Blind Transparency
Photo Credit: Rafa From Brazil
Any one who has ever dealt in a consequential way with meth will appreciate not just the sadness of this photograph but also the utter hilarity of it as well.
When I used, I did not have the need to hide it. I had isolated myself into an environment where everyone used. The lines of responsibility for one's use, for one's life, were not blurred because in the end, I used alone. I was using alone in an environment of people who all used meth. It only served to exacerbate how isolated I was and how lonely I felt. That feeling made me mad and I then, in turn, did my best to make other's feel badly about my self imposed exile. A clever act that got me the drugs I wanted so I could maintain my isolation and maintain my loneliness. A vicious circle of the highest order. What I did hide was my desire for a better life. I submerged all thoughts of something better and that allowed me to act out on the self hate I felt. That was behavior that lent itself to wanting more drugs, getting more drugs and perpetuating a destructive situation of my own design that was easily forgotten as long as I was high.
The memory of how lonely I felt serves me well today. It is my first line of defense against picking up. Still, I feel excruciatingly lonely. I am desperately searching for a place in this world and battle depression, it would seem, constantly. The difference, though, between now and then is a measure of hope that did not exist before. That and the few moments of joy and clarity that I had denied myself while using.
5 comments:
I hope that you find what you're looking for, my friend, and I also hope that you find some measure of acceptance and friendship from us, your electronic buddies!
Excellent point. I believe that I had similar feelings when using; a secret desire to stop, for a better life, to escape. But those ideas where so, well, surreal, beyond any real measure of reality that they were easily pushed back by continued use.
Now my problem is that I have those same feelings, wanting a better life, to escape the behaviors of an addict, and I no longer have the drugs to push those feelings aside. So my question is, what do I do with them now? How do I face them? How do I improve my life, become less of an introvert and more outgoing? This is my self imposed trap, and I despairingly need a way out.
I understand that loneliness -- down to my core. On some level, I expect it to always be there and that makes me both sad and comfortable at the same time.
This is an excellent post and it has given me something to write about later.
Peace,
Scout
The way you do it, ej, is to DO IT. I've been through some of this same crap myself, but I found ways to soothe it. I wrote, and found other writers to read what I was writing (something like what we're doing here). It made me feel good because I was doing something I'm good at, and it helped me make friends, which I needed, desperately. I started doing martial arts and beat the shit out of things. I got stronger, physically, and mentally. I connected with people, with art, with life. I got some dope-ass tattoos...I drank coffee...I had good sex. There's LIFE out there, and you've got a lot to offer it. Don't push that stuff aside!
Ha, that should be my motto, I should have it tattooed on my forehead. "Just do it!" lol. Teach me how to just do things without first having to tear them apart, analyze them inside and out, turn them upside down, look at them through a microscope, dissect them and look for a better way of "doing it!"
I hear what you are saying and I am a wealth of knowledge of what to do, I know exactly what I should do, it's the action part I can't seem to find motivation for. Yes writing helps, but now with my motivation being called into question, and even being asked to stop, I am even more at a loss.
I know ultimately I may come across as knowing a lot more than I am doing, but I don't recall making claims to the contrary. I never claimed to be doing anything other than writing, and doing for my sole benefit. Oh no, I better go write, I seemed to push my own buttons.
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