Tag Archives: addict

The Days are Just Packed

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Day 253

The leaves are falling like multicolored raindrops, pumpkins are perched on porches, and that candy-corn crap that tastes like chalk is on sale; all telltale signs of October, yet I woke up this morning having no idea what month we’re in.  I mean I really had to think, which was initially unsettling.  Aren’t I supposed to be restoring my sanity, not losing it?

It turns out there is a simple explanation; time flies.  What a relief, I’m not crazy…okay I am a little crazy, but this sensation is normal; it’s just something I have not experienced in a very long time.  My life is full again and it’s moving faster than that starship in Star Wars.  I wish I had an ewok as a pet…Anyway…

Time in early-early sobriety moved slower than a three-toed sloth, probably because I was in so much pain; every step was excruciating, and I fought practically every inch of the way.  I wish someone had told me sooner that alcoholism is 90% thinking and 10% drinking; maybe it would’ve made those days easier.  Probably not. Fighting is inevitably painful and drawn-out whether it be against time, people, or Alcoholics Anonymous.

I have documented almost everyday of sobriety since my first AA meeting, and sometimes when I feel like I’m the same person who walked through the doors 253 days ago; all I have to do is scroll up.   Entries in the beginning had a common thread of agonizing resistance, and skepticism that almost took me out one hundred times.

Maybe I read too much Carl Sagon as an undergraduate, but I wanted to question everything about this program.  I wanted answers to the reasoning behind all steps and suggestions.  I wanted to debunk the theory of AA.  This skepticism, coupled with a yearning to bolt back to California made life drag on for a while.

By the grace of my Higher Power, I have stayed long enough to accept what I do not understand.  Acceptance has allowed me to let go; letting go let me surrender.  The moment I stop resisting the pain starts subsiding.  I’ve learned in the rooms that to surrender literally means to go to the winning side; surrender is what has saved my sobriety,  it’s given me a life so full I can barely keep up, and an awareness of what I need to keep going.

Time is flying because I have willingness to be a better person tomorrow than I was today.  The days are packed because I have accepted that I don’t know much, and there’s a lot more to learn.  Today, for example, I have learned that we are in the month of October, which means I must accept that I am approaching my first sober Halloween.  Weee.  Maybe I’ll dress up as Bill Wilson.

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Woe is me

I’ve been lamenting the loss of my old life all day, and I don’t wear mourning well.  I’m sure my appearance was almost as bad as my mental state this afternoon; bloodshot eyes from no sleep, sweaty and frumpy from a panic attack at work, and either on the brink of tears or seconds away from murder.

All the ways in which life is no fair have been accumulating in my head and I was fully prepared to embellish the crap out of them right here.  The thought of never again having a Thanksgiving dedicated to beer and football sent me even further into a “woe is I” orbit.

The pity party came to an abrupt end sometime about 5 minutes ago.  Writing has this crazy way of giving me clarity, and the clarity still sucks, but it brings me back down (or up?) to ground zero.

Rationale has informed me that it’s not that I can never drink…it’s that I can never drink safely.  I’ve heard of alcoholics harnessing their obsessions to drink like a normal person at least for a little while, but there’s no white knuckling it forever; ultimately the result is some variation of a painful, destructive, long or short shitty life.

When the present isn’t all peaches and cream, glorifying to the past is a knee-jerk reaction.  It was so much better then!  When I had wine!  And football!  And that little Italian restaurant!!

The reality is that the last time I had dinner at that Italian restaurant it wasn’t the food or company I was happy about; it was the bag of blow in my pocket I wasn’t going to share.  While everyone waited for the check to come I was in the bathroom taking key bumps.  This was in January, when I had a one-way ticket to Central America.  It’s a good thing I didn’t follow through with that plan…I hear the cocaine there is terrible.  Yikes.

