369 Days...But Who's Counting?

It still lurks.



369 days like a goddamn week and a half. I didn't keep track. I figured after one year I might not think about it anymore. I didn't have a basis for comparison. This is the first time I've gone a whole year (and more) without either opiate or speed to guide me through. My journey involves sailing away from both. I imagine a boat sailing to a nowhere horizon when it gets hard. It shouldn't still be hard. But I'm realizing if I was ever going to follow through on this kick shit, I should have kept a kindergarten habit like most folks do. Mine started functional, stayed that way for a while but... 

Big street habit right? My mind runs through random scenarios starring amalgamated hypothetical kicking junkies who had a much easier time of things than I am. Starring snarling, disdainful academics calling me a cunt for not being on kick easy street by now. This mingled with tell of some others who kick and it's like--or at least they make it seem like--it ain't shit. Two weeks after kicking all is well, the job is in hand and their ass is married and going to the Mormon church or some fucking square shit like that. And my cracked ass over here having to still lay back periodically and grip my fucking hair while I pretend like I can't still smell can shavings and taste pulsing ether. Shit.

When did I first touch on this, two or three months ago? I remember thinking that after my year mark, the magic wand would wave. Fucking LOL. 

It remains that I can't seem to bring myself to hate it. I can't buy into the myth. I know better than the myth. Truth is, I fell too hard, and that's on me, not the drug. Not everyone does. I started as a fully functional junky. Don't think for a second they don't exist. You can't always see the mummy, and how do you think your boss works those 100 hour weeks? It ain't coffee, pal, I promise you that. I also know better than to believe a puff of Fentanyl flying from a dollar bill and up your nose will OD you. That's owl shit. What kills people is banging dope made by a shitforbrains. Seriously. Some dopemen will even warn the customer--"Hey, I don't know this cook, go easy." Or, and it's mostly this, the junky didn't listen to the man when he said, "Hey, go easy on this shit. It got fetty in it."


Not everyone winds up like this, but I did.



Maybe my innate (is it?) inability to Buy In is an invalidating problem. I do think that if a person really wants to staunchly quit, they have to buy all the way into the myth and the box--that status quo, job and spouse, carbon copies running around breaking your feet with mislaid toys and producing bundles of diaper laden joy. Church, The Bible, Jesus, a hatred of junkies, life in a world that only exists by default, the only matter of import is the time clock. The career swerve from misguided and uncertain want. Every successful kick claimant I've ever met has been a Bible Thumper. They all say only Jesus can help. He has to begin making your decisions for you. Well, I don't buy that. I'm not good at fooling myself with shit that doesn't get me high. Chances are, that's a huge part of my whole issue, bigger and longer than dope.

If I stay quit, it's going to be because I know I wind up like that mummy. It isn't going to have anything to do with the mythical Backsliders' Anonymous ethic. I doubt I'll wind up speaking at the Reno Community Shelter. If I stay quit, I may still be friends with junkies. Maybe try to help them kick without the myth, because I believe that mythical horseshit keeps the junky locked into addiction. When the ego tries to use myth to talk the savvy addict into the kick the superego, ever ready to fuck up the world, argues against it with truths that can't be unknown. Truths that are true but maybe shouldn't be. Seeing too much, not only is it hard for others to gaslight you but you can't gaslight yourself effectively, and that makes life rocky. All that I aside, I wind up like that mummy, and that's all I got for a reason.

I wanted to, by now, write this MODERN MAN ON THE PRECIPICE piece that made me look like a paragon of kick success--

You know, like this guy.

But that would be false. No, I have a feeling I'll wind up like ol' Father Murphy. The Priest, they called him. I rehash my own writing as much as he did, that's for sure.

So, Modernity! Thy name is the Sober Skeptic!

If that's what you gotta do....................................................................................................................shit.

 

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