it sums all this up. 

Addiction vs. The Matrix

Here's something I wrote a couple months ago when I first landed back in treatment. 

Morpheus. Laurence Fishburne. Furious Styles. Call him what you want, but know that he’s a badass and speaks the truth, be it laying down the law in Boys n the Hood or freeing people’s minds in The Matrix, I wish he was my sponsor.  

Two lines from The Matrix have been going through my head today.

“You are a slave. Like everyone else you were born into bondage. Into a prison that you cannot taste or see or touch. A prison for your mind. I’m trying to free your mind. But I can only show you the door. You’re the one who has to walk through it.”

Addiction is a prison that you cannot taste or see or touch. You might see me sitting on the street with some bums stuffing junk in my arm, you might smell the stale shit stains on my pants, that part of addiction you see. But your neighbor might be an alcoholic, your partner might be an addict, your father might be in recovery, and you might be completely oblivious to it.  

True, we are not all born into bondage, but some are. Many of us make numerous seemingly irrelevant decisions which lead us to, over time, develop an addiction to some external thing. Without realizing, often, that we have become dependent on this in order to survive. You have your first sip of alcohol at 18 and end up in treatment centers during your 50s dealing with your alcoholism. You get hit by a car, break your hip, get on painkillers and end up on heroin when you can’t afford the pills… and heroin is so groovy that you forget everything and everyone you ever cared about.

I get sidetracked thinking about it. Heroin really is so fucking sweet if you’re ready to peace out on life. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to walk out of my parents’ house past my mother, in tears, begging me not to go. Think about it enough and it makes me think I’m a really, really bad person. What would make you stab your mother through the heart (metaphorically speaking) over and over again? Would you do it for $1 million if I put the cash in front of you? And you can’t just give her the money. You’re a selfish, drug addict, and that money is for you and you alone. Just like what the Oracle tells you.

You tell yourself she’ll be fine, she’ll get over it, but somewhere inside, you know you’re scarring her for life. Maybe you’d take the money, maybe you don’t even like you Mom, but I love mine. I can walk out the front door, or the door Morpheus has shown me, either way, I’m the one who has to walk through it. I make bad decisions for a living.   

“What you know you can’t explain but you feel it. You’ve felt it your entire life, that there’s something wrong with the world. You don’t know what, but it’s there, like a splinter in your mind.”

A fucking splinter in your mind? Really picture it, having a splinter in your mind, not knowing how to get it out. Or maybe you’ve been to some meetings, done a couple rehabs, and you know what you need to do to get it out. You can “free your mind”, wake up and choose not to use every day, just for that day. You can ‘work a program’- I can’t even write those words without rolling my eyes - work? Every day? You have to be fucking kidding me, I’ll chose the easy option every time. Pop down the pharmacy and get a pair of tweezers/needles/dope.

A splinter in my mind, a dagger in my Mom’s heart, everyone is suffering. Sometimes I think it would be better for everyone if I just put an end to this now. 

I’m in detox at the moment and I’m just trying to distract myself from the splinter in my mind and the dagger in my heart.

Part 3 - 'I'

This final letter I wrote earlier this week as I prepared to leave treatment after 30 days of inpatient. Time for the next phase of this journey, wish me luck.

Part 3 – ‘I’

I met you when I knew no better, walk out my life, yes I let her, you helped me then now I’m your debtor, with sadness I write you this letter.

My mind seems forever tainted by you, disease. I know not how to leave you. You are everything negative in my life. Will positive choices put distance between us? This ongoing duel, a chess match in my subconscious, seems a forgone conclusion. You possess control of what I think, intuitively knowing what lies ahead as I plan each attack. I try to make positive choices, but you cloud my judgement and pollute all moves forward with fear. Contradictions, like a cancer, multiply, confusing all reason.

I thought my decision to move away from where we met would help, with fewer reminders of you around the place. But you tell me we came here with other motives – cheap dope, warmer climes if homeless, freedom from isolation if we use.

I thought I wanted to be happy, I thought I despised this life of misery. But you tell me to hope for misfortune, loss and death in my life, as this will excuse my return to you.

I thought I wanted to love those in my life, as I would want to be loved back. But you tell me the only love I need is yours, fuck the lot of them, all they’ve done is interfered in our relationship and tried to control me.