There was nothing glorioius about Thanksgiving last year. I was still on the pot farm, and made plans to drive five hours south to spend the holiday with close friends who felt like family.  I would have made it, too, if the night before I hadn’t been guzzling three bottles of wine with a married-ish total-mistake-man.  Thanks to my impeccable decision-making, I spent the day puking in a house on the mountain with no electricity, no furniture, and nobody; there was no football and no beer.

At the first pot farm I lived on in 2010, for Thanksgiving my “co-worker’s,” and I spent $500 on food which I didn’t even end up eating because we started blowing lines too early.  Poor time management.

Two years later, as I puked my brains out by myself in an empty cabin one pot farm over, I reflected on that first Thanksgiving, (again, looking to the past), and thought how awesome that year had been.  It never struck me that things were getting progressively worse, or that that first year wasn’t as joyous as I had it written in my memory.  I have no idea what I just wrote.

Like I said, I don’t wear mourning well.

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Recalculating, Rewiring, Showing Up

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Be there in a minute….

Day 241

Social events give me such bad anxiety that I don’t usually make it to said functions.  Feeling like I’m on the outside of every room I walk into has never made me very self-assured, but when there was alcohol, there was no problem.  Get buzzed and converse effortlessly, get wasted and don’t care about anything!  Hooray!  Much to my anxiety-ridden dismay, this social lubricant is no longer at my disposal.

Due to unrealistic projections on how every activity will pan out, I’ve developed a nasty habit of making plans and then immediately regretting them.  My mind begins spinning a web of irrational excuses…. Who will I talk to?  What will we talk about?  What if they stare at this giant blemish on my face? How will I get there?  What if there’s no parking? What if it’s so overly crowded that I have a panic attack?  I’m too fat today anyway. I’m not going.  Whew.

The second I decide I’m not going to go I feel wave of relief, but I’ve already let someone else down, including myself.  I don’t know what’s worse about these destructive decisions; that I end up disrespecting the person or persons who invited me, or that there is a 99% probability that if do show up I’ll have a great time.

Confidence and awareness have sprouted in sobriety, and tools have been acquired to counteract old-behavior; sometimes I even implement those tools.  I’ll remind myself to simply show up.  Jesus, it’s not that hard.  I’ll remind myself that no one cares if I have a zit on my forehead.  I’ll tell myself to stop being such a selfish flakey friend, and that the world does not cater to my own self-centered fears.

Unfortunately, it’s a long road of awkwardness before I fully reach a point where ease comes freely and events are easy.  At most completely sober settings I still feel like I’m standing around waiting for everyone to get drunk.  It’s like going to a party that never starts…talk about anxiety.

Yesterday “The Committee” started generating the same old bullshit for an occasion I had committed to.  A bailout plan was in the works, when sober thoughts kung-fu’d them in the face.   It was extremely uncomfortable to go against how I have conditioned my brain, but because of step work and progress not perfection, I was able to tell my insecurities to shut the fuck up, show up, and stop ruining my chance at life.

Of course, it was a great time.  All it took was some excruciatingly difficult recalculating! Showing up….what a concept.

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Let’s be real, we’re all Gollum.

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I used to think AA was an acronym for “AlcoholicAddicts,” and it still could be; for me they are one in the same.

There was a functional level of resistance I had against drinking, which did not exist when it came to nose candy.  If an environment wasn’t a designated, “get wasted,” zone, I may have mentally declared everyone lame, but it wasn’t the end of the world.   Drinking and not having blow, however, equaled catastrophic desperation, and desperation is something alcoholics and addicts all know about.

This morning a man (we’ll call him G) who was hooked on heroin told me how he’d inject a needle “this long” into his groin, because he had no usable veins left.

“You know, I was a doctor, so I could do these things.”  He said with humor.

I laughed.  Somehow it’s okay in AA to laugh at collapsed veins and desolation, maybe because we speak the same fucked up language.  At the same time, stories like his sometimes make me feel ridiculous for identifying myself as an addict.  My story doesn’t sound as severe, there are no needles, and I didn’t have a $300-a-day heroin habit.  Coke wasn’t even in my daily diet, but I know the desperation he spoke of.

