It took me a while to find my sanity, which is not to say that I am sane, by any means. But yes,
I am a work in progress.
I am about to discuss a small part of my life. However, this is my past. This is my beast as well as a previous burden.
This is my life “before,” so-to-speak.
But this is not me (anymore).
I am so much more than this part of my past. I am more than a man who identifies as a person in long-term recovery. I am clean and yes,
I have stayed this way since April 1, 1991.
However, I am also and equally human, which means that I am not free of mistakes or wrongdoings. Yes, I have made mistakes and like many others in this crazy world, I have self-sabotaged, painted myself into a corner, reacted, overreacted and done wrong.
I’ve been unfair and, sure, I have my list of regrets as well.
Again, I am human.
Therefore, like most humans, I have a list of regrettable yesterdays.
I have a list of amends to make to more than one person – including myself.
I am someone who understands the need for absence or to find some kind of temporary dismissal.
I understand the draw towards that great sensation called euphoric bliss. As the mind withdrew, the body gave way to the lofty heights of a weightless abandon –
otherwise known as being high . . .
Nothing was so tense. Nothing hurt.
No one was so bad and nothing was so pressing. The world could be easily dismissed for a while – and as for the troubles or the problems at hand, this was my way to temporarily suspend the hardships. As I saw it, this was how I chose to gently euthanize the mind, at least for a while.
I understand the need for happiness. I can understand the need to detach or to be unhinged or to disconnect – or to be set free, as if to release oneself, or to obtain a moment of perfect ease that comes without interruption, at least until the high wears off.
I get it.
I also get the absence of bliss. I understand the worry and the fear and the anxious stir that comes with the anticipation to “get back up” when you feel so down.
I understand the need to keep from the crash or the withdrawal or the need to keep myself distant – to be secured and safe, or insulated by a chemical absence which, to me, was the only thing that made sense (at the time).
I have watched generations lose to their own methods of self-destruction. I have seen good people go down a bad road. And sadly, in their case, this was unreturnable – and lastly, I watched some of them die, or lose to a pill, a drink, a needle, or a life that would otherwise swallow them whole.
I have come up with an explanation for this which comes from my perspective – I lived with what I call a Self-Destructive Response Disorder.
Each trip sent me deeper into a pit that seemed irreversible.
Maybe it was irreversible to me at the time – but people can and do get out of the hole.
I just couldn’t see how.
It’s hard to believe this sort of thing.
It’s hard for the witness to believe that their loved one can get well.
It’s also hard for the person who has sunk to their lies.
It is hard to grasp the idea or the concept that yes, there is help.
Yes, people can get better. We can get out of this.
We can stand up, right now and walk away.
We can leave. We can move away.
We can change our minds and we can change our habits.
But again, this is not an easy thing to grasp, nor was this something that was easy for me to believe. As much as I wanted to be “better” and as much as I wanted to be good – the deeper I fell and the harder the crash, the more the pain became relevant and elsewise, how else can one get rid of pain?
Why else are they called pain killers?
How does one remove the sin? How else can someone wipe away their memories?
How do we clear our plates and rinse ourselves off? Better yet, how do we get rid of the symptoms of our madness?
I had no idea about mental health. I didn’t understand the chemistry of my thinking nor did I understand my ability to think my way into crisis-mode.
I didn’t understand the reasons behind my habits – and this is more than the drug or the drink, or a pill, a need, a sensation, or a deprived sense of self.
No, our mind creates habits to create a path of least resistance.
We want comfort.
We want to understand why we feel the way we do.
We want to understand accountability so this way, we can assign blame and understand ourselves better. But sometimes, there is no answer and there is no accountability. Sometimes, the items in our life can be summed up as moments that happened. There’s no connection to right or wrong. Instead, circumstances are circumstances. Outcomes are outcomes. And me?
I tried so hard to get away from myself
but no matter where I went – I was already there.
So, let’s get back to understanding habits.
We put our keys in the same place when we get home.
Why?
This is so we know where they are.
This is so we don’t have to become frantic in a crazy search because we lost our keys.
This is also to keep the mind at peace so that our surface thinking doesn’t need to worry as much.
We have certain patterns in our life that our body does without the need for the mind’s input.
See? We want things to be easy.
We want comfort.
But life is far from easy – so, we come up with plans and strategies to help us with this.
