What people don’t seem to understand most is that compulsion defies logic. It defies sanity. Compulsion is what makes an otherwise unthinkable idea become thinkable. But there’s more to it than this.
It’s like this:
There is this little tiny voice, which speaks in the third person. It piques interest, like a diversion, and then exploits the ideas of a ongoing compulsion. Some have called this voice, “The monkey on my back,” and some have call compulsion “Diseased thinking,” and me, I say it’s the beast in me. And the beast in my knows me well.
I say my beast speaks a thousand different languages because he wants to keep me guessing. I say my beast has his own look and his own definitions. He appeals to the ego side of me. He appeals to the insecure side.
I say my beast hints and teases the side of me which leaves me feeling less than and wanting. My beast comes with a handsome smile and the charisma to sway a virgin into compromising God and the rest of her beliefs.
My beast smokes cigarettes, wears a leather biker jacket and a pair of shades. When it comes to me, my beast is the one that says, “Psst, hey kid, c’mere. I got something for ya.” Above all, my beast is the one that comes along with the ideas of an easier softer way. He comes up with quick scores and fast wins but none of the ideas ever pan out for longer than a brief moment.
The rest of the time, I just find myself wanting, which gives my beast the alternative to sell me on something else
I remember sitting in a sewer tunnel below ground where the rainwater drained from the street and funneled its way down to a nearby sump on Glenn Curtiss Boulevard.
I was at the bottom end of a long night’s binge. My pockets were empty of wealth and all that I had was my reaction to the cocaine demons, which lingered around to infect my thinking.
I had nothing else but the empty packages and the bitter numbness that came from the coke-flavored taste of a post-nasal drip in the back of my throat. All of the crack vials were smoked and the pipe I smoked them with was burnt and broken.
I remember shewing on the empty vials because this gave my clenching jaw a sense of purpose. Otherwise, I had nothing left but a few cigarettes and the crazed anxiousness that comes as the aftermath of a fast-moving high.
This is the worst part. This is the part everyone warns about but unless you know, then you won’t know how degrading a crash like this can be.
All I wanted was one more; just one more to help settle the catastrophe in my head. I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my chest like a hollow drum. My nerves were frayed like the end of an old tattered rope.
I was overrun by paranoia and the anxiety. I was overrun by the insanity, overrun by the constant whispers in my head, and even if I had one more hit from the pipe or one more line to snort, it would have meant nothing to me
The only thing another hit would is prolong the inevitable feeling of an internal claustrophobia.
Everything was closing in on me. I wanted to jump out of my sky.
Essentially, one more hit wouldn’t get me high; it would only temporarily suspend the inevitable despair that awaited me for sure.
At this point, I wasn’t getting high anymore. I was only trying to keep me from the impending doom that kept following me.
I was trying to stay away from the helpless, hopeless, drawn-out anxiety that screeches like a thousand nails scratching across a blackboard.
In the end, all I wanted was to silence the whispers in my brain. I just wanted to feel the quiet sensation that comes with the first, initial blast.
I remember talking with others about the first hit. And all agreed; there is nothing like the first hit you take.
The high is perfect and insurmountable. And that’s why they say the first hit is always free.
Everything afterwards fails in comparison; and you might come close a few times, but no, nothing defies that kind of gravity.
Nothing whatsoever . . .
It was in moments like this when I was compromised most. This is when I found myself most capable of the most unthinkable things. It didn’t matter what I had to do or who I had to do it to. At this point, everything I did was done on behalf of the cocaine demons This is when I would steal. This is when I was most dangerous. This is when I would have defied my most sacred beliefs just so that I could find myself high enough to defy my gravity
I have spoken with others that underwent similar experiences. It was times like this; whether it was a physical or emotional withdrawal, whether it was the need to regain that high or the feeling of that first hit, and whether the compulsion is a drug or alcohol or a different fix from some other branch of addiction; when the bottom falls and the desperation hits, this is when people are most capable of doing the most unthinkable things.
It has been said the addiction is haunting and the stories are unfortunate and sad, but above all, the stories are horrifying and true.
One would think a warning would be suffice to keep people from this kind of lifestyle. One would think that the lessons that come from others and the errors in their ways would be enough to keep people on the straight and narrow.
One would also assume that since the results are so devastating and painful; this would be enough to have people walk away.
However, when it comes to compulsion; when it comes to the obsession, and when it comes to the high and to the rush, when it comes to the routine and when it comes to the rituals, no one seems to realize that logic and sanity have no place in this discussion.
Despite the pain and suffering, despite the consequences, despite the unfortunate casualties and personal damage, and even despite the horrible withdrawals, the legal hassles, the constant energy it takes to maintain your usage and regardless to the lies, regardless to the losses, despite the money problems, despite the family you lose, the friends you lose, and regardless to physical risk of life and limb, no matter how haunting the facts may be; none of this is a deterrent. In fact, the idea itself to be given to something so devastating but yet, so intriguing, can be more than enticing. Sometimes, it can be downright sexy.
Compulsion defies logic. It disregards sanity and embraces the crazy thoughts, which for some reason, only prove to draw us closer to our own self-destruction.
I remember sitting in that tunnel. It was cold and all I wanted was to find some warmth. Everything I tried seemed to come up short. But in my desperation, the compulsion to find the perfect realm of consciousness led me from one extreme to another.
I wanted the cocaine demons to stop. I wanted the ride I was on to stop so that I can rest. I wanted to quiet the whisper in my head and solve the crazy thoughts that kept turning around and around. Worst of all, it’s hard to sleep after a cocaine binge.
“Hey kid, you want to try something that will help bring you down so you can sleep?”
“Absolutely,” I said
“Then you should try heroin. Heroin will definitely help you sleep.”
It turns out, they were right
Heroin definitely helped me sleep.
It helped me do a lot of things . . .
See what I mean though?
The problem with compulsion is regardless to the warnings and regardless the logically sane voice within us, when the bottom falls out from under you, this is when the unthinkable ideas become the only options that make sense.
And that’s when you know the compulsion has you