Lift

This one is old, and rough.

It’s easy to feel shame. It’s very easy to feel shame about the state that I was in when I wrote this, but I don’t. I’ve never been shy about telling the story of my addiction, and the calamity that it made of my life, and the struggles incumbent in the process of recovery. I think it’s important that these struggles be shared. You should know what it’s about, and how it goes, and that it can be done.

There have been times, many times, where I have felt that I had nothing to be proud of except the knowing that I was not doing hard drugs. But for years, many years, I was also drinking, and I was drinking a lot.

It’s been years since I wrote what follows. At that time, I had already failed at my New Year’s resolutions: I had been sleeping in, I had missed a few days in my shiny new planner, I had worked out only a couple of times, I wasn’t writing much of anything, and the pain that, earlier in the year, had driven me to the edge of suicide, was coming back. I’d never been terrified of anything but that, and the horror of it was driving me mad, frantic. I was about to go get more Stoli vodka to kill it, and I did, after, AND for the next couple of months until I quit.

It was the same shit, different drug, another day. I’d written up a grand plan, took it all on at once, expecting the miraculous results I had no evidence to expect, and biffed hard.

Stuffed. Failed again. Failure.

I wasn’t even complaining about it anymore. I was just utterly miserable. This will soon become obvious.

I wrote this three years ago today, and when I’m finding things tough, I’ll take a look at this to see where I was before, and before that.

There’s no magic to this. There’s no short-action miraculous results. It’s hard, and it’s heavy, and it takes a long time, but I used to think ten minutes was a long time, and now it’s over ten years. I used to think a day was a long time, and now it’s one-thousand and twenty-eight, and I haven’t been miserable for most of them.

It’s good.

I’m lighter.

But first…..

 ---

Hello Counsellor,

I hope that this letter finds you safe, and in good health and spirits.

As is normal, I am looking for solutions because I have problems that leave me feeling pretty unsatisfied with the state of my life.

I'd like to bounce something off you because, well, you're you, and you helped me so much all those years ago. (14)

 I keep getting told variations of the same thing and it amounts to, "You don't suit your life.", but what I hear is, “You’re too smart to be this much of a loser.” That and, "Please stop being so hard on yourself."

I completely agree with the first,( and the second, if I’m honest) and can't seem to help the last.

The former is obvious to me and most everyone I talk to these days, which is a very select few. I have removed myself from all social media except Strava-for my runs-and have pulled back from relationships that bring needless drama into my life.

I know I love hard. I love very hard, but outwardly. I give the benefit of the doubt to everyone but myself, and my well inevitably runs dry.

I struggle with seeing the value of myself and anything that I do, partially, I believe, because I never finish anything, because I don't know what I'm doing anything for.

My objective continues to elude me. I have no passion in my life, and thus no purpose.

I need a win, but I can't even decide what game to play most of the time, nor can I focus on anything long enough to learn the rules when something grabs my attention.

I'm not sure if you can imagine how frustrating and demoralising this is for me. I know I’m smart, I’m very smart, but I can't get out of this fucking rut. My beautiful mind is a passenger trapped in this negative feedback loop of chaos and mediocrity.

I am always processing at a high rate, I absorb information very well, and can recall it very accurately. So, I know what to do, but I can't DO it.

I dislike saying I can't do something. I just say that I'm not trying hard enough, but I feel like I'm resetting every hour, or maybe several times an hour so....try what?

When I write I bleed from so many different wounds that I struggle just to make it to the end of the sentence on the same topic.

It's madness.

The only thing that holds my attention is my pain.

Look at this. I wrote this the other night.

It was supposed to be about my expensive Starbucks habit....

And Down You Go

There’s not much that’ll get an addict to stop doing what they are doing to themselves. Boozers gonna booze, crackheads gonna crack, jerks wanna fight, and they’re gonna. Victims gonna throw a pity party and they’re all going to come, and it’s going to suck, and they’re all going to complain about it because they’re fucking losers.