Picture Gollum holding a bag of blow instead of the ring…you now have an accurate portrayal of who I was as an addict.  Splitting a bag with me was a big mistake.  Nine times out of ten the goods “fell on the floor,”  “fell in the toilet,” or “I accidentally sneezed all the lines away and this is all that’s left.”  My mind cannot comprehend how people share booger sugar; sharing wasn’t an option, it was an obstacle. Somehow I had to hoard the precious baggie all night.  Of course if anyone ever hoarded something from me, they were on my shit-list.  Just because I had a zero tolerance policy for sharing didn’t mean anyone else could.

If someone weren’t giving their coke away like pixie powder, I’d follow him or her around like a pathetic pleading drunk puppy dog.  It was very important to keep tabs on this person, whether at a house, club, party, sporting event, you name it.  My entire night (or day) revolved around a sick version of Where’s Waldo.

A girl at a party one time literally turned around and berated me for pestering her about the blow in her purse.  I saw nothing wrong with that picture, besides the fact that she was a bitch.  There was nothing wrong with missing my friend’s entire graduation party, either, because I had more important things to do, like sit in a parking lot for 3 hours waiting for my hookup in a ghetto of central California.  The Where’s Waldo game felt fine in Italy, when I insisted that a friend of a friend of a friend equip the night with party favors.

“It’ll take a few hours, and it’s insanely expensive.”  My friend’s friend told me in the middle of a crowded street in Rome.

“Done, I don’t care.”

Funds were limited on that trip and my best friends had already been spotting me, but for coke there was always money in the bank.  The night was spent blowing lines on my passport, rejecting my best friend’s request for just a bump.  “I know you have more,” she’d say.  I lied through my coked out teeth all night.

These instances barely scratch the hideous surface of the fiend I became in the name of cocaine.  Everyone I cared for went to the wayside so I could guiltlessly indulge in my addiction.   There are gonna be a whole lotta amends at Step 9.

To reach Step 9 I have to religiously remember Step 1; we admitted that we were powerless over alcohol–that our lives had become unmanageable.

An extended version of the list above is what I pull out every time  “just one” beer sounds good.  Just one beer would be the fast track to a rock bottom lower than my first.  Just one beer would lead to two beers, two beers would lead me to an eight ball, and before you could say relapse I’d be a worse version of who I was, and I don’t want to lose everything that’s been gained.  If I made it back to the rooms it’d probably be as a heroin addict.

I don’t know if alcoholics are addicts, or addicts are alcoholics, or if we’re all in the AlcoholicAddicts group together, but we all know the fiending, the pleading, and I bet we can all relate to Gollum.

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Survival Skills

You mean this isn't okay?

You mean this isn’t okay?

Day 233

Getting sober entails so much more than putting down the drink and abstaining from cocaine.  This was brand new information.  I thought it’d be, “ok, don’t drink, ok, good job, you graduated.”  Lies.  Life altering revelations were blindsiding me in the very beginning, and they still are, but I’m taking notice of the smaller necessary changes, too. It’s like growing up for real this time; I just recently decided it’s time to start with a basic survival skill: cooking.

This morning started as Operation Make Omelet but ended in a near-fire bailout.  It began innocently enough; eggs in a bowl, check; mix eggs around; check; put nonstick stuff in stupid-proof-omelet device…Fail.  Spilling oil all over the burner didn’t seem like a big deal to me, until everything started smoking and Safety Squad Mom was called for backup.  Evidently that’s a great way to start a fire. No big deal, I’ll use the other burner.

Fat chance.  Things were back on track until the omelet device started spewing egg guts and hot oil everywhere. I have the disease of more, dammit, and three eggs with five sides of veggies couldn’t fit in the stupid-proof-easy-omelet-maker-thingy.  There was too much everything so naturally I panicked and tried to prematurely flip the whole kit and kaboodle.  This is where it really went down hill.

