Here is a copy and paste of words I wrote on Friday 25th of March. I looked at my blog and realise I have not been able to commit words to you, my dear readership, since January 1st 2022. BAD.
There are reasons. Coke addiction. That was … boring. And still is. While we are confessing, I have written so many half finished pieces that I store and look at and can’t post. Correcting them is too much to endure at the moment.
Here are the last words I wrote. Almost a month ago. Because the best way back in, is to jump. And that is how I prefer to fuck up my life up. When things bore me instead of making small changes. I shake the jar. I quit my job, I break up with a bf. I DO NOT cut my hair. You understand me.
For months, I rode out the excuse that i couldn’t write on coke because it wasn’t a benzo. The truth- I couldn’t write because I was afraid of something I can’t put in words and what is an author but a coward, searching for truth in a vacuum. Fucking poetic? Or indulgent? Depends on how much you like me.
Take my month old words and let me see if I can finish this with a semblance of talent.
Friday 25th of March
I can’t stop doing things that are bad for me. Whether it’s smoking cigarettes, or doing drugs or loving the wrong men. My life is fading out with choices that tell me I cannot stop doing things that are bad for me.
Drug addiction is really boring for everyone including the addict. It is a singular obsession that will guarantee you a retreat from your thoughts for however long you can afford to stay high.
People who are not drug addicts want to take a peek into this world of habitual pain and have it explained to them in a way that is isolating yet relatable. From a higher moral ground, they will sympathise over the addict’s inability to not control themselves. Pity is a non productive emotion. It all looks the same to the addict. Like someone not giving them money for a high.
When addicts huddle together in rehab or find their way to each other in clusters, we talk about you. The normies. How untainted you are by pain. We compare trauma like rounds of black jack. Edging to twenty one, We reveal traumas discriminately, at the right time to win the pot. And above all we know that we are the only ones that understand each other.
In rehab they take it all away. Except the cigarettes or we might kill each other. So the addicts fuck. Because any escapism will do. And a lost soul is a mirror that says I am you and I understand. Other addicts are a knife’s edge at your throat saying I will take you with me. Rehab is not safe for us. I can’t say whether addicts ever find safety. I can only say I have not. And I am still by definition an addict. One that becomes anxious at the thought of the drug not being there to prop me up. I have also never been to rehab, just fucked enough men who failed at it. Surely that will win me an AA key chain. I have one. It’s the one that say’s I’ve been clean a week. LOL.
There are words here I am too afraid to arrange. I don’t know how to run it through. Or I don’t want to because that would inflict the kind of insecurity I am too fragile to bear.
I want it to be ok. I don’t know where that is or how it ends. I am running out of drugs and means and that is more of a problem to me than writing words on a page. I have graduated to tortured writer. Hemingway’s liver. Picasso’s ear. Delusional millennial.
That’s the last thing I wrote, and it’s not even the best thing I wrote during my hiatus. Trust me. If I wanted to put in work. We wouldn’t both be enduring this. So your patience and kindness is appreciated and noted.
I am still doing drugs and lying. Nothing can stop the void. Instagram told me the void was good because when you become one with it you grow into faith. Fuck me. I emergency made a booking with my psychic because all I can attract in my life is meth addicts.
I am living the life of my twenties and it is surreal to be this stupid ten years later. Writing feels good even if it reads bad. One problem at a time.
I’ll see you guys soon. The next one is going to be honest, brutal, sarcastic and painful. On brand! If I do say so myself. My creative writing teacher once told me that exclamation marks are awful. They signal an author laughing at their own jokes!!!!! Ha! Ha! Ha!… My life is a tragic joke. She says, smiling wryly. Shut the fuck up. Do a line and write a sentence someone you respect would admire. This is what we call work.