I can't deal with this. My whole little stupid world fell apart last week... just in time for my Thanksgiving break to totally fucking suck. It's hard not to resent all the people and factors involved in this -- my buddy, the police, the holidays, my mother's Yarzheit and myself especially. Almost everyone I know is going through something. Even people I don't really know. This goes much deeper than I will ever know. Sometimes I think some sort of ''higher power'' has a hand in this... It's testing me. Usually when I can't score I blame everything and everyone I can possibly think of, up to and sometimes including "God". God is just testing my strength. God wants me to be sober for right now.
I could be that little lab mouse in that little cage, freaking out because I can't pull the meth lever anymore! (Did anyone see that documentary, "World's Most Dangerous Drug" with Lisa Ling about methamphetamine? It scared the fuck out of me!) I had my run with cocaine and I have a fear of seeming crazy to people I don't know, so I get paranoid and think they're talking about me... My anxiety keeps me from completely going off the deep end, I guess? I went off the deep end once, around family and family friends and it was extremely awful.
My family (back when my mom was alive and my dad was well enough to travel) went upstate to spend the holidays with our old neighbors/friends. I brought my cocaine and Bacardi 151. My default "best friend" at the time wanted to get drunk, so we drank. I had to find a place to do my coke -- the house was pretty full, like on some Home Alone before they traveled to wherever it was they were going shit. I went out to the lake that was just up the road from them and did a few lines of coke. And then a few more. Before I knew it, I was out of cocaine. I freaked the fuck out and made up this story about how my friend called me and told me my cat got out and I needed to take the next bus home... Lame, right? I was screaming and crying and out of my mind with rage. I am normally quite a level, reserved person when not around my innermost circle of people so I knew I wasn't handling things well. I just needed some space. A person can't always be "on", right? I assume it was my dopamine receptors being fried from all of the cocaine and the panic and depression the comedown always caused.
Anyway, me and my friend ended up getting drunk that night to calm the fuck down and we were going to hop a fence. She pushed me and I fell on my ankle and heard a "pop". My mom and my mom's self-proclaimed best friend didn't really care, as they were drunk too. My ankle was swollen and I could barely move it. Someone wrapped it with some ACE bandage and that was it. My ankle has never been the same but it's alright now I guess...
The point is, from that, I knew I was done with cocaine. I probably used a few more times after but it was the beginning of the end. With oxy, it's not like that. It's a cruel mistress and it always seduces me back to her. I wrote a poem that was very similar to this concept about cocaine years ago and if I find it and it's good enough, I will post it. But I feel that, despite the withdrawals and the great depression is causes after the acute withdrawal phase, I still can see the good in it and that's my trouble. I am not ready to stop but I never know what my mood will be going to the next minute or hour or day or week so I have to toss shit at the wall and see what sticks.
Just now, I was looking up NA Meetings, to at least give one a chance. My girlfriend has a point and I see it now, just a few days removed from the last hit of oxycodone. I took some suboxone on Thursday, Thanksgiving, because I couldn't really eat -- a low dose, way less than even 1mg... it's now 2 days removed from that and my legs are still a bit crazy, my stomach is in knots and I am restless and bored as hell. I guess that's why I am writing in this blog so much too.
I have a sheet of paper here next to me. On one side is a list of NA meetings in my area and on the other is a list of pills and prices for my backup connect... The epitome of irony and a brain in struggle.
A couple of years ago, when I wasn't taking anything on a daily basis except for my scripted meds, I took a class called "Alcohol, Tobacco and Other Drugs" as an elective, given by an older black gentleman Professor who worked/works with addicts and, if I recall correctly, successfully got himself out of the drug lifestyle. It was interesting.
For the class, we were supposed to observe an open AA meeting. I went there with my girlfriend because she'd had a problem with alcohol and plus I didn't feel comfortable going alone. It was an open meeting that catered to gay folks. I was much more uncomfortable about the whole gay thing back then so I stayed away from anyone who might know me. Except, when we walked in, my girlfriend and myself were the only 2 females in the room. Turns out, it was only for gay MALES.
Oops! So we bolted out of there and probably met up with another friend and got some pills or pot or something. Oops! I bullshitted my paper and got my A, as I've been doing for the past couple of years. Sometimes I think my writing is the only thing getting me through college. Even then, my writing isn't that good. I just have a decent grasp of spelling and grammar and I write for the Professor -- that's my secret! Write for your audience, they say. So I write for my Professors... I feel like if I can turn in an interesting paper, I can get an interesting grAAAAAAAde. Ha, try it, it works.
So what the fuck was my point? I don't know. I'm high on sobriety. I am anxious as fuck. I am thinking of actually taking my antidepressants which is fucking crazy. I feel like Cadie/Cassie from SKINS US/UK (Lame show? I don't know... I like it) with a closet full of pills. You know, the ones that mother gives you, the ones that don't do anything at all.
So I think I've come to the end of my rant. I had some whiskey on Thursday and all it gave me was a headache and a stomach ache. My drinking/drug buddy from high school was over and we sat down in my living room to drink but it wasn't the same. Maybe because that was where my mom died? And where I had so many fucked up coke binges and so many bad LSD trips? There's a force field in there that can only be broken by WWE wrestling and opiates... It's a bit of a tomb.