The double sided pan was never securely fastened, so when I tried to turn it upside down everything went upside down with it.  Avocados sizzled on burners everywhere, egg yoke dripped into the deepest darkest parts of the mean cooking machine, onion bits fell to the floor all slimy and slow in whisked grossness…I mean it was a real disaster.  Mom Squad heard my war cry and calmly came to the rescue. She assessed the scene, turned off the burners, and tried to scoop up the remains of my failure…it was shameful.

I had toast instead.

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Here Lies Faith Anonymous

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There’s a section of town I try to avoid at all costs.  If the route is absolutely inescapable I hold my breath until I’m through, like a kid would when passing a graveyard.

In the most dramatic sense, that part of town is analogous to a graveyard.  My headstone would read:

Here lies Faith Anonymous

Who Woke up One Morning

And Realized She Couldn’t

Do it Anymore

1987-2013

The dawn of that “One Morning” was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen.  My hung over eyes opened and blurred vision focused on one tiny window in the corner of what appeared to be a basement.  The winter grey light flatly illuminated the scene.  Unfamiliar surroundings were no novelty, but this was different.  Waking up in the basement of a stranger’s house wasn’t what perturbed me, or the inability to recall how I got there.  There was an emptiness..it felt like there was nothing left of the person I once was.  Generally my specialty was spinning these scenarios into humor because it was the only way to mask my misery; if I could laugh at myself I could lie to myself.

There was no pretend laughter.  It was a white flag surrender in an excruciatingly painful moment of clarity, I can’t do this anymore. Alcoholics Anonymous had never once crossed my mind as somewhere I thought I belonged, but there I was; 6am, ass planted on an ice-cold curb, waiting for my Knight in Shining Taxi, and a message louder than my hangover blaring inside my head: AA is the answer.

After what felt like eternity Knight Cabbie found me at no address in particular.  It took me 3 tries to to find my car. Third time’s the most shameful.  I paid the man, prayed that I’d never see him again, and went straight home to  google “How to tell if you’re an alcoholic.”  The overwhelming yeses from the generic questionnaires weren’t enough.  Now what? I needed someone to talk this through with; not my mom, not my dad, not even my closest friends.  I think I was worried they’d tell me it was fine, which I knew I wasn’t.

A couple minutes later a text came in from my best friend’s ex-girlfriend. We’ll call her B.  She is someone I know a little and love a lot.  Whatever your understanding of God is, it was one of those moments, a divine intervention, whatever.

Blacked out or not, drinking had become trivial without coke.  The second a beer was in my hand, I wanted something up my nose and I didn’t care what lengths I had to go to, or what bridges were burned.  B was furious, and rightly so. I had called her boyfriend who was trying to get sober at the time to help get me blow the night before. Not cool.  And for the first time ever, I didn’t want to victimize myself to into a way out.  This was my chance.  “You’re absolutely right,” I wrote back, “And I need help.”   I ended up on her couch that morning which was a foreign place for me.  B and I were never friends on the level of “come over and sit on my couch,” or “what’s your favorite color,” but there I sat.

“Do you think I’m an alcoholic?”  I asked fearfully.

She paused in thought and said,

“I think you’re struggling with addiction.”

needed someone else to say it.  Half my mind was telling me I was overreacting; that this was just one more reason to really start controlling my drinking. The other half wanted to hear exactly what B verified.  She brought her laptop to the floor of the living room and we searched for meetings.  A friend ended up navigating us to a site and I went to my first meeting that night.  I’ve been to one almost every night since.

When I pass that section of town I can still see myself sitting in the cold dead dawn.  They say when you hit rock bottom you have no where to go but up; so in a fucked up way I am glad my disease kicked me to the curb.  Just not glad enough to comfortably drive near, through or around the scene of the crime.

