Diary of an Addict- Missing the Target

         

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          Right now I’m sitting in a Starbucks, in a Target in some city I don’t even know where. Only there’s no coffee or chill atmosphere. Right now I’m in the middle of another fucking panic attack. I never knew they could be this bad,

and I feel like a fucking idiot again.

           The dam of my emotional and physical reserves finally broke a few days ago and so it seems that since the event, my breaking point has been chronically lowered- so much more frequently overwhelming everything and multiplying in distress.

        Being that I’m in fucking rehab: all of my coping skills and happy places have been taken away and I’m a fish out of water, feeling like I’m dying again every day. I don’t give a flying fuck if that sounds overly dramatic. I’ve never felt so physically and emotionally sick in my fucking life.

Fuck everything,
and the bracelet on my wrist reminds me to do just that.

              The retreat of all the endorphins in my brain has been more abysmal and terrifying than I knew possible.  I feel so helpless, vulnerable, and desperate to no end.
I just want a fucking hug from somewhere  safe, if that would even help.

And I’m not even a hugger.  Nowhere feels safe.
Nowhere feels like home.
But what’s even to go home for?

       I’m sitting, half laid out at this table in the food court, trembling like a fucking wet dog, head spinning, failing to ignore the cravings possessing every fiber of my being with the paralyzing pressure building in my ironically coinciding sedate bloodstream. I’m sweating so much I can barely grip this pen in my shaking hands. I want to run.
But I can’t.
My legs are numb. I want to scramble to get out of this hole it feels I’ve been digging myself deeper and deeper down into over this past month.
  
           I’m terrified that there’s no turning back or undoing this state I’m committing myself to. I feel like I’m watching as all the best things I’ve felt or known are buried foot by foot under poured concrete, while I’m left here to decide if I can handle it or if I should try to retrieve it before the concrete dries.

I don’t want to live- but I’ve buried my weapons and all means of escape beneath the quickly solidifying concrete.

Every high. Every memory. Relationship. Desire.
Passion, and Facet of my identity-

Gone.

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Diary of an Addict- Shrooms and Coons

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I’m so fucking angry today but either can’t sit still because I’m so anxious, or I want to curl up into a ball and pretend to be invisible. I’m going crazy from being so sedentary and having to eat whatever is designated regardless, when I’m already crawling in my skin. I was able to go for a short relaxed walk yesterday, which was much welcomed, and the nurse took us down to the gas station to buy cigarettes- our now most anticipated pastime. I truly love the irony of that statement- But my energy just as quickly accumulates and it feels like I’m soon back to extremely agitated, and depressed. Even for me, my level of irritability feels intense. This is my issue, but I don’t want to be a noncompliant, indecisive client for these nice people.

I can’t deal with this, but I don’t really have any options that are logical.

Yes, I’m whining.

I know I need to figure out what it is I want and speak up, but I’m just so fucking emotional, mixed up, and overwhelmed. I don’t know why I’m having such a hard time articulating my needs and thoughts.

I honestly  have never wanted mass amounts of caffeine and a skipped meal so fucking badly, despite that I’ve never been one to skip a meal in my life. Stress is still preventing me from being able to articulate the way I would like, or need to. Or it could just be me being afraid to talk about what’s really going on in my head, as God knows there’s always plenty. But I still have long struggled with feeling like I’m being evaluated under a biased psychological diagnostic criteria anyways.

The past few days have been  fucking rough- given, I think most days have been, but that doesn’t seem to make it any easier. I actually have gone on most of the outings, but for a good number was holding back tears and a string of bitter, angry, sarcastic comments. My challenge for the day was for “Sunshine (my appropriately assigned nickname)” to be more positive. So, despite my murderous expression and desire to chuck the lamp stand across the room, I tried to check in as “positive and optimistic.” Can’t you tell? I’m not sure that they were buying it either.

The Director is my therapist – evidently upon meeting, she didn’t think that an intern would handle me? She’s kinda trippy. Even if I’m extremely pissed off and upset, I can’t help but feel slightly amused at the constant suspicious look in her eyes and expression on her face. But I can’t help but like her for her no bullshit approach and for usually catching right onto my schemes. I find it hilarious that- given the current lively bunch currently residing here- the program guidelines were today updated and extended from 2 pages to 7. Though I won’t flatter ourselves with the credit.

I’m not into most of the activities that we do here, but had contemplated suggesting a nice, non- exerting walk at Wildwood for some group by the waterfall. However, it would most likely be highly suspect if I were to suggest even doing anything. But it’s true- I have been itching to jump off that waterfall again. Apparently at this point, anyone who did would carry a permanent luminescence.

