Category: Alcoholism

Heavy is the Head that Wears the Crown – Part 1 “The Fallen Kingdom”

706c6430b3ea93a4fac7a2d06ea02e40I once knew a king afraid to be seen; sequestered from a merciless worldly machine; grace was relinquished through selfish desires; sought shelter in darkness and yearned to expire. He found his solution in liquid pollution; it blackened his heart from a promising start. With nowhere to run from that unsettled feeling; without nostrum of sorts that could provide healing – not person, a place, a thing, or idea could muster the might to release him from here; sought high and low, both distant and near, to evade all the whispers that punctured his ears; to hold back dead eyes breaching banks filled with tears; to cease rustles of intensified, bone-chilling fears. But the heaviest head bears the weight of its crown; with a kingdom now fallen; his highness struck down; because reigning as ruler was not as it seemed; vibrations of love were cast out from the scene; contentment had vanished and peace grew extinct – civil war surged as his spirit unlinked.

—–

For the majority of a relatively conscious existence along the road rising to ruler, alcohol was the driving force in propelling a barren spirit to life; in sprouting wings to soar through a vast and endless blue yonder; in supplying the obligatory courage to carry on, all the while constructing a magnificent empire solely for satisfaction of selfish desires; most of all, however, it assigned an unadorned ability to simply be.  But seemingly as quick as the climb up through the atmosphere had been; as much as the thrill of excitement and discovery filled that deep emptiness through the conquering of new challenges, the predestined day still arrived – after all the promises, after all the codependent companionship, and after the acquisition of the fullest, most heartfelt allegiance – this friend, who turned out to be no more than a serpent in disguise, slithered its way under the cover of night to snatch away the sky; a spirit sent swiftly spiraling down into the depths of an abyss never comprehended in existence.  Dethroned and uncrowned in the passing of night; a kingdom built on a lie had finally crumbled and fallen – those who remained in the land left shattered by a wake so strong and so devastating – deserted to despairingly fend for themselves; a king cursed to suffer, broken and alone, in the gutters of a realm now ultimately betrayed. 

904d3bae0723b90e534cea1c390bdda2The king scoffed at the scene, laying nearly lifeless in the dilapidated dungeons under a city of ruins; cast blame on everything and everyone for the fall of an empire – how could the people do this?  How could there be such betrayal of nobility or a double-crossing of such innate charity and loyalty? The world was far too trivial and petty to comprehend the magnitude of raising an illustrious kingdom to reign; they would never be worthy of understanding the potent pressure or significant stresses of ruling over a great land – reflections rapidly racing as progressively more mind-numbing potion coursed through the body, infesting a mind now drowned of its strife; a solution that consistently relieved any semblance of ailment; that, for a sacrifice of the seemingly irrelevant, placed a plug in the void of in an incessantly dehydrated soul – forever fueling an ego that cannot admit defeat; cosigning pure pride that would never allow for an acceptance of sole responsibility; dwindled, in turn, from an army of the ample, to the repression of the insufficient.

It is in this place the King would remain, wrapped up in the throws of selfishness, self-pity and resentment, for a great while as the city he had built continued to crumble all around him…

Only the Lonely

_16 FB beginning tubBalmy; humid; utterly miserable – this motel bathroom suffices more accurately as a tropical torture chamber.  My body lies, awkwardly twisted and face up, at the base of the tub which, for all intents and purposes, is shedding some living insight into what it might be like lying in a coffin – the final resting place for my forever tortured and disconnected soul.  Steaming hot water rains down on me, concurrently generating a dense, cheap lavender smelling haze which renders it even futile to make out the battered, decaying tile despairingly clinging to the walls; there they hope to remain, holding on for dear life and overseeing my predominately lifeless body; the random gaps in between illustrate comrades not adequately spirited to endure the torment of their rather trite existence.  I unpropitiously stay behind, sprawled out and conquered, resenting their ability to irrevocably let go.    

It’s the loneliest place in the world; the most disengaged and isolated I’ve ever felt from reality or life itself – including all the self-created drivel and mendacity that even I had naïvely bought into as authentic over the years; my head just as clogged and clouded with confusion between the factual and the fraudulent as this hell hole is overrun by the fabricated tropical steam produced from that rusting piece of water-bearing metal protruding from the wall far above.  No matter what I do or how far down I sink into oblivion, I cannot, for the life of me, get to that place where I no longer exist, where everything is nothing – the sentence I crave for an eternity lost in the black.

24b34492dd28b994fb14f03aa5f50962The notion and idea of resilience is, well, annoying – especially as I despairingly lay, hopeless and spiritually shattered, at death’s door in the tub of my room at motel hell; although I’ve knocked many times, I have yet to be graciously greeted by those on the other side.  My body wishes to carry forth, but my mind and spirit are ready to concede.  I cannot comprehend why the reaper maliciously skulks all around me, but ceases to ever grant me admission into its world.  To me, the greatest lie ever told is not convincing the world that Lucipher doesn’t live amongst us in the shadows, it’s that entrance into his kingdom of Hell down below is widely believed and accepted to be worse than remaining forced to endure here on Earth one more day. 

