All For More (Or Less)

I see this as the morning after. This is just another page of real fiction and so, life keeps moving like the pocket watch that’s hidden in the inside pocket of the watchman’s jacket.
Or to be more precise, the word “after’ means to follow the preceding rank of either time, people, places, or things.
And this is after. This is a moment before the next aftermath, or known as a moment of clarity and a spiritual awakening.
I can learn from this too.
You know?

This too.
This is a moment after the morning of awareness or as I see it, this is a pivotal moment which took place beneath the eyes of The Lord, and so, I see how we follow like a convoy and travel in single file.

Follow the leader.

This is the thing about awakening.
Once you see, you see.
This takes away the lies we tell, which is why no one wants to see as much as they want to feel better.
Once you know, you know.
There’s no pretending anymore. You can’t plead ignorance because once you know, now you know.
And that’s it.

I remember me being in that old safe place, back in 1991.
There was a little room behind one of the meeting rooms where I sat with one of the head counselors to discuss my case.
He knew me from my previous trip to this facility. I was young, angry, and lost to say the least.
I had no role model. I was uncomfortable in crowds but worse, I was uncomfortable in my own skin. I was young and confused and more, I was frustrated with the world around me.
Why couldn’t life be easier?
Why did I have to be so uncomfortable?

To put this plainly, I had no idea how to be or how to act.
I was delayed, in a sense. My earlier years were challenged with anxious fears and painful awkwardness.
I lacked charisma and social grace. But more, I lacked the basic levels of self-confidence which caused me to compensate or act in ways to defend myself.

I was insecure. Ugly, like some kind of unwanted thing who no one wanted to be near or associated with.
I was weak too. And puny.
My look was unkempt, sloppy, and without any version of desire or style.

I could hardly fight back to defend myself, which made me an easy target for the social bullies. I was a dropout, which fed the insecurity that I was stupid or learning disabled. I say this with the emphasis on the second half of the word being disabled, as in emotionally, educationally, socially, and somewhat physically disabled.
I saw life as if the entire room was laughing at a joke. Only, I was the last to get the punchline and as the crowd laughed harder, I discovered that no, it was me.
I was the punchline. Hence, my only revenge would be hate. My only protection would be rage and aggression.
Otherwise, I would be nothing else but a mark or target with a bullseye on my heart or my forehead.

I was awkward at best. The biggest bitch about this is that I believed that everyone saw me as I saw myself.

I did not have any athletic ability. I hardly knew how to talk to people comfortably, let alone speak to someone pretty and speak to them with a romantic intent.

Life was a fight,
but I lacked the ability to fight back.

I was too light to fight, too thin to win,
and this is exactly what I was told.
This is what I was told while handcuffed and before walking down a long corridor that was lined by jail cells.
The cells themselves were small and damp, and the smell in the air was unclean to say the least.

I was told “You better learn how to run, son,” before going up to see the judge and be arraigned. I was told this by a man who took a seat on the bench next to me.
He told me to slide down because he wanted more room and that I, being afraid and of an unsound mind, agreed to move over which is a sign of weakness in places like this.
I got lucky . . .
I caught a deal and found myself back to where my treatment began. I had to go back to my first facility.
This is when I was cleared up for the first time, which was back when I was sick and green.
I was dope sick, smoked out, and thin because most of my meals were ritually sacrificed to the cocaine gods.
I was caught again.
I turned around and got lucky. I pulled a plea, which allowed me to go back to where it all began.

This was easy for me.
I could do this kind of time. I could take the easier route and have “three hots and a cot,” which stood for three meals and a place to sleep.
I knew the rules and understood how to make myself scarce when I needed to be. I knew how to get by and how to manipulate the system.

I figured I could play this game well enough. I could duck or slip the jabs that came my way, so that I could fly under the radar and use the basic vernacular that fits with treatment time.
I could con the clinicians.
I could manipulate the regulations.
I could play the system.
No questions asked.
I knew the slogans.
I knew the catch phrases and the buzz words.
This was the easy part.
I knew how to say the right things and follow the line.
I knew how to stand out and “sound good,” when I needed to.
And I knew how to hide behind my diagnosis when I needed it the most.
Hey, what do you expect from me?
I’m an addict and an alcoholic, right?
This was my rehab time.

This kind of time was easy — only, the counseling staff refused to let me off as easily as the others.
They swore I had potential.
They swore that I had far more talents and brains than I realized.
They swore I wasn’t crazy.
And I swore they were crazy for believing in me.

I was a repeat in the system, which meant that I had to go to repeater meetings, which meant that I knew the program, but I relapsed and went back to my old fixes.
They had me in these meetings to discuss why I went backwards.
This was true.
I did go backwards.

