They say that something happens. They say that a moment comes, and perhaps this comes in different ways for different people. But a moment comes when your eyes are open. You see things from a deeper perspective. Or perhaps this is what they call a spiritual awakening. For the moment, I can’t say if I have always found this as something holy or if there was some great sense of divinity.
But maybe.
I don’t know if what I experienced was spiritual or holy, or if my experience was more of a deep-rooted moment of awareness. Maybe my case is only subjective, or maybe it is.
Maybe these are examples that come from different stages of realization and rather than this coming from a spiritual or holier ground, perhaps I was aware of myself.
Either way, I have achieved moments of awareness, which are both good and unfortunate. I have seen the benefits of good living and I have seen the aftermath of selfish outrage or personal discontent.
I have found myself at moments of awakening, and I have seen what the worst part of me is capable of.
These things happen. And so do the realizations that we are no longer free to claim ignorance or plea this to a judge.
Some are short-lived, and some come with a deep and motivational sense.
I have had moments like these. Some remain in my memory and some require thought. However, there are times in life when the lightbulb turns on. I came to an understanding with an intense realization that something needs to change, or perhaps in my case, it was me.
I was the one who needed to change.
I was wrong. And sometimes, yes, I was evil.
This is why they say the demons are afraid of the light because the light brings out the darkness in their deeds.
I was afraid of the light, or the way and the truth for the very same reason,
I still am, if I’m being honest.
I recall a place that was dark and dingy. This was one of my hide-outs beneath a local bar, down the street, and not too far from my house.
I recall the sounds from above. I could hear the sounds of happy people who were out with their friends, or at least this is what I assumed.
I could hear the music from the jukebox. I could hear the sounds of glasses clanking and people laughing and talking.
Meanwhile, I was hiding behind a series of boxes in a tiny cellar with a dirt floor beneath the saloon above me.
There was no light to speak of except, of course, for my candle which I needed for more than one reason.
I needed the light, but I needed to douse the light, in case someone was coming.
I was in the middle of a binge, hiding and cooking up poison in a little metal spoon so that I could get high and find my way into the outer limits.
I was high as ever, but this kind of high, which is no different from other quick fixes, is the kind of high that folds in half and shortened with each blast. However, I would rather illustrate the desperateness than glorify the demons that wove through my skin like bugs during a cocaine high.
Each liftoff reached a height that was half as high as the one before, and after the hours of a mindless frenzy, there is no high to speak of.
No, there was nothing.
There was hardly a temporary relief from the winding feeling, which clenches the jaw as tight as you can think. My nerves were stretched as tight as could be.
I could hear my heart beating inside of my chest. Meanwhile, people of my age were out on the town or spending time at parties.
But not me.
This was not a party.
No, I was wasting away, scrawny as ever. No friends to speak about. No hope. No future.
Everyone I knew was doing something with their life.
And me? I dropped out of school. I was working. I was low man on the totem pole and carrying boxes of tools that weighed more than me.
I was the “gofer”, which meant hey “Gofer” coffee, or hey, it’s lunch time, “Gofer” lunch and bring back everyone’s food.
Gofer this and gofer that. I was the helper.
I was the little man, or the clean up man. At the same time, I was only a stupid kid, an errand boy working with real men who lived real lives.
I had no idea what life was about to show me.
At the same time, I had no idea if I wanted to live . . .
or die.
I remember being down in the hole, which was the cellar that I was telling you about, which was where I hid from the rest of the world. I remember hearing the squeaks of mice and often seeing their shadows running across the wall from the hint of the dim candlelight.
I remember how I ended these binges.
This was equally, if not more deadly.
This was where I transferred gods and went from the cocaine demons to the opiates goddess—and suddenly, the world slowed down and I fell down to a half-bent status. I slid from the hyper awareness to an unaffected nod, slow as ever, and infinite, in which I recall the justice of feeling this way.
I recall one nod, specifically.
I slipped away and saw myself as if to find me in an outer body experience. I envisioned the concepts of God, or the one true God, as if to recall myself at the front pew before an altar of Christ. I recall envisioning a huge statue of The Son of Man, crucified before the world with his head about to become lifeless and tilted to the side. This was before the Son spoke out to The Father, “It is accomplished!”
I saw Him on the cross, with pain in his face, and I thought of Him or of the others that were crucified beside him, like St. Dismas, who is otherwise known as the penitent thief.
I was a thief.
Maybe I always have been.
But was I like Dismas on the right side of The Son, or was I more like Gestas, selfish and on the left side?
Dismas spoke from the heart.
Gestas showed his truth.
“Remember me, when you enter into your Kingdom.”
This is what Dismas said to The Son of Man before their death, to which The Son of Man replied, “today, you shall be with me in paradise.”
I remember thinking about myself and my way of life. I remember thinking about myself and the infected angels and the good or loving people who I had destroyed—or better, I was thinking about all that I destroyed and all that I broke, to which I never saw this as a moment of divine intervention. No, this was not enough for me to have the stopping power of a divine miracle where I could stand like the crippled and walk away.