We went to an AA meeting last night, which I had been wanting to do in the past, so I minded less than the other activities planned. I previously had looked into implementing the 12 Steps in my life and definitely see how universally applicable they are to any other kinds of addictions-

and we’re all addicts here.

There were a couple peculiarly familiar looking faces there- of which I’m not sure why, as I’d never met them before. It was interesting to look around at each of their eyes and see the different reasons why they were there. I wondered if they could see my reasons.

On the most amusing note, I got chased out of the back patio around to the front door of the house by a big ass raccoon. It just randomly dropped from a tree in front of me out of nowhere- and I decided not to hang around to see if it was friendly. When staff opened the front door for me, I received an unsurpassably annoyed and disapproving glare, as though surprised I could get to the front yard, or didn’t believe me and thought it was some impulsive scheme. Upon verification that I wasn’t quite so creative, I had the pleasure of taking my smoke break in the dark of the front court, underneath the moon, stars, and two great old oak trees- And mushrooms, like damn are these mushrooms huge.

I thought it would be fun to build a little five pointed shrine out on the lower ground with lava rocks I had found. I set it out, marked everything in dark red marker, and piled the mushrooms in the middle. I’m not sure what was thought of it, but I had some fun at least. I’m really starting to notice this wierd- ass mushroom theme in my life as of late…

Aaaanyways.

On a serious, personal note- I’ve been here for 11 days and it still is a continually overwhelming battle to stay. Hour by hour, my anxiety still won’t shut the fuck up. But every once in a while, I just have to laugh at it all-

because I’m so fucking terrified and ready to admit that maybe I’m not ready.

But the tiniest, still small voice in the back of my mind keeps reminding me of how all the signs and synchronicities led me here, and continue to pop up everywhere. I just don’t know why, and the answer whispered back is still only a

some day.”

Diary of an Addict- Entry 1

            

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              So I’ve been here for over a week now. I’m fairly confident that I’m going through some stage of grief, pertaining to the 3-5 months of treatment ahead of me. I’ve perhaps  just passed from the denial I had been floating around in for some days into anger and bargaining. However, there’s nothing really to bargain with. I’m struggling minute by minute through a markedly difficult, confused, and angry time of my life, while trying in vain to conceal and restrain the fact that I’m still freaking the fuck out, feeling like I’m emotionally shutting down.

         I’m really not trying to be dramatic, but carrying through with my venture to write more about what’s actually going on. I’m not even sure what I’m writing- or even if I want to write right now. I’ve lost my motivation, inspiration, and all feeling that it even matters anyways- but I’ve been left with absolutely nothing else to do but sit week after week with these horrendous emotions, while watching my fears realize themselves. I’m ping-ponging back and forth between dissociation, aggression, and weepy, disarmed state.

My irritation is unprecedented, but so is my timidity and silence.

I’m supposed to be functioning as a day time person, but it’s not working yet.

       I’m fighting flashbacks in my head of the results of previous treatment centers and perpetually meet with the irrational desperation that evokes within me. I’ve had the intense urge countless times to simply walk out the door with no formalities, but feel disinclined to be hunted down by the police, placed in a psych ward, and then brought back here again. I was informed that if I acted up enough- I could potentially go through the same process as well, of which I eventually decided against as well. I honestly contemplated the offer, but determined the wards all too familiar with the “hide the antipsychotics under your tongue trick,” and I need my mind at least sane. Being an adult, I can check myself out, but don’t know anyone in the area to stay with, no plans after that, and have no financial means but bumming or prearranged prostitution (kidding- kind of).

              Don’t get me wrong- the staff and treatment team are mostly all very patient and kind, so I’m constantly apologizing after most things that I say or do in an impulsive flash of anger or sarcasm. However, anxiety and depression is only growing and always boiling just under my withered facade. I’m not sure that the other patients are having any more fun than I am, but are mostly all here voluntarily. I’m having inordinate difficulty engaging with any investment in my own therapy because I’m so shut down and distraught.

I’m actually quite fond of my therapist here, but it’s a shame I can’t seem to improve my disposition to really enjoy conversing regarding anything- much less myself in this state.

Because I’m not myself here. 

But who is?                                             It probably comes with the territory.

It’s so extremely difficult to show the real me- for any therapeutic benefits and purposes- because I’m so stressed out my blood pressure’s up 30-50 points and my hair is coming out more than I’ve ever seen. I feel guilty that they’re trying to make little accommodations for me, but I still feel miserable.

