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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4 thoughts on “Diary of an Addict- Missing the Target

  1. Sounds really tough especially if you are in rehab and so in early recovery. I had a load of panic attacks when they gave me Paroxetine for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I was paranoid before the Paroxetine thinking my lodger was going to kill me but after the paroxetine the paranoia went into the stratosphere. I was convinced, because there were tiny cuts in the packaging of the frozen blueberries in my local supermarket, that they had been poisoned by a terrorist group. And I had six panic attacks in one day thought I was having a heart attack and ended the day deciding I was going to kill myself. It improved when I came off the paroxetine but that gave me a fear of medication that when I had a nervous breakdown the following year I didn’t want to take any meds, which made my life a hell of a lot more difficult. Good luck with your journey of recovery and overcoming the panic attacks.

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