I was not healed by any sense of the imagination.
No, I was still sick and infected.
However, I was aware of the line between right and wrong. I was clear about the depths of my hell and that, above all, I was the one who put me here.
This is why I chose the life I chose, and this is why I chose the lofty heights that would take me away. This is why I looked to cancel my thoughts, or to alleviate the true pain behind the fact that I chose to do this to myself.
No one twisted my arm.
I was a liar and a cheater.
No one talked me into this.
No one told me to steal.
No one told me to rob from those who loved or trusted me, and no one told me to hurt the people who loved me the most.
No, I was in a way that was so sad and desperate that I willingly gave myself away. I forfeited my better self to find me in the weightless abandon of feeling absolutely nothing.
I don’t know if I wanted to die as much as I wanted everything to stop.
I wanted to euthanize myself in tiny increments and sail off, as if to be gone and drift away into a lifeless trance. I wanted to be where the nod was enough to remove me from the burdens of self, and my fear, doubt, rage, and more, I wanted to be removed from the outrage that I was never comfortable.
I was never truly happy.
I was always different, or that I was always unlike everyone else. As far as I was concerned, I would never be loved or wanted or cared for, desired, included or truly invited.
I had no idea about the compliments of a pure invitation. Then again, I had a mind that was imbalanced and altered by the dependance of a deadly substance.
My last journey on the street was April 1, 1991.
However, drugs are only a symptom. Alcohol is only a symptom. I have had other bouts and other lows and other moments when my eyes opened, similar to the time in the basement.
I have awoken to times where I lived selfishly and I swore that hell was going to come for me.
And maybe it is . . .
I see this as valid. I see this as something to pay attention to, like a warning that went unheeded for way too long. I see this as my own personal intervention.
There is no anesthesia for life. There is no walking away from the sins of our mistakes and there is no hiding from our self-absorbed thoughts. There is no way to escape the self-destructive sabotage. Above all, there is no escaping the truth of who we are or what we did.
And I know what I did.
I know what I have done.
I know that I have run away for most of my life because I never wanted to face the truth. I was always so afraid.
I was afraid to face the facts, nor did I want to face the pain which I tried to appease, but to no avail.
I tried to disguise myself. I tried to hide, or somehow, I swore if I kept running then perhaps I could outrun the insecure dialogue which whispered in my brain, and followed me where ever I’d go.
I was never true to anyone because I was never true to myself. I was never brave enough to stand up or to say this is me, and this is who I am, or who I love.
I was always afraid and always worried that someone would come along and infiltrate my boundary and leave me vulnerable.
I was afraid that I would awaken to the realization, once more, that I was the fool. I was the punchline to someone’s cruel joke, or that I was a plaything for someone to use, and then throw me away, as if I were nothing more than worthless.
I was always afraid that the past would repeat itself, or that I would be the one, again, which meant that I would be the weak one or the socially crippled.
I was always afraid that I would be that kid who everyone laughed at or thought that I was stupid. I never asked to be the kid who stuttered when I’d read in class. I never asked to have a little bus come and pick me up at my house to take me to school.
I never wanted to be someone with “special needs” nor did I ask for this or my pathology, which is the science behind who I am or why my insecurity whispers to me still.
I never wanted to be angry. I never wanted to be hurt.
But more, I never wanted to hurt anyone or be unfair or be the one who lands the first insult, to be so cruel as a means to protect me from you
(or your words).
I remember the day I entered into treatment.
I remember when they told me that I was never going to drink or do drugs again.
I remember thinking how this was intimidating to me because the only thing that made sense was about to be taken away from me.
Sure, euphoria made sense. Even the unfortunate part made sense because at least I understood why.
I knew the risks.
I signed that contract the first time I got high. I knew what was coming. I might not have read the fine print or fully understood how deep this would take me.
But I knew the law. I knew about the withdrawals. I knew about the need and the desperate desire, and the fiend in me.
But that was then.
I have lost myself in different ways. The drug binges are a thing of my past. However, I know about the binges of self-serving devices and the quick-fix desires.
I know about the self-centered ideas that we use to make ourselves feel better because our life is only unsatisfying.
In my quest to find peace, I want to be high as well.
But I want something that comes without the imbalance of a hangover. I don’t want something that comes with unfortunate consequence or steals my life.
If I am to be that high, as in naturally, then I realize the first thing I have to do is rid myself from all the things that weigh me down.
This means I start with the reflection I see in the mirror.
This means I have to start with me.
I have to start with the sandbags that hold the balloons of my dreams and keep them from flying off to where they belong.
And with all of my heart, I want to fly too.
I am not sure if this comes at a time with a new brand of divine intervention. I am not reborn, nor religiously encouraged, and this is not about God or anything like Him.
No, this is about me and the need to see myself clearly.
My eyes are open.
First, I have to be brave enough to face the truth. Next, I have to be brave enough to make the change and take the steps that keep my changes from turning back.
To be honest, I don’t know if I’m brave or not.
But at least I can say that I’m doing something.
At least, I can say that I’m here.
Can you?
The Written Addiction 