You and them are one and the same, conspiring against me to determine the direction of my life. But they are the white blood cells attacking you, their intentions are good, but allowed to run riot they can be a disease of their own. As your presence subsides, these cells form growing resentments inside of me. These fuel your regeneration.

For the first time now things feel different. I’ve run away from both of you. That freedom I’ve sought since young is beginning to fill the gaping wound inside my chest. This feeling drives me forward seeking new opportunities, friendships with those who support me, those who pick me up when I feel down, those who bring me joy, things that take me out of myself.

I see now that you will haunt me forever, and to move forward we cannot be together. So from myself I must escape, alone with you we isolate. Your voice grows louder and louder until I can take no more. When in times gone by I might concede defeat, follow your instructions to bring relief, I will now choose a different path, I will suffer you whispers only so long before I seek distraction. Music, friendships, writing, laughing, even just talking silences you. All I need do is repeat your whispers out loud to weaken their grasp of me.

Loneliness and boredom, I know you cling to these knowing that I cannot tolerate these feelings, thinking these will always find a way to reunite us. I have some news for you, milady, I laugh at your pathetic attempts steer me off course.

Boredeom, a bore no more. Lonely, not a feeling, but a choice. Check, mate.

....

Restore my life I’ve tried before, but this times different there are no more,

Things I value, you’ve taken all, I break your shackles and halt my fall.

Only in my dreams do we still meet, you drip-feed drama and deceit.

From scratch I now begin again, with freedom fueling fires within.

_________________________________________

Part 2 - 'Me & You'

A teeny tiny bit of hope appears after 3 weeks in my second letter to my addiction.

Part 2 – ‘Me & You’

You steal my laugh, you steal my smile.

Hijack my thoughts, insert denial.

I want you gone, depart my life.

But you won’t leave, without a fight.

Step to me, I challenge you, I’ll strangle you until your blue, breath deprived you will be slew.

But me alone I cannot snatch, a victory, or leave a scratch, each bout I lose I’m back, rematch.

We meet, we spar, you beat me down, you strip me bare, whip me around, no choice I have but run from town.

Notoriously difficult, I think I’m safe, surprise assault, each time I run, same result. 

I know I cannot run away, for you will always find a way, “come back to me” you softly say, with me you will forever stay.

Acceptance – something I must do, admit defeat, you win, I lose, and to myself I must be true.

Everything I’ve come to love, and even things I’m just fond of, I give you when push comes to shove, the emptiness fits like a glove. 

Left with nothing now I’m free, to forge my own eternity, misery, not my cuppa tea, blind to life, now I can see.

My tendencies towards introspection, hinder me like an infection, the cure I’ve found for this abjection, connection, affection, a new direction. 

Now I have revealed your truth, lies you tell I can construe, so whisper friend, do what you do, recovery will silence you.

 __________________________________________

Part 1 - 'You & Me'

I got asked to write these letters to my addiction over 3 weeks. Here's the first one, I had 2 weeks clean at this point. Yesterday I got 30 days.

Part 1 – ‘You & Me’

You took my life, my future wife, all day and night you cause me strife, I’m coming at you with a knife. 

Watch your back, surprise attack, cut through the light to curse the black, your shadow casts along the track.

I met you at the age of ten, you’ve always been a loyal friend, revealing lies beyond the bend, providing refuge now and then. 

Through the darkness and the light, you guide my spirit shining bright, gliding high up like a kite, we ride the breeze despite the height. 

Hold my hand, as we land, gently lying in the sand.

Here we are, finally, alone at last – eternity, I’ll let you have your way with me. 

But then one day, in early May, the sand gives way.

Down we go – gravity, force of nature, naturally, enmeshed we are, for all to see.

Your fire, once burning bright, now emits no warmth or light.

No longer do you help me out, you bring me pain, you make me shout. 

You never told me tar’s like glue, will always be a part of you.

You stick to me, you hold me down, you’re the king, curséd crown.

Hands reach down to assist, pull me up out from this ditch. 

Once escaped, I think I’m free.

But I hear your voice, constantly.

I want you gone, forever more.

I can’t escape your lurid lure. 

So one last question, I ask of thee. 

How can I kill you, if you’re me?