I was ending my time at this facility which was longer than the typical 28 days. I had to stay longer due to an act of desperation, which was an intention to end my own life.
Yes, I tried.
But some argued that I didn’t try hard enough.
Some argued that my attempt was superficial.
But me?
I say that my efforts reflected my emotional content.
I was done . . .

I woke up on the floor after a botched attempt to end my own life. I was unaware of my surroundings. I was unsure why I was convulsing on the floor. All I knew is that I was regaining consciousness on the floor. I realized what had happened.
But the attempt and the measures taken are less important for this entry.

I failed.
I was afraid, like I was about to be punished because I had done something wrong.
And why? Why didn’t I slip away?
Why did I wake up?
All of this could have been avoided if I had died back then.

These questions stayed with me for the rest of my time at this facility. But there was more.
There was more to this than my failures to live or my failure to die.
There was more to this than my inability to live.
I struggled.
I was uncomfortable.
I couldn’t rest. And I couldn’t find comfort.

I defy anyone to think soundly or sanely when they are constantly uncomfortable or anxious. It’s hard to “stay calm” when there’s an anticipation that something awful is about to happen.
I defy anyone to remain calm when the impending doom keeps creeping in.
You can’t sleep, you can’t relax or calm down.

I defy the world to think properly when all you touch seems to rot at your fingertips.
No love for the soul or warmth for the hands.
No peace. No comfort for the spirit.
No home and no rest for the weary.

To this day, I declare this is true. I regard the public events and foundations who look to raise awareness for mental illness and addiction. Yet, despite our awareness and despite the news and the mounting numbers of tragic endings and casualties, the numbers of so-called preventable deaths are going up.
Not down.
And why?
Why is this?
I keep hearing those words too, by the way.
“Preventable deaths.”
I wonder how preventable they are, if we can’t seem to prevent them.

I go back to that time when I sat with one of my counselors to talk about my case. He was sitting down to advise me about my scheduled release.

He reiterated one of the three guarantees that come with addiction.
“Jails, institutions, and death.”
Everyone thinks that they can skip these things.
Everyone thinks that they can get away.
But no. Either of the three are certainly real.

I was asked if I know what it means to be institutionalized.
I said it means to be sent to an institution.
I was told, “No.”
“This means you can’t live unless you’re in an institution.”

There are people who become accustomed to the walls and the rules and the powers that be.
This makes sense to them.
I was told, “This is you.”
“You are on your way to being institutionalized.”
I was told about the statistics of me cleaning up and how the odds were against me.
I was told that 1 in 33 people will make it.
Then I was told that I had to decide which one I wanted to be.

Moments after my one-on-one, I sat outside in the common area and looked around at the other patients.

I looked at their comfortability with this place. They all seemed fine. I thought about the people who swore how they’d never come back again. One of them came back within a week.
There was something comfortable here for him.

You knew when your food was coming. You knew how to get by or get over.
The sad surrender is that this life made sense. There was no thrill, no zest for life outside of the protected hallways, and there were no great highs or deep lows.

Education time was medication time.
Bedtime was bedtime.
Wake-up time was the same, except on the weekends.
There were no real changes.
No, there was just an understanding that this is it.
This was it until the coming, until the resurrection and the promise of salvation came to pass; this was just another day in Purgatory.

I remember my last trip to the drug spots. I remember the shame and the disgust that came after the narcotic left me. I felt like an empty shell or a carcass of a lifeless soul who traded his discomfort for the bliss of temporary satisfaction.
I signed the contract. I made another deal and the beast was kind with this too, always smiling, and always welcoming me back, which is why the first “hit” is always free.
Come, sit down.
We’ve been waiting for you, shows the beast as he offers you a glass pipe and the flame to light it.

But why?
I was free.
But I went back.
Why?

Questions like this are based on levels of sanity. And again, it is hard to be sane when you can’t rest, you can’t get comfortable or find relief.

I was told that I will never be able to actually “be” with someone because of my trauma. I was told that despite my love or the level of love that someone has for me, no matter what, my trauma will always get in the way.

I can see how this was true.
I can see how this intercepted opportunities and interrupted my happiness.
But I refuse this.
I refuse to let this be the way I finish my story.
I refuse to let myself suffer the same life as those who chose to remain sick.

All of this is for more.
All of this is to break from my own prison.
So I can be free.

I used to think that there was only one way out of Purgatory.
And maybe there is.
Maybe it’s true and that it is only by dying that one awakens to eternal life.

I’m not here to beg or be absolved.
I am not here to be born again.
No.
I just don’t want to die anymore.

Understand?