I wonder what would have happened if B never sent me that text message, or if I hadn’t blacked out that night, if I didn’t end up on her couch that morning.

More importantly I wonder what wouldn’t have happened.  Two hundred and thirty two days later I am no longer the shell of a human being. At the age of 26 I have finally started living.  Maybe a better message carved on my headstone would be:

Here Lies Faith Anonymous

Who Died and Came Back to Life

Just like Jesus.

KIDDING. Totally kidding.

But really.

2013-Present Day

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Freight Trains & Growing Pains

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For the past two weeks I have been nannying a 10-year old girl.  That’s a lie; for the past two weeks she has been nannying me.

The first morning I was hyper.  Four cups of coffee before 7am will do that.  Bombarding her with questions, I asked about Benjamin Franklin, (I know this was important to the kid in “Big Daddy” so it must pertain to her), I observed her soccer gear and asked about her affinity for sports, the first tooth she lost, what the weather would be that day, if she wanted to play tic-tac-toe, (she didn’t), and basically everything except for her social security number.  Finally I calmed down enough to read her facial expression that said: pump the brakes, Lady.

I dropped her off for school and thought to myself, FaithAnonymous you are such a weirdo.  No doubt she was thinking the same thing.

The second morning we played basketball but the game came to an abrupt halt when I got excited, threw the ball too hard, and it landed in an algae infested river thing, or a stream of contaminated water…hard to tell.  Nevertheless we got to work MacGyvering a device for “Operation Save Basketball.”  This rescue mission was a pivotal point in our nanny-nanny relationship.

By the third day, we were head-banging in the kitchen, blasting Led Zeppelin on the way to school, and yelling “OH YEAAAH,” in a voice similar to the Koolaid man or a WWF wrestler.  Then she had to remind me to remind her not to forget her soccer stuff.  “Oh yeah, don’t forget your soccer stuff.”

The hour before school is the only time I get to spend with “Miss. Anonymous,” we’ll call her, and the block of time troubled me at first.  I knew this gig would be taking precedence over my morning meetings and on days I wake hating the world, myself, and everyone involved,  a dose of AA is the only restart button at my disposal.  What I have learned is that this morning interaction has a new pathbreaking impact on my day.

In addition to teaching me how to shoot hoops, she has reeducated me on multiplication times tables, informed me (just in time) that olive oil is not the same as Crisco when it comes to waffle batter, and that cake is not an acceptable breakfast.

This morning as I practiced my newly acquired culinary skills, she supervised from the end of the counter.  Something caught her eye right before my flawless fried egg flip.

“Woah!”  She said, standing in front of the toaster, looking at her reflection in the silvery stainless steal. “I used to have to stand on my tip toes to see my reflection on here, and now I don’t have to!” She exclaimed as she looked at her own face at eye level.

Something about this moment made time stand still in a beautiful way.   It was like watching life in slow motion. She was elated at her discovery on the toaster and the physical proof of growing up.

I am a “grownup” but I will never be  grown up; that implies that I’ve stopped growing.  Every single day there are new bits of knowledge thrown my way and I have to be open to receive.  Sometimes they are something small, like how to make waffles; sometimes it’s character building, like witnessing and acknowledging a kind gesture that gives me faith.  And sometimes it’s a freight train blaring across my path, screaming, you’re an alcoholic, and it’s okay to ask for help.

Maybe for a kid life is like a high-speed rail with information whizzing by so fast that they don’t even know they’re trying to catch up.  If I remember correctly, 10 is the age where information slows down enough to begin processing; except I guess it’s not slowing down; it’s just the kids growing up.  Catching up.  Suiting up for the freight trains and knowledge bombs. I wish I could tell Miss. Anonymous that once the train starts it is full speed ahead.

Or, on a lighter note, I could tell her this.

