11/18/2016
A bitter cold has swept through San Francisco these past couple of days. I sit here next to the fire, warming my shivering bones. Awoke at 330AM this morning. More and more bodily functions, and cognitions are coming online daily. I fear however, the future has never more uncertain. These words did not come easily today. How I longed to be curled in a blanket, staring blankly at the ceiling forever.
My wife began to inquire as to some substance issues yesterday, and as I tried to answer honestly the conversation quickly turned hostile. I don’t quite know how to explain that somethings are just a little (and probably a lot) hazy, or distorted. She is grasping to understand, and honestly so am I. Hopefully one day these words will put her at ease. She already has so much going on, I do long to say to her that troubling over me — there truly is no point. My estranged parents know this (and please do note I am using the word estranged here very very loosely). We are working on our relationship, with a fresh sense of sobriety, I look back at my childhood with bewilderment.
The characters I am meeting on a daily basis are some of the most colorful, maybe I feel like I belong.
Last night, I went to a buddhist recovery group. The usual archetypes were absent, and the session felt truly authentic. Of course there was the typical reformed surfer turned buddhist presenting himself as the Alpha, but he didn’t really bother me. As much as he tried to put on his macho show, my mind wandered to his normal life — stumbling through his air stream, taking a shit, looking for a sock, or tying his shoes. There are no demagogues here.
The cat has joined me by the fire now. She has a shorter nose, and her front legs stubby, and under developed. My mind wanders to her in the womb, developing with her siblings, being pushed to the back or the front where her development would be stunted. I question whether or not this is just a projection of my emotional growth. I saw, or see a fellow opiate addict that can not seem to kick. My thoughts start racing, kick — that word will forever make my stomach turn. Is there a right way to kick? I think so. For a long time when I was trying to kick on my own I would search for a recipe online — to find an answer that didn’t exist. I do feel a certain empathy towards other opiate addicts and I do not deny my nose is raised with a certain tinge of snobbiness. There is, or was, a certain amount of pride in the amount of substances that I could take at a certain moment, pure foolishness. There are fleeting moments of romanticizing the passion we shared, I have enjoyed my life. I do fear, and welcome a sober future.
My mind races for all the things that I want to accomplish. Time suddenly seems like a friend that I have wronged, and sits in the corner festering. Do I apologize, or would that just make it worse? If so, how do you apologize to a ghost? I know the answer but can not muster the words quite yet. Since we are on the subject of those that I have wronged, SLEEP — I am sorry. Those words are shallow, for a shallow phrase, but I beg you to recant the spell of insomnia that hovers over like death at a hospital. The dismal sleep that does come, is riddled with visions of the past — places that were meant to be forgotten, not lived over and over again. In this despair, I scream like a child “I HATE YOU”, but more than anyone I realize our war is futile.
$1.30. One dollar and 30 cents. 130 pennies. Thirteen dimes. The number thirteen doesn’t suit anyone very well. This amount, $1.30 was the amount of money in my pocket today. Of course, hunger is a new feeling to me. For so long, my breakfast was three pills followed by more pills and more pills throughout the day. Breakfast was dinner, and this new world is quite new. Hunger doesn’t scream “I am hunger!”, but presents itself as a slight pain that you have to learn to identify. So with that, either I ignored it, or did not realize that it was present this morning. The starvation feeds anger, and at a moments notice I could have been a leopard with a gazelle. This happened once before, with a counselor — E. I do despise that woman. Controlling anger during a recovery like this is a tricky beast, as I am clearly on shaky ground with some of the counselors at the treatment facility. The treatment seems to be working for me, but for some the despair and relapse is spelled across their foreheads.
One lady was clearly on meth today, and could not remember the days that she has been sober. Probably because the number was 0. I speak loudly, confidently, my voice came back like a tiger. Every class we participate in a check in where you say your name, drug of choice, days clean, and some other bullshit — but those are the important items. As the turn comes to me I speak with that confidence, and have since day 1.
It is sad to see such a debacle unfold in front of me. The meth addict chewing her teeth, can’t remember a fucking number — how many days clean, and won’t shut the fuck up. I want to bark across the room, scream, tear her fucking head off. I want to kick her in the face, and throw her out of the room. I want to make an example of her, because this process has been so difficult for me. Who are you to make a joke of my recovery? When for days, it took courage I could not find, nor have to enter those doors and sit in a chair rocking back and forth in a hell that only few know of. Rage.
More, and more people are disappearing. I did not know that was an option, or maybe I would have disappeared too. Nothing is ever said about it, did they relapse? Did someone die? Did they get switched to a different program? My mind wanders to a German concentration camp — is this what it was like? Recovery is a selfish journey, so I just focus on my own process. At this point it is about survival, my survival. Before entering this treatment a blinding moment of clarity hit me where it was abundantly clear that if the road that I was on was followed, it ended with me homeless and alone.
I tell myself that there is only a few days left with these barbarians, but I honestly have no idea.
The quiet guy, A, talked a lot about what brought him to these same circumstances over lunch today — outside the room. Something about he set out to rob someone, and then ended up in a high speed chase with the police. He laughed as he told us about throwing his weapons away, but had a rather large amount of cocaine on his person, that he ended up ingesting while being chased by the police. After the police caught him they beat him without reason, and he fought back with primal instincts. I question everyones authenticity, but he seems authentic in matters of sobriety. We are really learning how to control our anger in new ways. I suppose some of these people do not really know what they are really feeling anyways.
My thoughts wander, and race. There is so much to say with regards to being poor, yet the motivation escapes me. My thoughts are fleeting so maybe it is best to close on that note.
