Today I will close out my junkie bank account. The bank account served no purpose for the past two years other than to funnel money to cash which then turned into drugs. No one could see it other than the IRS who probably was just shaking their head at my erratic cash withdraws daily, and sometimes multiple times in a day. I wonder constantly, and wondered what the tellers at the bank that I always went to were thinking? They saw me come in and constant $300 boom, another, then $900, then $1500, then more 300's.
I must have looked the part as well. There was this elaborate disguise that was donned before heading up to the places that had the drugs that I craved. These were my junkie clothes, ripped jeans, torn shirt, hat kicked to the side. The life was drained from my face, my eyes must have been just hollow holes with a sort of constant rush to acquire my next fix. Actually, that has been on my mind lately as well — patience. Now, when I walk down the street there’s a quiet calmness to my walk — an air of confidence, probably.
Before, in the junkie days there was a quickness, a rush to where ever I was going. It’s definitely easier to look back and ask “what the fuck”, but at the time everything seemed normal. As an addict, I constructed the roads and highways — the walls that guided me to the only thing that I could see.
That first phone call to a nurse was so refreshing like the first shower taken after being in the woods for months. The tears flowed so naturally with every drop being a rock moved off the mountain of addiction I carried. How in the fuck did this happen, how in the hell did that not kill me?
Reaching out to old friends is coming easier. The first couple weeks talking, and communicating was pretty difficult. The problem now is explaining this situation — rehab. How do you tell someone “I’m sorry, the last time we spoke you may or may not have noticed but I was on drugs.” — how do you say that in a cordial matter of fact way without sounding condescending or like you are asking for pity? The last fucking thing I want to hear right now is another “I am sorry”. I definitely do not feel sorry for myself the past is fact with the story etched into stone. Regret abounds about the things that I have done to the ones that I love.
What are people sorry for? Why would you say that to a drug addict? One day I will probably eat these words like glass, but it’s exactly how I feel right now — strong, capable, courageous, gigantic. That is probably the cathartic nature of reading my old journals with the realization of how stupid I was. Every day is a new dawn, and hindsight is 20/20.
This afternoon I am headed to meet with the wife of a friend of mine. She is really great, and every time we got to hang out my body was craving substances. The wanting of explaining myself is abundantly clear, but that just doesn’t seem like the best route. There is a nervousness that makes me think about holding back, and letting things flow naturally.
Self restraint and impulse control is a big part of recovery. The words someone spoke in a club the other was “you don’t have to be mean to be tough”. I think about those words often, and how they transform into other aspects of daily life. The loudest mouth in the room isn’t always the smartest. The best dressed isn’t always the most wealthy. Everyone wears a facade of some nature letting you see what you want to see about what they present. Sometimes it’s blatantly obvious that the loudest person presenting themselves as a roaring lion is really just a cute little kitty cat holding a big poster with a lion on it.
Humor is a large part of my recovery, but there are some times when an outburst of laughter is just not appropriate. I think if more people looked at their life and realize the comedy of it all, they might be happier people. Who knows. I look back at how the physical withdrawal tore me apart, but the whole situation is kind of funny — probably because no one died. Honestly, we (as addicts) when kicking have uncontrolled convulsions, spit, slobber, cry, shake, and hit ourselves in the head over and over again. If you can’t look at that and laugh a little bit — like how in the fuck did this happen — then it seems like the next available emotion is to break down and cry. What’s the point of sitting around crying all the time, did we not do that enough already?
Maybe I laugh so much because this was all such a terrifying and horrible experience. Once you go to hell even purgatory looks like heaven, I guess.
I saw two friends, a wife and husband today for lunch. At first, the thought of telling them about my junkie ways was a bit embarrassing, and again it came as a complete shock. Do people not notice when you show up clean, life in your face again and able to formulate a complete sentence? The last time we had lunch I was about to start craving, so couldn’t even finish lunch before leaving early to meet with my dealer. In retrospect, it’s sad yet it’s all true.
I question the validity of the relief that runs through my thoughts now.
Sitting on the couch with my furry companion, the thought of missing heroin for the rest of my life ran through my head. First, I thought of sending a text message to an old friend saying how it was wrong to cut off communication and that their presence in my life was missed. The thought of telling someone this right now seems so foreign and just a projection of the real source of sadness. A couple of weeks ago, we had to write these letters to our drug of choice. At the time the letter consisted of hate, anger, and threats of pain if I saw that person again. Now I am not so sure if those are the correct emotions. Is this just different stages of grief?
Reading over my past journal entries it is shocking the emotion, and feelings that were written down. Who was this person that wrote these things through a lens that was clearly skewed? I question the nature of my reality now — am I seeing things correctly? How would I like to view the world? It’s only been 24 short days, but it seems like a lifetime ago that the shaking and shitting happened.
It scares me to the bone to think of finding a lost bag of something around my office. Nine times out of ten I was an accountant with every stash that came into my possession, but near the end things got a little out of alignment. Questions abound, but answers are nowhere to be found.
Getting life back on track after such a fucking debacle is no easy feat. There are ridiculous things popping up left and right — charges on a credit card that I don’t even remember engaging in the first place. The motivation and energy levels seem to have resumed to normal levels I feel like climbing Mt. Everest right now.
It is interesting picking up where the last entry was made. It seems like every hour brings a tidal wave of emotion. Just got back from a new venue, and really have no desire to drink, or use right now — it always seems like the cravings go away most when substances are readily available.
I was always a user of substances when the times were great, not when the times were gloomy or dark. The sun would always shine bright when my addiction was raging most. Maybe this all stems from my personality of never having enough of something — there is always a way to make the day better, harder, and more fun.
My mind wanders back to a time when a friend, and I would ride our scooters around town. Of course I couldn’t just enjoy the warm air, I had to enhance it somehow. Admitting this to myself, and to you, I feel a sense of sadness. This is a beautiful city with wonderful things to get done. There is opportunity at every corner. With this new found sobriety I could probably land a job pretty quickly and go back to hard partying ways losing my way again.
The jobs that I had in technology before, they never seemed like jobs. Some wise person said if you found jobs you love, you’ll never work a day in your life — or something to that effect. I am not sure that the passion for technology still exists, although a fire does burn somewhere inside me to acquire as much cash as I can right now.
I am definitely not ready to go back to a technology job. The industry is fierce, and although my confidence rages I know it is just not the right time.