Comatose

Sometimes I drift off into sick thoughts of:

Sticking my fork in the light socket.

Cranking the steering wheel of my vehicle all the way left

Traveling into the back country during avalanche season & scream into a megaphone.

Having some good ol' unprotected sex.

Shooting up  speed-balls, or just speed ( turns out my dopamine receptors don't like Heroin)

Sometimes I don't wear my seat belt. I know that I should & I do the 98.9999% of the time... but other times I just don't see the point. Or maybe I just have the urge to be reckless every once in awhile? Now that I've been "Living Right" for the most part. I still need to watch out for the other hundred ways my head is trying to kill me.

Then there are times I am wearing my seat belt, traveling down the freeway in my 4 door sedan (always when I'm alone) & find myself day dreaming of being involved in a collision out of my control, of veering underneath the trailer tires of an 18 wheeler. I don't want to die & I don't expect that I would, but I visualize that being in a naturally or medically induced coma would be a nice change of pace from the monotony. Nothing permanent,  just a little break, time to relax while not thinking or worrying or obsessing. Hit the restart button.. 

I didn't believe that depression was ever a thing. Suicide was for selfish people trying to seek out the ultimate attention of those they perceived were ignoring them. I believed people just needed to get out of bed, get out of the house & do something. To just be better.. or maybe just try harder? They could choose to stop being sad.. especially if your'e a goddamn man. Go jump a dirt bike, ford a river, chop down a tree, climb a mountain. There are a million other things to do in this world than to be fuckin sad.

And if those natural highs don't work for you, there are always other stimulants in the dopamine well.

Until I was the one who was fuckin sad. I was the flop who wouldn't get out of bed, not even to ride my dirt bike. Until I let my own business consume me with stress after crushing stress. Until I was alone all of those late nights, Until I was the one that decided that I needed a drink or a drug to help me deal & cope. Until I was clinically depressed, until I saw absolutely no other way out of my addiction cycle merry-go-round. 

Except to jump off into oblivion. I couldn't fathom the thought of riding it out, to have the merry-go-round slow down on it's own timeline. I can't bear the "come off" of it all, with the overwhelming dizziness. That sick feeling of nausea, inevitable vomiting till I'm dry heaving emptiness. I was just empty at that point, running off of fumes of previous nights n' days, blurred together as one last binge.

Free Range

I have always pondered why my addiction or my alcoholism took a sharp turn for the worst when I tried to control it through my own will power.

When others close to me finally said I should think about stopping, or that they would leave me if I didn't, while also threatening to take really cool stuff n' things away with them when they did. I would just drink or use more at their perceived threats... even when that really cool thing was my own flesh & blood. I really don't deal well with conditional or tough love. I believe it has something to do with one or more of my trauma wounds, fear of abandonment, or just plain not being good enough. I break down at that point and see no way out. I'm sensitive, I have paper thin feelings, & if they are damaged or torn, my pain will spill out all over the surrounding environment like the Exxon Valdez.

At the time I could of never realized the scope of these tragic, knee-jerk reactions. Or that I would be the one dealing with the punishment of forging my own weapon. Just like an oil spill the aftermath of how deep the damages run are never really known until years & decades later.

The epiphany I just had was that I always believed I was a free range type of addict. I thought I was like the breeze. Sailing the seven seas, out in the great wide open, mostly minding my own business, not negatively affecting others. After all, I drank n' drugged to calm the storm raging inside of me, not to purposely meaning to hurt anyone else in my proximity.

Some how in my twisted thought process, I rationalized that fitting into a certain mold or box would save me from getting worse or prevent me from hitting absolute rock bottom. I just could not wiggle or writhe my way into one that fit me right... but I jumped right in anyhow.

 Whether it was a change in geographical location in the mountains, desert, or beach. Pursuing a new & exciting dating option. Maybe thinking it was time to finally settle down into something more serious, or perhaps trying no relationship at all would suit me better. Not till I realized no matter where I found myself, there I was. Up against the wall, backed into a corner, always trying to dig my way out... I had barbed wire sickness. I was claustrophobic, I was trapped,  I was NOT fucking free anymore. That's when my addict mind turned on me & everyone else it told me it never would..

Addiction always seems to bite the hand that feeds..

Addiction is the only prison where the locks are on the inside.

This Hungry Ghost ....

self portrait

does not fall by the wayside from the absence of sustenance, from being avoided or ignored. This hungry ghost paces along side of me in synchronicity, outstretched limbs, wearily grasping in it's ethereal existence. Casting a long shadow over the spanning echo of my being. This is my ghost, I have to take responsibility of its residency, just as it has taken possessor-ship of its human. It's a daily conflict of whom owns whom.

Do you recall the good ol' boy drinking joke? Goes something like this: "She said I had a drinkin' problem. I said, yes I do, I've got two hands to hold liquor & only one mouth to drink it from!"

Low brow to be sure, but not far off from the description of the far East's philosophy of the hungry ghosts who crave & hunger for substances they cannot digest. These ghosts suffer from tiny mouths, scrawny necks, though contradicted by having exaggeratedly large, bottomless stomachs to match their insatiable appetites, making it impossible to ever get the feeling of satifaction.

Is it an issue of morality? My egoic pride? Do I not have the adequate conscience, soul, or discipline? Am I uncouth? Unintelligent? Or is there a Mariana trench like chasm so vast inside of me that every positive attribute is also just a drop in the bucket? 

Sound familiar? For myself it is a hollowness deep inside that is an aching hunger, an unquenchable thirst. Not only is it never being satisfied, but also lacking the ability to just be with myself & " just feel okay" or to ease the aching for more... that hopeful grasp that something outside of yourself will make up what is deficient inside of self. 

 Trauma. Addiction. Therapy. Recovery. Relapse. Trauma... 

If some event outside of you happened, putting the trauma inside of you, then why is it that addicts are seen as crazy for thinking something outside of them could also take the trauma that causes addiction away?