ADDICTION FICTION

Carmel O'Farrell
Jul 28, 2017 · 3 min read

I never denied that I was an addict. It is in my Irish blood to love the bottle. Now that I am in my 30’s I can’t drink like I used to. It rots my core. The slightest overstep and I am ruining the 24 to 48 hours of my life. My liver just stops filtering out the toxins, my gallbladder and common bile duct become inflamed. The smell seeps out of my pores like Maple sap on 100 degree day.

It is really hard to be healthy and have vices. Sacrifices must be made to cope with day to day life, the struggles of just getting by. Some days I dread waking up in the morning because I know it’s going to suck.

That is the reason I “rescued” my dog, or as I like to say, she rescued me. Being responsible for an animal means your thoughts have to be focused on cleaning up poop and going for walks. I know my dog thinks I’m melodramatic but she’s a bitch so she doesn’t have much room to judge.

Yesterday I brought her with me to my favorite bar and we sat on the patio outside. She let the waitress pet her when she walked by and stayed mostly quiet unless another dog walked by. I was about three whisky drinks in before I realized I couldn’t bring my dog into the bar when I had to piss. Oops.

It was probably time to go home then anyways.

I am what you would call a “functional addict” and I am not really physically addicted to any one drug, I’m just an anything goes type of gal. I like getting weird, is that so wrong?

The way I see it, I will only be as young as I am right now once. Why waste that time unenthusiastic about what might happen next? I am a user. I use things and people. I use up my light by getting lit like that’s what I am living for.

They say that genetics and environment both play a roll in this, as does depression, mania, and everything between. Clearly, I am not a stranger to either end of that spectrum.

I’ve been to doctors, counselors, psychiatrists. Taken plenty of prescribed drugs to deal with the inconsistencies that manifest within my mind.

I once read an article that said “you are not your mind” and it hit me like a baseball bat. My mind is broken, that is why I struggle. My brain is sick on a cellular level — the space between my neurons are filled with toxins that pull the negative thought patterns tighter. My memories live in the deep sulci, eating away at my soul like rats in a sewer.

This must be the reason why electric shock therapy works so well for some depressives and psychotics. For a period of time all those connections get jumbled up. You get to forget the past for a bit and just focus on living without any emotional pain or anguish haunting you. Doesn’t that sound pleasant?

Maybe then I wouldn’t need to go so hard all the time. Settle down and live a normal life. Hell, I might even find Jesus…

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