          It’s so indescribably frustrating having my whereabouts, physical activity,  food, water, coffee, vitamin, medication, restroom use, and smokes all monitored, controlled, restricted, or enforced right down to condiment use. The value of a Starbucks at this point is up at 40-50 dollars, and a long walk in the hills missed just as much.

          I feel like my concerns about my being here’s impact on the near future are often only met with mechanically calculated positive statements for the sake of therapeutic antonymy. I want to just fast forward one year, to when this whole painful ordeal is over. I know I need to try and make the best of this I can, and learn what I’m here for, but I’m not in that place right now.
I want to breathe without the gnawing, deadening misery growing any more. My mind feels slow , my senses dull, my intuition blunted, and my energy even more stagnant and dead than before.
        

Free Write- A Grey Kind of Death

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I saw this coming in what was dreamt
A long time ago
But didn’t know what it meant
The lights left overhead flickering out
By that consuming greyness beckoning now
Dying down one by one
Mourning the days lost of a brighter sun
Which for a quarter time held such promise
Of things unknown
But now known
At the long last shown
to me- just how empty
Life was from the beginning
“Your hard times are ahead”
Was always the only message
Addressed to me
No energy for positivity
In this moment’s reprieve
Mind over matter-
But it never mattered anyway
To put this back together
It isn’t worth the pain
For a thing I can no longer maintain
Its always been sink or swim
Or just exist elsewhere
Breathing the waters in
Nothing to lose
but what’s been lost to me anyways
Nothing to gain
But the sickness that’s never gone away
Lain dormant in my skin
Underneath my strength- Now worn thin
With the blood of life evaporated again
Predicting a different kind of death.

To Hell and Back- and Back Again

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                 It feels like this may be the last time for God-knows-how-long that I’ll be able to stand in a place alone, listening to the wind singing through the grasses or my eyes be met by the sunlight with a tinge of freedom. I take one long last  look at this place of refuge and breathe in the clear air and pure light, commiting them to my deepest explicit memory.  A large part of me fears that I won’t be able to again feel even this moment of solace, for reasons of which I choose not to relay. But I know that I will profoundly miss these calming winds, mountain peaks, and quieting skies-

Only because I remember how vastly different they can look and feel in different times and circumstances.

            But it’s my fault again.
I myself subtly, inadvertantly surrendered my ability to come and go at all. I made the mistake of lacking the appropriate ambiguity within my speech and  bought myself an additional indefinite stay in another treatment center.

       
FANFUCKINGTASTIC.

I should always have just stuck with speaking in analogous poetry.

But I’ve started with this and for whatever iota of clarity it brings me, I’ll permit myself the wandering ranting to try and figure out why this is so much harder than the last time.

          I know everyone is optimistic that this is going to help, but that’s what they said last time, and most people in my life can attest to it only having made things worse in the long run. Maybe I’m overly biased because of my awful experience of feeling like a fucking lab rat for which college interns to practice theoretical pharmacology and psychology. I can still see those oppressive bars over the windows, the little white cups with the yellow pills, and the stupid fucking observatory boxes. I’m reminded of being cooped up, claustrophobic, mind- numbingly sedate, watched and mistrusted. Even if there were no bars- every tiny aspect of my life will be measured and controlled by an independently subjective opinion about what “better” even IS.

Maybe there isn’t a solution for everything.

Or maybe I just needed to completely fuck up everything on my own.

              Maybe it’s just because I’m really fucking stubborn, and don’t tolerate being told what, how, or when to do or not do something. Because I did that for what seemed like a lifetime. Maybe that stubbornness was born from fear- fear of finding out the hard way again, that sometimes well-intentioned people don’t always know what’s best for me.

But I’m having deja vu and I’m freaking the hell out (yet a major understatement).

I don’t want to go through ALL of it again.

I’ve always said that I would rather die than go through treatment again- a statement that would seem absurd to most. Most, unless they are amongst the specific group who know exactly what I’m talking about.
I still feel that way. But don’t exactly have any choices.

           I know that’s part of why I’m pushing everything and everyone away so fiercely, Like a fucking animal backed into a corner. Yet I can only make  conjectures as to what it truly is about treatment that makes me want to do it alone. When this happens I just want to sink below the surface and save everyone from my most cold hearted of reactions…

But somehow, I have to continue to find strength in these times that I feel utterly trapped and powerless.
I never know how the hell I’m going to do it- but perhaps it’s when I have no other choices, that I will find the strength I’ve always had.