So why do we do it? Why do we work so hard to hurt ourselves so badly and then complain about it like it’s not our fault?

Oh, did I not mention that I have been all of these less-than-desirable characters? At the same time?

It’s a lot of work, being an addict. It’s like, more than a full-time job because you think about it while you’re AT your full-time job if you can keep one, which I did. Work and booze wasn’t really an issue for me except when I was badly hung over, but I never drank at work unless the boss did and that usually didn’t happen until the afternoon, even when I was the boss.

But crack was a different story altogether.

I was a high functioning addict for a couple of years. High functioning meaning I was an excellent liar, especially to myself, had a formidable constitution, was quite good at my job, had a reputation that was able to withstand quite a lot of punching, and a great smile. But all the punching, speaking of punching, and right to the brain every time, beat the shit out of every one of those qualities except the ability, or maybe willingness to lie.

It’s so heavy. Crack is a hungry fucker. After a while you need it pretty much all the time to remain at the selected level of your selected misery. So you suck grasping hands directly into your brain over and fucking over again, fucking you over. You’re looking for the punch, but that doesn’t happen after a while unless you have a lot of money and can buy lots of drugs all the time. Instead you are, as mentioned above, stuck with those fucking weak ass grasping hands that squeeze your brain like a limp cock that never gets off again. And it’s heavy, like I said, and the weight never fucking leaves. Ever. It settles on to you, IN to you. Those grasping hands in your noggin, limply squeezing all the good stuff out, all the good stuff down. And down it goes.

You start rubbing at your face a lot, like you can’t believe it, because you can’t. Your eyes roam, looking for crumbs. Your ears will ring-mine still ring-because you’re ringing your bell, and that’s all you want, but you’re listening, you’re listening really, really hard because you don’t want to get caught by all the ‘are they theres’, and ‘what was thats’. You smell crack all the time. Your mouth tastes like the wax or laundry detergent that you smoked thinking you couldn’t believe your luck at finding a hoot. You don’t say much because all your words are hollow and you know it. You’ve got a couple of blackened, calloused fingers from always flicking lighters and charred brillow……….

fuck

I can’t go on.

And down it goes.

And down you go.

And down I went.

I don’t know why. I don’t know why I did that. I was in pain and just kept asking for more like everybody else, even after everybody else stopped asking.

It’s so heavy, you know?  Like I said.

But there is a difference that I’ve discovered between heaviness and weight.

It’s always going to be heavy. Always. You can’t avoid that.

And the weight will never leave you

You have to leave IT.

--

 So, That's what I'm good at?

Suffering?

I don't want that.

I need a way out of this.

I spoke to someone the other day. They have put their kid on medication for ADHD and it has transformed her. Night and day. Suddenly she is able to use her mind at school, and instead of failing, unable to even sit through and finish a test, she is kicking ass and passing everything because suddenly she is able to access her capabilities.

I do want that.

So I've had a perspective shift and that's what I've been thinking about.

One relative has ADHD, another is taking medication to help with impulse control, or did for a time at least, my brother-now sister, I guess-has been rattling around his entire life, apparently unable to settle down, and my Dad is highly anxious, can't keep less than 25 thoughts in his head at a time, and can't sleep.

I have all of these issues except the desire to wear wigs, dresses, and cut my nuts off.

I need help.

I'm miserable, I feel like a failure, and I'm losing hope.

And it's right. fucking. there. But I can't keep my eyes on it.

I need to get unlocked and I'm considering medication in order to do it. Whether it's for ADHD or depression or whatever, I don't think I feel anxious, but what do I know, I just want to know what it's like to feel good about myself.

I'm losing hope and I feel like I'm running out of time. I'm trying to make better choices, and I'm trying to find the off switch for my bullshit magnet as well.

I'm not looking for an easy solution, I know everything is hard, but I can't even find myself. 

I'm lost. I'm always fucking lost.

Please advise.

Jonathan