I’m not entirely unproductive when I’m using. I’m probably far more open and honest than at any other time, less guarded. This is the perennial excuse of writers, isn’t it? I can’t write, can’t fully express myself or be creative without being high. I do realize that this is just so much bullshit. I’ve written plenty while I was sober. It’s how I make my living and if I needed to get loaded before I ever took pen to paper, well, I probably wouldn’t have much of a career. Plus, writing for me is the breath in my lungs. I can’t not write. It’s just not an option. I write whether I use or not; I just give more of myself when I’m using. I lay bare my soul and bleed with each word I offer, and to hell with the consequences.
Being free of the fear of being judged or abandoned or hated or hurt does lend itself to a deeper exploration of one’s soul, and allows me to tap into the thoughts too deep for tears that I can’t bring myself to express without the mind-numbing effects of this substance or that. That, of course, is not a good reason to go where I went and to be where I’m at right now. I’ve struggled with my sobriety this past year. After 7 years of being sober, I’ve been hanging on by a thread since last spring.
I relapsed recently. And I’m currently in the middle of a bit of a bender. After several days of using pretty heavily, this is the first time I’m clear-headed enough to express what’s going on. As evening approaches, it’s time for me to choose my path, to figure it out. An unexpected ally made himself known to me last night, and as we spoke on the phone at 2:00 in the morning, I felt safer than I have in a while. Soon after our conversation ended, I suddenly needed to write some things out. It’s how I make sense of things.
This is what I wrote last time I was in this head space. Truer words were never written than those expressed in the throes of such fear and despair. Enjoy:
It’s all a big bloody nightmare, isn’t it really? An endless fucking nightmare. Apparently from which there’s no escape. I’ve tried. It’s like those nightmares from which you wake with such terror that you’re not really sure you ARE awake. You THINK you are, but then He starts chasing you again, or worse, catches you, and you realize, Fuck, I’m not awake. Wake UP! And you struggle and fight and beg and scream as loud as you can only it’s all in your head because you’re not actually conscious and you’re fighting against something that’s not real, which makes it impossible to win against really but still. you. try. And you plead and you bargain and you try anything to wake up, anything; you slap yourself and gouge at your eyes but you can’t wake up and you’re choking on your fear, gasping, retching. And then. BOOM. Your eyes fly open and you’re surrounded by silence and all that is familiar and you stare and listen intently, waiting, holding your breath just a beat longer than is comfortable. Then you swallow hard. You pinch yourself just to make sure. And then you curse your life. And you thank God for it. The only thing that’s real in that moment, than nano-second of realization between your death and your life is the salty taste of the warm tears flowing down your cheeks and over your lips and onto the sheets. The tears, they’re real. But no matter what, you sure as HELL don’t want to close your eyes again anytime soon, and so that’s how you float through the rest of your day, in a fog, a haze, the breath of fear still hot on your neck. You can’t shake it. And the whole day you’re dreading the approaching darkness, because you know in your heart that your quiet thoughts will once again be haunted this night.
Well then. There you have it. I just had to take a breath ’cause I said that all out loud as I wrote it. More I think about it, maybe we went down with Oceanic 815 and this is our own private “Lost” episode. That’s it. We’re on an island with smoke monsters and sideways time travel and pools of Light that threaten to go out and end us at any time in the most violent of manners. Our lives are the great unwritten script lingering, festering in the minds of JJ Abrams, Carlton Cuse, and Damon Lindelof. Heh. Sure. Why not. Makes about as much sense as this reality. I really hope any Readers out there watched that show. Otherwise, that last part will be Lost on you. Ha.
Oh boy. This is just one long free association. I’m sorry. I can’t connect anything right now. I feel like the synapses in my brain are just firing at will, wildly, madly, with no regard for sense or logic. The more I write, the more manic I’m becoming. Not sure if that’s good or bad. It’s waking me up, which will save me from the Terror for a while but it’s also making me dizzy and nauseous and fidgety and restless and anxious and stupid, apparently. How many grammatical errors can I make in one sentence? Let me count the ways. As much as I fear sleep right now, I crave it because I don’t have to deal with the thoughts and decisions and reality. And the pain. I need to put the emotional pain to rest. I could to without the physical pain right now as well. It hurts to breathe. And blink. And swallow.
I’m going to take a nap while the sun is still up.