There was a documentary on Sundance tonight... it intimately followed several inner city heroin and methadone addicts. It was a terribly trite picture, but I was chilled to the bone just the same...
This disease is still so much with me.
I think that I avoid this journal because I am afraid that I still focus alot on the addiction, that I still have much to deal with. I think I would end up writing about it alot.
I can't help but remember how my addiction drove away so many that I cared about... sometimes I think that by avoiding the subject, maybe a few of you will remember that I am not so terrible and write someday....
Silly daydreaming.
Truth is, I am an addict. Recovered or not, I am what I am.
It is so pitiful, to be 26 years old and still demonstrating such sad approval seeking behaviors as holding my tounge for the chance of some distant worthless kudos.
I feel like living stigma, a taboo with a pulse.
Recovery... sobriety.. "clean life" is not what we have romanticised it to be. There are pitfalls...
Endless nights filled with night terrors and crying yourself awake to an empty home and..
and the darkness of knowing how much of your life has died in the slow decay of time, gone forever, wasted.
To have only to wicked threat of a living hell to keep you through the recurring craving spells... and to wake after a night where you have stumbled into relapse. To KNOW that you are a failure.
I do all of this without the luxury of some kind ear, some simple token of appeciation of encouragement... or sympathy, as much as I could detest sympthy... would sympathy at least not be something human for once?
I am forgotten, and it is for the best, right? I mean.. it is so long since I was held or flirted with or just asked to a movie. Or even more so, I haven't a friend to discuss my love of art or alchemy or my study of new geometries. I am breathing in a vacuum.
You will read this.. in your head my voice will roll over these words.
The idea of it will turn your stomach. You will stop somewhere and force your mind to something simpler and more distant, to save yourself from pity or disgust or a rage that you cannot quite understand.
This affliction changes me. It is altering my very fiber of being.
I feel as though I am some odd experiment of human awareness... suffer, mutate, suffer.
I shift and I survive, and still I breathe in this vacuum.
Tonight I will lie down. I might reconsider this entry.. why have I spent this energy?
I will rest in my bed and most likely I will dissolve into nightmares, wrapped in a cold, empty room.
I might awake in horror of what I make myself see.. I could foolishly grab for my phone, as I have.
I would find a pointless tool with nothing but silence on the other end.
Read between lines, there is an analogy here.
This heart beats in a vacuum, slower by the moment.
This disease is still so much with me.
I think that I avoid this journal because I am afraid that I still focus alot on the addiction, that I still have much to deal with. I think I would end up writing about it alot.
I can't help but remember how my addiction drove away so many that I cared about... sometimes I think that by avoiding the subject, maybe a few of you will remember that I am not so terrible and write someday....
Silly daydreaming.
Truth is, I am an addict. Recovered or not, I am what I am.
It is so pitiful, to be 26 years old and still demonstrating such sad approval seeking behaviors as holding my tounge for the chance of some distant worthless kudos.
I feel like living stigma, a taboo with a pulse.
Recovery... sobriety.. "clean life" is not what we have romanticised it to be. There are pitfalls...
Endless nights filled with night terrors and crying yourself awake to an empty home and..
and the darkness of knowing how much of your life has died in the slow decay of time, gone forever, wasted.
To have only to wicked threat of a living hell to keep you through the recurring craving spells... and to wake after a night where you have stumbled into relapse. To KNOW that you are a failure.
I do all of this without the luxury of some kind ear, some simple token of appeciation of encouragement... or sympathy, as much as I could detest sympthy... would sympathy at least not be something human for once?
I am forgotten, and it is for the best, right? I mean.. it is so long since I was held or flirted with or just asked to a movie. Or even more so, I haven't a friend to discuss my love of art or alchemy or my study of new geometries. I am breathing in a vacuum.
You will read this.. in your head my voice will roll over these words.
The idea of it will turn your stomach. You will stop somewhere and force your mind to something simpler and more distant, to save yourself from pity or disgust or a rage that you cannot quite understand.
This affliction changes me. It is altering my very fiber of being.
I feel as though I am some odd experiment of human awareness... suffer, mutate, suffer.
I shift and I survive, and still I breathe in this vacuum.
Tonight I will lie down. I might reconsider this entry.. why have I spent this energy?
I will rest in my bed and most likely I will dissolve into nightmares, wrapped in a cold, empty room.
I might awake in horror of what I make myself see.. I could foolishly grab for my phone, as I have.
I would find a pointless tool with nothing but silence on the other end.
Read between lines, there is an analogy here.
This heart beats in a vacuum, slower by the moment.
Even though you have lost all of your old friends, and I can only understand how painful that is to an extent as we don't share similar experiences, there's no harm in making new ones, is there?
So far, one major thing I've felt was a glimmer of hope that you'll eventually pull out of this dark period over time.
I'm not quite sure what to write or how to put words, because I do not want to inflict any negative thoughts; not knowing you, yet saying that reading your entries can sometimes be painful without sparking even more sadness inside you..
Despite the numerous differences, there's a bit of..not feeling quite so alone. I don't mean to/to sound that I/ take pleasure in your absolute misery; I don't. Nor do I mean to belittle or make comparisons to what you are dealing with.
It's only odd where one finds comfort, no matter how small.