______________________________________________

Journals

I first put pen to paper around the time Cruel Intentions came out. I guess that’s kind of where I first got the idea. I imagine my thought process was along the lines of:

•          Write explosive shit.
•          Die in tragic accident.
•          Have journal surface shortly after death.
•          ‘Explosive shit’ gets out - changes world.
•          Bittersweet Symphony plays at my funeral.
•          Be celebrated forever.
•          Have face on t-shirts a la Kurt Kobain.

Despite my efforts, my journal looks nothing like this. Never got round to adding the pictures. 

But that’s probably the most honest journal I kept. I write about video games, movies, and wait for it… girls. Girls, girls, girls. Because that’s all I had to worry about at the time. The occasional friendship drama, getting in trouble at school, all that found its way in at some point but the real meat in that journal was around my relationships with girls. Falling in love for the first time. Getting my heart broken for the first time. Breaking someone’s heart for the first time. It’s juicy shit, and it’s painful to re-read it. 

But it’s honest. And that is, for me, what a journal is about. It’s about reflecting on what’s been happening in your life and how that has made you feel. That’s the dilemma I’ve pondered over these past two days, how can I write honestly about some of the things I’ve done? Will people judge me? Will people understand?

More importantly, I ask myself, why do I care? Pride is a killer.

For me, I am finding out that it is simply therapeutic to write these ‘feelings’ down and ignore the consequences. That whole, “when you’re angry, count to 10” crap. But seriously, if you’re angry, write it down, or count to 10. Maybe you’ll be angrier afterwards, but I doubt it. Humans are animals and as such the way we instinctively react to certain events is completely uncontrollable.

For example: dude punches me, I fight back. Or maybe he’s one of those “how much can you bench” bros and being twice my size I decide to run. Either way, I am not making that decision consciously. That fight or flight decision is pure survival instinct. Hypothetically speaking, let’s say this guy punches me, and instead of fighting back, or running away, I ask politely if he will wait one moment while I produce my journal, quill and begin analysing the situation for a few moments before deciding how to react.

Now what are my options here? This guy is huge, (think Arnie in Pumping Iron, not Jersey Shore Guidos) and so if I decide to fight, I will probably get hurt. So, I guess my only option is to run, right? Or, as this guy is Arnie ‘The Governator’ and not Mike ‘The Situation’, perhaps he could be reasoned with?  How about a fourth option, now that I’ve had time to sit down and think about this, why did this guy punch me in the first place? Was this an unprovoked attacked? Some kind of macho man mating ritual to impress a girl? Or did I step on his broken toe by accident, not realise nor apologise and obtain a black eye as a result?

The nature of what happened prior to the punch is irrelevant, the point I’m making is, I find it valuable to give myself extra time to think before acting on instinct. As much as I hate to admit it, very occasionally, I might be in the wrong. Maybe I deserved to get sparked (way too classic slang -  had to throw that in there), and my best bet is to apologise and walk away.

Relate it to addiction. The punch, the trigger, the craving, that just happens. Sure, you can avoid people, places and things to keep triggers to a minimum, but you can never eliminate them entirely. How about a using dream? Love ‘em or hate ‘em, you can’t control ‘em. Unless you’re into lucid dreaming, in which case, restecp. 

Ali G speaks the troof

So why do people stay clean who follow the basic suggestions they hear in the rooms? Because those basic suggestions work. When I allow myself to go from trigger to reaction without any gap in between, I engage my auto-pilot. It typically takes me at least an hour to score, get needles and use. Longer even if I need to get money together first. Surely that’s enough time for the craving to pass and dis-engage the automatic process taking place whereby I find myself running around London looking for drugs? But for me it doesn’t work like that. Once auto-pilot has been switched on, there is no switching it off without a strong conscious effort to do so.

Phone a friend. Talk to someone about how your feeling. Get out your journal and write it down.

Three great suggestions, none of which I ever do. To me they’re a cop out. Once I pick up that phone, I’ve already made my decision not to use. Don’t get me wrong, every time I’ve called someone when I’ve been craving, every single time I have spoken to someone about what I’m planning to do, I have not used on the back of that craving.

60% of the time – it works every time. But seriously, it has worked every time.

But for me it’s not the ‘phone a friend’ that is getting me out of trouble. It is me who is getting me out of trouble. I put distance in between trigger and reaction. I think about the consequences - I mean really think about the consequences, no sugar coating it. No “oh well it’ll just be this one time” horse shit. And if I still want to use then I say fuck it and I use.

