I never think much about the old days or the crazy ones that either degrade me as a person or that link me to an old stigma which says that since I was “this,” then I will never be anything but “that.”
I don’t like to think this way
(anymore).
I never think much about the dark places or the underground hideouts, or the broken-down buildings, condemned and lightless, but yet, the life of the people within them was darker than the worst of midnight and the souls who sunk down along the floors or nodded off in stages of synthetic bliss were equally as damned and as condemned as the buildings where they would hide.
I don’t think much about the packages or the times when the need was so critical that I lost sight of any goodness within me, and that yes, I was guilty as charged and, in fact, I would have done anything necessary to maintain or keep my habit alive.
I am a person who has not indulged (let’s say) in any mind-altering substance since April 1, 1991. And yes, I do have memories. I have nightmares. I have scars that no one sees and some that only I know about.
However, I used to talk about this often. I talked about this regularly in fact, and I would talk about the “exact nature of my wrongs” and I acknowledged the people I had wronged and harmed, which was not limited to substance or alcohol abuse, per se, but my clean time does not make me better nor does this put me on some better calendar of morality. I am equally as wrong or as sinful and I am equally as accountable and responsible for my rights and wrongs.
I remember back when I first came around into treatment. I remember I was told to always keep it green. Green, they said.
I think about the colorless life I had. I think about the vividness of my lifeless dreams, of folding downwards and sinking through nods, seized by the demons released by the opiate gods.
My life was both colorless and colorful. I remember the idea of envisioning angels falling from heaven, upside down and backwards. I remember the warm numbness between life and death and the flatline existence in what I perceived as my own cocoon. I was swaddled like a newborn, infected by a toxin too great to resist and too powerful to overcome.
I think about this and then I think about the recommendation to keep it green.
Nothing was green.
Nothing was so golden. Nothing was alive and at the same time, nothing compares to the far-away or distant value of my own segregation.
I was away and removed from the charges of life or the simple trips and falls that come with normal, everyday living.
I do not think about this. I do not talk about this. I do not regard this life nor do I value these moments because they degraded me down into a hole. Or, I was otherwise spiraling down like an inverted corkscrew, slowly leading me to fall inwards and slowly dying into the paused or numb existence.
Why do I want to relive this or discuss this or unearth the lack of quality in my life?
Then again, maybe this is the point.
Maybe this is my way of realizing that this was not the life worth living. Hence, I had to find some kind of value so that I would have something worth living for.
I was told to keep it green.
No . . .
I associates green with the birth of spring. When I think green, I think about empty baseball fields where I used to fly kites before the damage took place.
I associate green with the brand new freshness of life, as in youth and purity, or the feeling I’d have and the regard it took to notice my town on Sunday mornings before people attended Church. Following the mass, I associate the idea of green with the peaceful gesture which ended their service with words like, “Peace be with you.”
And also with you . . .
But even that’s changed, since my youth.
Now they say, “And also with your spirit.”
I don’t talk about the old or my damaged days or think about the devastation or the violence. Yet, and in fairness to the truth, there are dreams which come and faces that reappear and darker moments which come to light.
I know who I am . . .
I was told to keep it green so that I never forget where I come from or what it took for me to get away from where I was.
But I was there . . .
I know what happened.
I know who lived –
and who didn’t.
To be clear, I am not so afraid of going back. I’m not afraid of the drugs, per se, nor am I afraid of the threat of alcohol or the damage it does.
I’m not saying that I am not a person who needs to abstain—because I am. But more, I am a person who needs to see the light. I need to see the promise. I need to see something that can either lift me up or show me something brighter.
I don’t look backwards to see the sun. I don’t think that reliving my past, or re-litigating what took place, or placing value on war stories or discussing old habits are beneficial to me.
I remember being asked if I identify as an addict or an alcoholic.
My answer is no. I identify as Ben.
This does not mean that I can have a drink or two nor does this mean that I plan to go back to the streets and buy the old bags, and tiny folded packages, which nearly killed me.
At the same time, I know exactly who I am (and who I was).
In fact, I know me personally.
As a matter of fact, I call me, “ME!”
I see no reason to relive the old days, unless of course, we’re talking about the days of brighter lights and better times.
Understand?
If I am going to relive a moment, then let me relive the times when I was alive the most. Let me relive a moment where I was a little boy, standing knee-deep in the bay, and fishing for snappers with my Old Man.
Let me relive a moment so perfect that my soul is complete because I can literally see myself, say, back behind a place called 100 Lincoln Road.
Let me relive moments when the 4th of July was beautiful and the sky was blowing up with explosions of color.
Let me relive the times when my Grandmother told me stories or touched me with her hand, which was soft like sheets of old silk.
I’d rather relive the redeeming moments than relive the lifeless ones. Otherwise, I’ll only be who I was . . .
Again, I am no different from anyone else. I am still equipped with faults and flaws. I still have the inner narcissist. I still have battles between good and evil and more than anything, I am no better or worse than anyone in this world. While there are some people who are on my side, I know there are people who oppose. And that’s fine.
I’m not moved by them. I don’t shake my head when an enemy takes a shot or snarls at me.
That’s what enemies do.
It’s when they smile –
That’s when I know something is on its way.
No matter what—people can say what they want about me.
They can say good things or bad things. And either way is fine.
But that’s on them and the rest is on me.
Someday, when all of this is behind us and the resentments lose their steam, I suppose we’ll both realize that, in fairness, we’re all pretty fucked up—at least, in our own way. We all have faults and we’ve all volunteered for bullshit, at least once or twice.
I have my setbacks.
You have yours.
But that’s fine because . . .
The rest of the world is none of my concern.
The Written Addiction 