The problem isn’t the need for comfort.
The problem is our execution.
Poem One:
Blue sky turned into trouble that evening.
My heartbeat was pounding; thumping
beating like mad rabbits in a dash, running away
from a pack of hungry wolves.
only –
We were the rabbits.
And B17th Street…
This was the wolf
White light numbed the escape machine
(for a while).
Powder placates the mind
as it enters the body
and just like that
a new lie was introduced
into my bloodstream . . .
It was that simple
“Is this what you came for?”
Sure . . .
“Ever do this before?”
No . . .
“Don’t worry kid, –
the first hit is always free.”
Oh yeah . . .
Why’s that?
The thought that comes to mind is that saying, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
I get it . . .
How does one forget the feeling of bliss. I ask this as a basis of comparison – for example, I can recall the first time I had sex – it felt so good that I wanted it more.
I wanted this again and again. That feeling is unmatchable. The sensational release, pumping to a great climax and then ah – a beautiful eruption.
It’s amazing.
I can understand the beauty. I understand the wild séance. I understand the cosmic and amazing feel of flesh and yes, I can even understand the sinful aspect of this. I can understand the hunt because I can see why we lose ourselves to the need for more. I understand how one is lost to the need for touch or the feel of someone’s body.
In fact, wars have been fought for the love of a woman’s hand.
And me, I can understand why.
I understand the draw. I understand the obsession for “more,” and I can see how and why we lose ourselves. I understand the obsessed need for the body or the intertwined moments beneath the sheets. I can see why and how this makes me so wild or carnivorous – like a beast with an insatiable appetite when in fact – I am, only human. I am only a man.
I am only wired for the need to find that “thing” that can make me feel “good.”
I want to feel good.
Don’t you?
I offer this because I have heard people exclaim their thoughts about drugs or alcohol.
I have heard people question why? I tell them to compare this to an obsession of theirs. And usually, the obsession for touch and the need for more of this is a helpful tool to measure our appetite for more.
Why would anyone continue to do something when it makes them feel so badly?
To be clear – it’s not always bad.
To add more clarity, when the fall comes or when the high ends and you crash back to the ground (or even lower beneath the earth), as bad as this feels, it seems that there’s only one thing that can help – or make you feel better.
There’s only one thing that can make “it” right.
So?
You go back to the hair of the dog that bit you – because although the solution is only temporary – we can push off the punishment and placate the guilt for a while. We can try again later and hope to find some “other’ way to make ourselves “right” again.
Poem Two:
I was faced with it-
Serving time seemed more like sitting in the abyss,
or a deep hole, like a downward spiral
without any way out.
In any case, I was blind
I was blinded by self-absorbed lies
trying hard to hide everything from everyone else,
yet, my lies exposed me
obviously
and as hard as I tried to keep my secrets –
my actions told everything to everyone else.
Truth be told, I felt like a punchline to a joke
everyone else was in on it (except for me)
and I tried so hard to act as if I knew.
But I didn’t . . .
As for that loneliness, I sat by myself,
alone on a wooden bench,
encased behind black steel bars . . .
AKA: The Holding Cell
I looked across the way
I noticed the outside light
which came through a frosted window
that lined the top of the wall
opposite my cell.
This was the only thing that was natural –
albeit small and only slight.
Everything else appeared synthetic, like . . .
the light, I mean.
I mean the buzzing
which hummed from the fluorescent lighting
placed in the ceiling out in the corridor
And the smell . . .
Man, the smell of this place was ungodly.
Imagine.
Sound echoes from a terrible emptiness
The cell . . .
Each one is connected in a line,
a poisoned daisy chain of cages,
stretched down a long hallway
which is lined with bars
and slamming doors that roll shut
and each cell
is one that contains men of broken laws.
They take your shoes away.
I was told they did this
to keep us from stringing a shoelace around our throats
and hanging it up
before the courts have a chance
to bring us to justice.
Imagine the smell that comes from the cells
which are filled with men, and by men
I mean all kinds of men in stocking feet
and by all kinds of men . . .
I mean the howling drunks and the junkies,
the homeless and the ones who get locked up.
This way, they can get out of the cold and get
“Three hots and a cot,” as they call it.
That’s three hot meals a day
and a cot to sleep on.
Understand?
As if to say
What else do they have to live for?