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Holy Emotional Upheaval

Day 228

Step 4 and 5 kicked my ass.  I’m glad to be just another bozo on the bus, but this bozo was running out of meetings practically weeping. The emotional upheaval of step 4 aka Pandora’s Box of Pain, aka grievous fortification was an anguish I didn’t even know existed.

My insides wanted to collapse; something no one should have to witness–so I ran.   I ran outside, took a left, right into a graveyard.

Between my tears and peoples’ graves and the metaphorical rain cloud above my head I decided it was all a little too intense.  Knowing what would help most was the experience, strength, and hope of another alcoholic; I headed back up the stairs just as a friend was coming down.  She told me I was in a safe place and I knew she was right.

Step 5 was almost as amazing as people said it would be. It took almost 4 hours to go through the resentments I had against myself.  At the end my sponsor put her hand on my shoulder and said, “You never have to be that person again.”

Fast-forward a couple hours.  I’m standing in the kitchen eating a salad, nighttime, late dinner as usual.  All of a sudden my throat started closing, breathing was shallow and breaths were broken.  I looked down at my salad…almonds!!! I’ve developed allergies as an adult before and despite the fact that I’ve never been allergic to nuts, I figured that the allergy gods were rearing their ugly allergy heads.

To avoid an untimely death I went to the walk-in ER and told them I was having a fatal allergic reaction.  The doctor saw me almost immediately.

“This is not an allergic reaction,” he said calmly.

“Yes it is.”  I said shakily and dumbfounded, you stewpid doctor. 

“Have you gone through anything emotional today?”

I paused.  Shut the fuck up.

“Yeah, Step 5.” I answered

“What’s step 5?” He asked, I was almost offended that he didn’t know.  This is all about me, dammit.

So I told him.

“Jesus, yeah, that’ll do it.  You’re having a panic attack.”

Classic, the only panic attack I’ve ever had was after the 5th step.  My resentments almost took me out!  Literally! The next day at a meeting I demanded $537 out of the basket for my ER visit due to step work.  I was only half serious.

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Top 10 Reasons To Avoid the Grocery Store

I’ll go weeks without grocery shopping for these reasons:

1. The parking lot is the worst.  How many times have you pulled halfway into a spot just to find there’s a shopping cart hiding?   Some people may get out of their car, move the shopping cart, get back into their car, pull into the spot and go about their day of errands.  I turn into the Hulk with a license, throw my truck in reverse, turn green, (because I’m the Hulk), and drive 25mph to the end of the lane.  Screw you, sneaky shopping cart.

2.  The pedestrians in the parking lot, ALL of them. Especially the ones meandering down the middle of the row, pretending to be oblivious to my 3,000lb steel machinery with wheels inching behind them at 0mph. Then they’ll casually glance over their shoulder, and some will start ebbing their way to the right or left.  WALK FASTER. Or I will bitch slap you, with my truck.  Twice.

3. Can we talk about the hellish heat that radiates from the asphalt of the parking lot in the summer? It’s like living in the desert scene of “Fievel Goes West.”

4. You can’t go anywhere but home after going to the grocery store in the summer, because we all know what happens; wilted lettuce, melted goop, warm milk, puke.  You’re stuck.  See a friend on the way home, want to stop and chat?  Too bad, your groceries are mere seconds away from perishing.

5. While we’re on seasons should I mention how much I abhor getting blasted by cold air after exiting the grocery store, and when there’s SLUSH on the ground? And the cart is all squeaking and halting because it is not snow proof. Omg forget it.  I’ll eat snow from the front yard, thanks.

6. The grocery store is fucking worst before any weather malady; blizzards, thunders, hurricanes, “tropical storms,” you name it.  There WILL be those crazy bitches stocking up on enough bread for the next 10 years and there will be daft macho men buying $600 snow blowers and building bomb shelters telling everyone the world is going to end.  Take it easy, pal.

