I am always asked why I write about these things. I’ve been told that this is not for everybody.
And I agree that, no, this is not for everybody.
This is for me and for you.
But then again, you are me, and I am you.
At least, I think so.
I’ve been told that the content and items I choose to write about are uncomfortable to think about. I have been told that no one cares about these things or that no one wants to talk about their feelings.
Even more, I have been told to toughen up or to quit harping on the past.
I have been told that I need to move on and stop thinking about the things that broke my heart or the facts of my life, which took place, and I grant that this is true. But this is me, and this is all according to perspective.
I agree that there are times when I am stuck in my own head or that I provide myself with the very ammunition it takes to destroy myself.
I do agree that we all live with a daily choice, which is that we can either be our own best friend or our worst enemy.
I do agree that we can think our way into being sick and crazy, or anxious. We can also think ourselves into the depths of depression or we can think our way into living in the constant dungeons of despair.
I have written to you about life inside the thought machine. I have told you about the countless times when I thought myself into high-blood pressure moments and into panic, and yes, there are times when I wonder what I would do at moments of peace.
How would I be if there was nothing wrong?
What would I say if there was nothing to complain about?
There is a common discomfort that takes place with people like me. Or to people who live with similar relationships with depression or depressive thinking, there is a strange sense of unsureness when all is quiet—this is worrisome, as if we wouldn’t know what to do with moments of peace if they came because this is too odd to us, or foreign.
There is a common discussion that I have had with people who lived with different dependencies. I found myself relating to people I never met before.
We discussed the relapse or the backsliding, and we talked about the times when nothing was wrong, and in the presence of peace, there was an unsure nature, and a worry that something like this, or something good or peaceful can only be temporary.
Therefore, something is in the mail. Something is coming, and we don’t know what this is or what this means. Quite often, the discomfort with an unfamiliar way led us to question, or led us to a thought process that brought us back to old behaviors.
These were the behaviors and thoughts that kept us sick, or kept us in trouble, because despite the tragedies and unfortunate outcomes, this was something that made sense.
I think about people who write with their right hand or those who right with their left. I think about the inability to write with the opposite hand.
I think about the discomfort.
I think about the lack of ability to control our hands to write smoothly.
This is something that applies to life.
The same as we have to adjust or teach ourselves the motor skills to write with the opposite hand, we have to push through the discomfort of trying and failing and trying hard to change our life.
We have to push through the moments of practice and allow ourselves the right to fail and to improve. Regardless of the process or how long this takes, we have to remember that just like I heard a million times, we have to remember something that is very important:
We are in the effort business,
not the results business.
We have to allow for the learning curve. We have to give ourselves the permission to not be perfect. More than allowing ourselves to be imperfect, we have to note our changes.
We have to allow ourselves the right to try, the right to fail, the right to improve, and when the time comes, or when we start to find a rhythm and as we move from the stages of being brand new, to beginner, we have to credit our improvements from beginner to a more intermediate level.
We have to see this because otherwise, why bother?
We have to note out improvements. We have to realize that we have to be our own best friend, but more than anything else, we have to understand that no one can (or will) advocate for us as well, or as strongly, or as intentionally devoted as we will—or need to.
I do not talk about drug days as much anymore. I do not bother with the sad romance of crazy war stories nor do I allow myself the time to find the old ego-stroking stories of craziness which, at one point, I used to wear these moments on my sleeve, as if my scars or the pains or wildness of my past was like a ranking system, as if my scars and the dried and unforgotten blood, meant that I earned my seat at the table.
I have been asked why people stay in their own craziness. I have been asked why people cannot give up their addictions. And I have been asked, if we know this is bad or wrong, or if we know that our compulsion is killing us, then why can’t we “just” quit?
Well?
Why can’t you write or draw with the same motor skills with the opposite hand?
Because it’s foreign. . .
I used to think that depression is the only thing that made sense. I used to believe that I would never be able to outrun the consequences from my past, or my unfair choices, and while living in the unfairness of dishonesty, there was a piece of me that I knew, eventually, that the bill comes at the end of every meal.
Nothing is free. Nothing stops unless something changes, or no differently from Isaac Newton’s first law of motion which says, “An object at rest stays at rest, and an object in motion stays in motion at a constant speed and direction, unless acted upon by an external force.”
I don’t know what that external force is for someone else.
I don’t know what the catalyst of change is for another person, and whether we find ourselves parallel or overlapping, or whether we find that our catalyst is different or if our direction splits in different ways; I know that deep within my heart, there is, was, and will always be the laws of change and there will always be the laws of gravity to weigh us down.
There will always be an alternate or an unbalanced force that causes us to be the item at rest or the item in motion that has changed, due to an external force.
This is life.
No one will always have a smooth ride. Not in this life.
I have told you about my Father, The Old Man, and I told you about the day he passed, and how I thought that time can be an unkind thing.
At the same time, nothing switched. Nothing changed.
Nothing stopped in a moment of silence or a moment of care because, although my life and everything about my future was altered, or changed by an unbalanced force; even still, the traffic lights still worked. The bread truck still drove down my street before sunrise to make its early morning deliveries.
The television still worked. The lights went on and off, and there was nothing on the news, and there was nothing different about the world.
No, the only difference was me and the way I saw life.
I have been complimented and put down and to some, my writing has meaning and to others, my prose is unprofessional. But to me, this is my action.
This is my way to move my items at rest and this is how I can change the direction or the speed of the unneeded items that are moving in my head.
I keep coming here because this is all I have. This is my place of hope because otherwise, I can see why or how life can be a hopeless place.
I can see why and how people can become desperate or need something “extra” to feel better.
I don’t get high.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t feel high or be high. While I acknowledge the argument that nothing feels as good as physical and emotional, which is brought on by way of a chemical experience; there is such a thing as a natural high. And no, the two are far from identical.
I never believed in this. Then again, I never believed in much.
I never thought that this was possible, but then again, changing our life, or changing our belief system can be as hard as trying to write with our opposite hand.
I come here to disprove the demons on my shoulder.
I come here to defy the narratives in my head, which can often be relentless. Lastly, I come here because this is a place that I have created (for the both of us).
Just to be clear, I am not writing to you.
I am speaking with you.
This is my way of being with you without the decorations of pride, and without trying to be cool, or trying to impress anyone.
I come here to be myself (with you) so that one day, peace will not be so foreign to me.
But instead, this will be well deserved.
Change my thinking.
Change my behavior.
Change my feelings.
Change my life.
Change my euphoria.
This is why I still come here, everyday.
The Written Addiction 