Then you have the unexpected visitor
Or, the first timer
this could be someone like the occasional drinker
who only drinks on occasion
but they overdid it and decided to drive anyway.
“I can drive,” they said.
“Don’t worry about me” they told everyone.
Too bad for them . . .
This trip was cut short
and their freedom was intercepted at a D.W.I. stop.
Imagine the smell of urine and cleaning solution
Now . . .
mix this with body odor and re-manufactured air.
Imagine the cries of old drunks that retch into toilets
Imagine how they scream about their rights.
Imagine the sound of keys jingling from an officer’s belt loop.
Imagine the hollowness of wondering what comes next
Imagine the sound of a barred door
as it rolls shut (BOOM!)
to lock you in
and keep you contained
until the judge sees you the next morning.
Yes sir, there are all types in this place.
There are those who see this as a place to go
and they use this to get away from life for a while.
It is like a strange addiction. No really. It is.
While men like this
swear they will never find themselves locked up again,
in they come, comfortable and cocky.
The guards know them. The cops know them too.
I was faced with it.
The worst part of being in a cell alone
was the company I was in . . .
I was by myself
and now all became clear
there was no way
for me to deny who I was.
Not anymore.
I look at my past in disbelief because while I know this was me, it’s more like a story to me now or a movie that I sat through a long time ago.
In which case, I know the scenes. I know the actors. I know the different stages and the settings.
I even know all about the special effects and the dialogue – yet there is this sad but fortunate detachment that I have to this.
I cannot relate to that person anymore. I am nothing like that – not emotionally, not mentally and even so on a physical level – I have no relationship with that person and still – this person is me.
Alive and well.
I use this now. My history . . .
I try to allow myself to be understanding because rather than preach to someone who asks for help, or instead of acting as if I stand on a higher ground or to consider myself “holier than thou,” I understand my imperfections, out loud and in person.
I understand my discomforts and my social dilemmas.
I know all about my rage and the angst and the resentments.
I know all about my defects and flaws.
I come here each morning to offer a tribute to myself. To keep myself moving and to help me improve from who I was, one day at a time.
This is not about me being “clean” so to speak because I am only so clean – if that makes sense.
I am still human which means it is still within me to sin – or, as one of my “born again” friends likes to tell me: unless I leash my tongue on a daily basis or unless I crucify my flesh each day, it is within me to sin.
Maybe he is right.
Or maybe this is another version called self-care which means unless I continue to feed my change and fuel my desire (and my life), I will do nothing else but remain the same.
Poem Three: The Last One
It easy to be angry. However –
The genius of our lies
is just as misguided
and as stupid as the reasons why we argue.
But there is an art to this
There has to be . . .
there is a method to our hate
and a method to our madness:
it’s a strategy
because in order to maintain true hatred
it must be perfect.
Like an egg in incubation
and almost loved,
we come to understand
that our hate is a nurtured feeling
Strange to see it this way,
isn’t it?
It takes energy to do this
A lot in fact.
In order to hate perfectly,
one would have to love their own hatred –
they’d have to love it like a child;
they would have to love and care for it
like a life,
like a sapling that grows into a tree
or a weed that blossoms
while all else starves
and lives deprived.
To hate perfectly,
your rage needs to be nurtured and fed,
it’s almost like an infant crying for the breast –
nursing from a mother’s bosom
and sipping from infected milk
It’s easy to live angry (I swear).
Just close your eyes and let the hate take you
The battles we come across leave scars
They rip the heart
The destroy as we self-destruct
and they change the landscape around us
to a world void of true color.
You’re always waiting for the fight to begin. Right?
Me too
You’re always waiting with a response.
I swear it can be draining
to love punishment that much, to love loneliness,
to find warmth on cold nights . . .
And you start to wonder –
What is a soldier without a battle?
Is it the same thing as the Con
without the hustle
or the junk without the junkie?
Where is the bravery in hatred?
Eye for an eye, tooth for tooth,
and as all the blind martyrs shake their fists
toothless as ever and misguided
The irony is this:
The depth of my hate is equal to the reach of my love
which means if I can be that hateful,
I could be just as loving
And love . . .
Love is a brave emotion.
Love is daring.
And I have to say it
it’s not easy to love
but its sure as hell beats
being angry all the time
You know?
The Written Addiction 