I found myself back at a place where I had sworn to never return, yet there I was. Back in the seat and back in the den of a club that kills us all.
And do you know what? The club is still there and still alive.
Nothing was different, except for the corners or some of the names or faces.
But all else was the same.
None of the rules had changed because the game has always been the same.
Then again, perhaps I should tell you that rules are always updating like the terms of service to any club membership.
Only, nothing about this place is exclusive, and the entry fee is always free to old or new members.
That’s how they get you . . .
It’s free to join and free to enter.
So is the first hit, or the first taste, the first shot, or the first of any lift-of, so-to-speak.
This is how the membership grows, contagiously.
The club is always free to join and the clubhouses are literally anywhere and everywhere, and of course; all clubhouses are open all day, all night, and all year round.
No matter the weather, rain or shine, or regardless of the temperatures, hot or cold, and no matter where you are in this world or what your climate is, believe me, the beast has clubhouses all around the world.
There is a spot on every corner, every street, in every tribe, every culture, and trust me when I tell you, the beast never comes ugly—no, that would be too obvious and the tricks would be no fun for the beast.
The beast is beautiful. At least in the beginning when he or she (depending upon the eye of the beholder) sees the beast for the first time and latches on to an attraction of feeling something untouchable, or having a feeling that makes us impenetrable, this is when we tend to see the beast with different eyes.
The beast knows how to make a deal and, rest assured, the beast is always anxious to work out a payment plan.
The beast smiles at this because no one ever reads the fine print. Even when someone does, no one ever thinks the worst will happen to them.
People think, “That doesn’t apply to me” until it does.
I was running around in my pretend life and back to the hateful side of me. Maybe this was the frightful side, or perhaps this was the side of me that was imploding from within, dying alive in my own mind and believing that something about me is always wrong and always defective—and so, as a means to feel something I could understand, or as a way to materialize my frustration or resentment that I, me, or the person I am (or was) cannot and will not fit in these parts of the world, I chose an old familiar path because this made sense to me
I was clean and sober for more than a year. And this was fine for me when I lived in a controlled environment, which was also cult like and dogmatic.
There was no variance or understanding that not all things apply to everyone and there are other pressing matters when we talk about mental health.
I found myself alone again in public places, whereas, I was a stranger amongst familiar faces and upset or angry because something about me always seemed unfit or wrong.
I believed that I was off or inaccurate and therefore, I wondered if I was fit for my surroundings or if it were possible to escape the containers of life, then how could I do this and find peace?
I wanted to step away from the tables where I sat, and then I could remove myself from my surroundings, and walk away from the people, places, and things that were uncomfortably comfortable or at minimum, I had to get away from my discomfort which was understanding to me and so were the rules of interaction.
At the same time, I needed an edge.
I was too cowardly to stand up and walk away, so, instead, I became a follower.
I needed something to pop the emotional blisters, and I was fading and losing to thoughts and feelings which led to a spiral and yes, I found myself out of control.
Again.
I got high . . .
They call this a relapse. People will say, “I fucked up,” or they’ll say how they had a slip.
But I’ll say no.
Not at all.
I call this an action or, more accurately, I say this is a reaction to an emotional construct in the mind, to which your mind does its math and goes back to something that makes sense.
I felt awful.
And so?
What does the mind do when in pain?
The mind is always looking to feel better.
And do you know who knows this?
The beast knows.
See?
This is all the brain wants—to make sense and to have peace. So, sometimes we choose an avenue or a way that results as a method to find an instant gratification.
We do this so we can feel better—even if only for a second, and even if we feel worse after the second or the blitz is gone, the high is over, and when we find ourselves below the destruction of our own Ground Zero, the beast comes along and steps in with a grin.
“Here ya go. Don’t worry.”
“Try this,” the beast says.
But there you go, and like I said, this is when you needed something the most. Hence, this is why people forget to read the fine print.
This is where the beast loses her bosom, or the grace of her sexy curves, and this is when the beast becomes less seductive, but more like a habit that cannot be cured.
I was told that I was going to be dead by my 19th birthday.
That might have been true, at one point.
I was told that I would never make it.
I was told that I was fitting to kill myself or that I was living outside the dogma or “the way.”
I was told that I would never last too long.
I was told a lot of things.
I have been told about this since April 1, 1991, yet somehow, I’m still here.
I had to walk away from the holy rollers and the dogmas of certain recovery models and realize that I am me, and that I have my own DNA, and that I have my own chemistry.
No one in the world has my chemical makeup, and/or as close as someone might be to my challenges, I learned more about chemistry and the math of mental health—and what I learned most is no two are the same. Understand?
Similar is not the same. I am not the same as anyone else. However, our similarities, which come from the core, can make life relatable and less of a lonesome trip.
I agree.
If you’d have asked me back in 1991, who do you think you’ll be in the year 2025, I’d have probably said “dead” because these were the predictions of my fate.
But I’m not dead.
Not yet, and currently, out of most of those who predicted my failure and my death, I am the only one of them alive and doing fine.
My life isn’t perfect. I have my problems, but my veins are clear and there are no pinholes in my arms, or empty plastic vials on my floor.
Not a drink or recreational drug since that night, nor a pistol in my hand, held out of anger or outrage.
Anyone can say whatever they want about me.
They can hate me. Spit at me and say I’m full of shit.
But no one can say that I’m high.
Not now.
Not ever,
at least not if I have something to say about it.
You get me?
The Written Addiction 