I have to get out of here. The urge to flee has never been stronger. Maybe that's why I don't pay my rent. I don't do anything until there's a figurative gun to my head. I'm lazy and defeated easily. I like being blissfully unaware.
Beg and borrow but never steal. Unless you can get away with it.
I could be that little lab mouse in that little cage, freaking out because I can't pull the meth lever anymore! (Did anyone see that documentary, "World's Most Dangerous Drug" with Lisa Ling about methamphetamine? It scared the fuck out of me!) I had my run with cocaine and I have a fear of seeming crazy to people I don't know, so I get paranoid and think they're talking about me... My anxiety keeps me from completely going off the deep end, I guess? I went off the deep end once, around family and family friends and it was extremely awful.
My family (back when my mom was alive and my dad was well enough to travel) went upstate to spend the holidays with our old neighbors/friends. I brought my cocaine and Bacardi 151. My default "best friend" at the time wanted to get drunk, so we drank. I had to find a place to do my coke -- the house was pretty full, like on some Home Alone before they traveled to wherever it was they were going shit. I went out to the lake that was just up the road from them and did a few lines of coke. And then a few more. Before I knew it, I was out of cocaine. I freaked the fuck out and made up this story about how my friend called me and told me my cat got out and I needed to take the next bus home... Lame, right? I was screaming and crying and out of my mind with rage. I am normally quite a level, reserved person when not around my innermost circle of people so I knew I wasn't handling things well. I just needed some space. A person can't always be "on", right? I assume it was my dopamine receptors being fried from all of the cocaine and the panic and depression the comedown always caused.
Anyway, me and my friend ended up getting drunk that night to calm the fuck down and we were going to hop a fence. She pushed me and I fell on my ankle and heard a "pop". My mom and my mom's self-proclaimed best friend didn't really care, as they were drunk too. My ankle was swollen and I could barely move it. Someone wrapped it with some ACE bandage and that was it. My ankle has never been the same but it's alright now I guess...
The point is, from that, I knew I was done with cocaine. I probably used a few more times after but it was the beginning of the end. With oxy, it's not like that. It's a cruel mistress and it always seduces me back to her. I wrote a poem that was very similar to this concept about cocaine years ago and if I find it and it's good enough, I will post it. But I feel that, despite the withdrawals and the great depression is causes after the acute withdrawal phase, I still can see the good in it and that's my trouble. I am not ready to stop but I never know what my mood will be going to the next minute or hour or day or week so I have to toss shit at the wall and see what sticks.
Just now, I was looking up NA Meetings, to at least give one a chance. My girlfriend has a point and I see it now, just a few days removed from the last hit of oxycodone. I took some suboxone on Thursday, Thanksgiving, because I couldn't really eat -- a low dose, way less than even 1mg... it's now 2 days removed from that and my legs are still a bit crazy, my stomach is in knots and I am restless and bored as hell. I guess that's why I am writing in this blog so much too.
I have a sheet of paper here next to me. On one side is a list of NA meetings in my area and on the other is a list of pills and prices for my backup connect... The epitome of irony and a brain in struggle.
A couple of years ago, when I wasn't taking anything on a daily basis except for my scripted meds, I took a class called "Alcohol, Tobacco and Other Drugs" as an elective, given by an older black gentleman Professor who worked/works with addicts and, if I recall correctly, successfully got himself out of the drug lifestyle. It was interesting.
For the class, we were supposed to observe an open AA meeting. I went there with my girlfriend because she'd had a problem with alcohol and plus I didn't feel comfortable going alone. It was an open meeting that catered to gay folks. I was much more uncomfortable about the whole gay thing back then so I stayed away from anyone who might know me. Except, when we walked in, my girlfriend and myself were the only 2 females in the room. Turns out, it was only for gay MALES.
Oops! So we bolted out of there and probably met up with another friend and got some pills or pot or something. Oops! I bullshitted my paper and got my A, as I've been doing for the past couple of years. Sometimes I think my writing is the only thing getting me through college. Even then, my writing isn't that good. I just have a decent grasp of spelling and grammar and I write for the Professor -- that's my secret! Write for your audience, they say. So I write for my Professors... I feel like if I can turn in an interesting paper, I can get an interesting grAAAAAAAde. Ha, try it, it works.
So what the fuck was my point? I don't know. I'm high on sobriety. I am anxious as fuck. I am thinking of actually taking my antidepressants which is fucking crazy. I feel like Cadie/Cassie from SKINS US/UK (Lame show? I don't know... I like it) with a closet full of pills. You know, the ones that mother gives you, the ones that don't do anything at all.
So I think I've come to the end of my rant. I had some whiskey on Thursday and all it gave me was a headache and a stomach ache. My drinking/drug buddy from high school was over and we sat down in my living room to drink but it wasn't the same. Maybe because that was where my mom died? And where I had so many fucked up coke binges and so many bad LSD trips? There's a force field in there that can only be broken by WWE wrestling and opiates... It's a bit of a tomb.
I have to get out of here. The urge to flee has never been stronger. Maybe that's why I don't pay my rent. I don't do anything until there's a figurative gun to my head. I'm lazy and defeated easily. I like being blissfully unaware.
Beg and borrow but never steal. Unless you can get away with it.