But if I decide to pick up the phone, or turn around and go to a meeting, I pat myself on the fucking back. I did that. I mindfucked the shit outa myself. And to me that’s all addiction is. It’s my mind, mindfucking the shit out of me, all day, every day.

Sergio knows where it's at.

When I get one day clean in London I am over the moon. I treat myself. It is such hard work just getting through one day that when I manage to do it I want everyone in the city to know about it. I call my sober friends, they’re genuinely as happy as I am to hear the good news. Of course, it never lasts, but we must all start from somewhere and build on our experiences.

I am proud of every single sober day I get. Quietly, I worked my ass off for those 24 hours. Life goes on, and typically we struggle in silence. Hard work deserves reward. In work, that might be financial. In the gym, that might be my six pack. In recovery, my reward is freedom. And freedom is a kick ass reward worth fighting for.

More often than not, I overlook the true value of my freedom, and need a little reminder of why I fight for sobriety. Yes I’m an addict and yes I want a reward for every goddamn thing I do against my will, sue me.

But if I’m having a down day, stayed clean or maybe just did something outside of my comfort zone that I didn’t want to do, I treat myself to an Oreo milkshake, or some Churros. Because damn do I deserve it. And you do too.

Just try not to be a dick, like me, and treat yourself to drugs. 

Why?

I got side-tracked the other day. What I wanted to write about was my journals. They’re bullshit. I write in them, 90% of the time, in the hope that one day I’ll have been someone important so people will go back through my journals and give me bucket loads of posthumous sympathy. A journal is not a journal if it is dishonest. Just like this blog is ineffective in its purpose if I cannot write with complete honesty.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this since that first post. Why am I writing this stuff? What’s the purpose? What’s the meaning!?

On the positive side, it helps me a bit, I suppose. It certainly gives me something to do. I enjoy writing. Every second I spend writing is one less second I spend trying to score. Double thumbs up.

But admittedly it’s hard to write an honest account of my feelings and actions when I know my words are certain to inflict pain on others. Surely, I’ve caused enough pain for one lifetime? Maybe I owe it to those close to me to just zip it, zip it good. Keep my sharing to meetings, behind closed doors, as so many others do.

Does it help others? Probably not. I’m not exactly in recovery (although I am clean just for today whoopdidoo!) and as such I don’t have magic answers for anyone seeking them.

Finally, what employer doing basic due diligence will overlook these posts? I, like many addicts, find myself completely broke and in need of work. Who’s going to hire the author of these posts who so clearly lacks the commitment required to achieve long term sobriety.

Therefore, at the crux is one question: why go public? And I think I know why. Pride, arrogance, showing off. I still think it’s cool. The junkie subculture. It sucks me in. And it’s completely insane. When you spend time with career junkies, in their late 50s, shitting their pants every other day when they can’t get together the money for a fix (honestly I’ve given away 3 pairs of undies in the past month to those in need, junkies you get what I mean), clucking out on the streets, in the freezing cold. 

Please someone tell me – where is the appeal?  What is so attractive about that?

Good times fellas...

It’s disgusting, degrading, demoralising and yet so damn deceptive. How can you package up one of the most lonely, miserable existences into something so appealing? I want it. Now.

It’s this heroin chic shit, Kurt Kobain, the troubled soul, misunderstood, turned to substances when life got unbearable. I bought into that a long time ago. But my life has been great. Yes, I’m a seriously troubled soul now, but that is a consequence of my using, and not the other way around. I find it so easy to understand why people turn to heroin if they have had difficult upbringings, experienced traumas, rape, domestic violence. I cannot imagine how those sorts of events impact the developing adolescent mind, but I do know that no matter what that feels like, heroin is probably an excellent solution, it will make you forget the pain, and it will work. Temporarily.

Then you have the people like me. I’m just an asshole, I manufactured the circumstances in which I would be able to use and simultaneously receive sympathy for doing so. The truth is - I like to get high, it was fun for a long time! The euphoric recall, those are the good times I remember and hold on to. Since trying to put drugs down, I’ve also noticed this complete emptiness inside of me. This hole in the soul. It’s been there forever, but drugs fill it up. Love fills it up. Without either of those things, life becomes unmanageable very quickly, for me.

A spiritual solution – that’s what I believe in. Maybe writing some of this stuff down will help.

When I see people with good recovery I don’t see arrogance, I see gratitude, humility and above all, serenity.