7. Being inside the grocery store in general is enough to send me into a pandemonium panic.  There are about 40,000 items in the typical grocery store.  FORTY THOUSAND.  This means I have to spend 20 minutes scanning 50 different brands of granola bars. I would rather collect oats from the ground and mash them together with my adhesive saliva.  I realize that sounds disgusting. I don’t care.

8.  I refuse to go to Siberia aka the freezer section.  Is it really necessary to reenact the ice age in aisle six?  Plus, you know if you buy anything frozen you’re going to get home, open the freezer, and there will never be enough room, because it’s jam crammed with all the shit you never use, usually stuffed in the back which you may never see again.  Freezers are stupid. Then you’re faced with the stuff-and-shove-and-shut-the-door-quickly routine.  This may not be applicable for everyone but it is for me, and ice cream ain’t worth it.

9. One word: Checkout….Don’t even get me started.

10. The drive home from the grocery store you’re exhausted from all the idiots and shopping carts and coupon clippers holding up the line.  Your eyes are probably burning from shifting your stare between 20 different kinds of soy milk.  Once you finally get home, you spend even MORE time putting all this stuff away.  Of course, realize you’ve forgotten the one most important item.  Probably cereal or bacon.  You curse yourself and the grocery store and it prevents you from ever going again.

Granted, I suffer greatly from anxiety, culture shock (having come from a pot farm in the middle of the woods where I lived with a cooler, not a refrigerator), and I’m in the anxious ridden state of early recovery; but I’m pretty sure all grocery stores should excavated, bulldozed, or wiped from the face of the Earth…at least one of those. Or all of them…Stupid grocery stores.

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The Party Must Go On

Day 223

I wasn’t a daily drinker or drug user.  Don’t get me wrong, there were binges.  The intensity of a binge was dependent upon what my time-frame and where my mind-frame was.

There were the standard rights-of-passage binges that all upper-middle class white girls get to stumble through; spring break, Christmas break, made-up breaks, any and all holidays, the entirety of summer, etc etc etc.  These passages, of course, being high school into college.

I guess if marijuana is considered a drug then I was a daily abuser from 16-20 years old.  When I started skipping class it honestly was a relief from myself.  This is who I am, see?!  Failing tests and taking bong rips on the way to school was my security blanket for those tormented teen years.

When my group of friends and I made the transition from middle school to high school most of them started hanging out with the older kids; since I simply didn’t have the confidence, I fell behind.  The pot heads picked me up.

Sitting in the back of class stoned out of my gourde, being told that I was fucking up (not in those words) was exactly what I wanted.  Finally my insides could match my outside, as though I was saying, “I’m a mess, dammit, and I’m going to show it.”  The good news was that my bad behavior on the outside was laughable.  Haha, silly me, my GPA is 0.4.  Seriously, that was my GPA at one point, and I laughed all the way to graduation.  Then again, a lot was laughable in those days.

My girlfriends and I would cram six or more of us in a car, roll two blunts, then drive around town with all the windows up, to get as high as possible and see who pussied out first by gasping for air.  How could I take anything seriously with such a ridiculous regimen?

Life went on like that for a while.  Party party party.  Invincible.  The pothead crew and the old crew had combined and it was beautiful display of debauchery; wake up late, go to bed late, bomb around shit-faced from house to house and wonder the next morning how we got home.

At a certain point I started to notice my friends growing up.  They put thoughts and efforts into internships, and into their futures.  As a 26-year old I am just now coming to believe that I might “go” somewhere,  but back then I hated myself to death and the hope for betterment was extinguished by an extreme lack of faith.

I can see now that my mentality was simple.  My mind-frame was: If I wasn’t going to amount to anything, (this was a fact), then there was but one option:  the party must go on.

So it did.

Ultimately, the parties stopped working. The periods between binges got shorter, everything in life became unbearably unmanageable. My blackouts were getting darker, my mistakes were getting bigger, and the thirst for cocaine was something I absolutely could not quench.

For the first time, I truly felt that life was spinning out of control.  Eventually, inevitably, it brought me to my knees.

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