I always say the same thing.
If you don’t know then you won’t know. Or if you don’t know then I guess you can’t know, which is fine because this is not to say that I or you or anyone else is better or worse. Not at all.
This is only to say that sometimes, the earth we feel comes with a different sensations. My hands have touched different things and therefore, the feel of silk or velvet will have a different meaning to me.
The same can be said about the smells we smell or the sounds we hear and how they are all mixed like special ingredients that give depth and substance to our memories.
My memories are mine and some people will never understand them. However, I am sure that you are one of the “Some” who would understand and “get it,” if I told you about them.
And, I have told you.
If you don’t know, then you almost can’t know what it’s like to wake up someplace, like, say, in a locked room with caged doors. Or if not the holding cells or the drunk tanks, there is something to be said about becoming conscious and wondering how you got there.
And sure, I can say these things are done by no fault of anyone else. I can say that yes, self-destruction is alive and well and living all around us.
We are all too quick to mention our differences, which keeps us distant and allows us to hold our tiny secrets because, of course, we are not like other people.
However, I do not think that it is necessary to feel the pinch of a needle or the to know the smell of an ambulance to “feel” and understand the destruction of shameful things.
I do not think that lifestyles have to be the same for us to understand the core of our motivation.
It is not about the act or the actions we took or the vehicles to our destination that mean anything to me. No.
Our understanding comes from the core of our truths and the roots from our past and our pain, our traumas and the beatings we took, both emotional and physical, or sexual, and spiritual.
The vehicle to escape is unimportant to me because the fact that we needed to escape or get away is the subject that we can connect with.
No one wants to be told what to do.
No one wants to be put down.
No one wants to be disciplined or reminded how they “fucked up!”
No one wants to sit across someone who stares over the tops of their glasses, cross-legged and overly educated and sophisticated; —meanwhile, you’re wearing something humbled and rag-like or sitting in hospital gowns, and having to explain to someone whether you’re okay to be released.
And again, if you don’t know, then you won’t know.
And this is good for most people. But we know.
If you don’t know then you can’t know what it feels like to be brought down to size.
Again!
or to be alone.
Again!
Or to fall off the wagon.
Again!
Whether you fell from grace, or off the wagon, or if you fell from your high horse or whatever the case may be, most people don’t know or understand.
Most don;’t get it.
Most will never know what it’s like to wake up in the wreckage of a terrible aftermath or to see what the progression from self-destruction turned into.
And yes. I see you.
I know what it was like for me to wake up in that bed, the day after, and realize the handcuffs left marks on my wrists.
I know what it feels like to lose to my decisions. Or as I always say, I know what it feels like when I lose to life the same way water loses to a drain.
I do not want this to go to waste.
I do not want this to be like any other letter I have ever sent.
I am not tough.
At least, I am not as tough as you.
I have not been as tough as you are in decades, and even still, I am not sure that I was ever tough like you are.
It is not tough to know how to fight. It is not tough to know what it feels like to stick a blade in someone’s gut. it is not tough to have all the answers or “know it all.”
I am far more cowardly than I am brave.
And you, or where you are now; I call this brave, even if you say you had no choice. Or even if you tell me this was the consequence of your actions.
Failure is always a readily available option.
But you chose otherwise.
You could have sink deeper.
You could have drank another drink and let yourself go to the point where life is further lifeless and you are further unreachable.
But did you do this?
No.
You did not.
I am not this tough or tough, like you.
I admire you.
I can say that I do not envy your spot; however, I do admire your humility and your ability to say, “hey, I hit my bottom again!’
all I can say to you is that I hope my friendship, my love, my prayers and my care are enough to be part of your story and make this time different.
I remember that walk down a long corridor with the small holding cells to my right and the wall to my left with windows at the upper part of the wall. I remember how they tilted slightly outward. I remember how the glass from the windows was frosted to keep the view of regular life a blur, —and everything, everything including the lights that hummed from their fluorescent lightbulbs hummed and down the remanufactured taste of stagnant air, which was thick and pungent with an odor that split between bleach and the stench of body function.
and trust me, the smell only got worse . . .
I swore that I would never be in places like this again, —at least, I swore this after my first time. But my sworn testament did not prevent me from that old, familiar walk that began after booking, and continued to a fenced cage that led to a car ride, and ended up with my overnight stay before meeting with a judge in the morning.
I have dreams about these things I still have nightmares of waking up in rubber rooms or in psych wards or what we used to call “flight deck.”
There were far more arrivals than departures, or so it seemed to me.
I am fine to let this be. And I am fine to realize that all of these are enemies from my past.
I am fine to detach from the person I was or to breathe out and let this go.
I am fine to let go of the jailhouse fights or the bloodied stench that comes with being handcuffed to someone who had the shit beat of them and pissed or shit themselves.
I am fine to let go and fine to forget.
I am fine to forget what it was like to be armed and cowardly.
I have no reason to hold the sounds of gunfire or own the reflections of blood-spattered violence and bullets to the body.
However, I am quick to remember when I hear an old or familiar voice. And I am quick to recognize the sameness in their tones and that sad, slow, and shameful surrender that humbles their soul. I have heard this more times than I can count. I have hear the regret and the heart, which has yet to retire its demons or surrender to a better cause.
“I don’t know . . . I just fucked up,” they said.
Not all bottoms are like this. Some are far more complex and venture into different categories of shame or destruction and grief.
And no. I don’t know it all.
I don’t know everything.
I don’t care about the demographics or the geographical changes.
I don’t know what it feels like to be anyone else. But I do know the similarities that come with voices who reach out to me after years or decades of loss.
And then I hear you.
I love you.
Please know this.
I know you well enough to care or shed a tear or to feel the old feelings inside me. And for whatever this is worth, I know you well enough to wish I could take this away from you.
And so, if I could, I would so that you would never remember the pain or the rejection or the feeling of being lost or beaten.
I remember the last time I was on my knees. I looked up at the sky through the flatness of a white ceiling in a small room to which I was content and satisfied to end it all.
I remember the reflection and the look on my face when I saw myself in the mirror. I could see the pain and the regret in my eyes. I could see the look of shame on my face. I could see it all and wondered if this was just me.
Was this all I am destined to be?
Why am I always the one who fails?
Why do I have to be the loser?
Why can’t I be stronger?
or better . . .
or successful . . .
There is no shame in falling down.
No, that happens to everyone.
And I grant that some “mistakes” are bigger and less forgivable to some.
And I understand that most do not know what it feels like, sounds, like, or what the lobby smells like when you walk into rehab for the first time, or the second, third, or fourth time, and so on.
There is no shame in taking a hit or feeling pain.
Pain can be second nature to most people.
Pain can be dependable too, which is why I used to refuse to let my pain go.
I was too afraid to try or to let myself be free or be happy because if I did, then what would I do if I found myself back in the hole again? Or what would I do if I let go and the pain or the depression, the shame, and the loneliness came back for me?
I am sending this to you as you view the mountainsides where you are. I am offering this to you, like a branch or a bridge, or see this in any way you choose, —but with all of my heart; I am offering myself to you because when I was alone, there was nothing worse than known and believing how “nobody cares!”.
And you . . .
you will never be alone, so long as I have breath in my lungs, and even if my lungs fail, my heart will still be with you
Always –
B—
The Written Addiction 