Thoughts incessantly race through my mind; how outside these incarcerating walls, folks are happy, joyous, and free, going about their day and basking under the sun – or how some of them must be actors as well, tirelessly going through the motions as I so often do; what my kids are doing at this exact moment and how the woman I counted on to be there, betrayed me and wishes to evict my existence from their youthful, collective consciousness; I wish I could shoot the fucking sun out of the sky and damn everyone to witness eternal darkness, as if finally seeing the world through my dismal, ill-fated eyes would be the end-all-be-all, that suddenly everyone would finally understand; I wish my body would allow me to ingest more of that mind numbing potion, but it continues rejecting any of my thwarted attempts; it won’t allow me passage back to the black.  I think about ordering a lady of the night to get me out of myself temporarily, but I can’t handle anybody seeing me in this dire a condition, paid or otherwise; besides, my wallet is now devoid of any currency due to the, “who knows how long”, bender I am currently and barely living through.  I miserably attempt to rub one out, but even that, my body states, is a temporary escape that will not be rewarded.  Resilience; yeah, it’s a bitch.

dc87bb9377d7c360a0da67c4a518bb5eMy body aches; I can’t muster up enough strength to stray away from this desolate tub of torment; I don’t deserve to depart from it’s rigid, wet porcelain shell anyway – the sheer will to carry on plays no role in my immediate, cognitively distorted mind, nor does it appear to be an undertaking I’ll be in pursuit of anytime in the near future.  Microscopic bullets of water ceaselessly pummel my face as they ricochet off what’s been collecting in the bottom of my makeshift casket.  Through the suffocating mist and dim glow of flickering light, silhouettes of bath towel demons lurk, seemingly floating and motionless in mid-air, patiently waiting for the moment they can finally carry me away; whether or not visible to the naked eye, these spirits of the darkness perpetually tail my every move; making their presence known through various incarnations and dialing, intrusively, into my every fleeting thought.  I meditate over the probability of whether or not they know I’m thinking they can go fuck themselves for perpetually prolonging my suffering.  I ponder whether I will, in fact, ever make it out of this tub alive. 

The sociopathic tendencies I periodically exhibited throughout various aspects of my life and relationships started to make me wonder if I was devoid of any feeling or emotion at all, but in my brief and far between moments of clarity, I knew that could not be the case.  I knew I wouldn’t consistently crave a substance that makes feelings and emotions disappear if I was not aware of them to begin with.  I started to think quite the opposite at that juncture, that maybe my feelings and emotions were so intense, so real and so bold, that I didn’t know how else to handle them besides stuffing them deep within or forcing them out altogether through use of mind-altering chemicals – the first solution that seemed to work regarding my issue of an overwhelming amount of passion and unrelenting remarks from the heart.  Maybe every emotion I have been exposed to over this lifetime has been felt at an abnormally extreme level – maybe I love too much, admire too much, and care too much; maybe I feel overpowering senses of enjoyment and euphoria.  Maybe, this too, would insinuate that I feel inordinate amounts of hate, disgust, jealousy, fear and insecurity; that I cannot have one extreme without the other; that if I blot out the negative, I am also eclipsing the positive; that I would have to set forth on a journey to understand myself, my emotions, and how to create a healthy balance if I ever wanted to evade a life ensnared and alone in the bottom of dingy motel bathtubs.    

Chameleon Conformist

uV6xNNqXkK7htQ8L6QmFTJUrThe chameleon conformist; he vigilantly adjusts and positions a colorful smoke screen for the world to see; a front for the purpose of carrying out his personal agenda; he acts in accordance with societal norms to mislead the naked, unsuspecting eye.  He is, in all truth, completely anti-social to the core while in the privacy of the unremitting darkness that plagues him; a place the devil himself would even feel uneasy.  Behind the smoke lives the shell of man who appears to have it all; behind the smoke lies an empty void yearning for fulfilment.  This man aversely survives, lifeless on the inside; hollow; robotic and pre-programmed to carry out essential obligations to preserve the sickness holding him hostage; the sickness that is continuously at liberty to haphazardly course all throughout the captivity of his veins.

His primary objective never changes color; he is the non-conformist in regards to the pre-destined arrival of his daily escape – his outward conformity allocates the sustainability of his interior rebellion – his daily mission never waivers off course; he blends into the background the same way a chameleon would elude its fierce hunter; he doesn’t wish to be seen; he doesn’t hope to be heard – the world and its incessant vexation gradually drifts from his consciousness as he irrevocably ingests the pernicious remedy, subsequently releasing a distorted sentiment of well-being and an immensely sought after sigh of alleviation.

conformity_by_vicodininjaThe first layer and most prominent color on his suit of acquiescence is green; the green of a rewarding and gainful career which serves as the lifeline to the truth of his darkness; it’s the glue that binds together the whole charade and paves the way for its continual operation; without it, he is vulnerable and exposed; without it, the authentic blackness of all his little carefully crafted designs are open for the world to see; credibility eradicated; reputation wrecked.  The green of greed invites envy into the mix; he wishes to be anyone other than himself; he fantasizes about what it would be like to have it all – the big house with an ocean view, a luxury vehicle for each day of the week, a multitude of women just a phone call away and ever-lasting freedom to do as his little, black heart desires; he presumes that would be the answer to his issue of contentment, but somewhere deep down in his being he knows he would only crave still more; all the water in the world isn’t enough to satisfy an unquenchable thirst. 

Anticipating its moment to shine through the voracious green exterior is the second in his array of covert defense layers; it’s soaked a deep blood red; a red labeling his path of destruction, his internal anger, and the emotional damage to all those he crossed paths with along the way; it’s his defense mechanism to keep others at a distance; a warning not to approach; it keeps him locked in a little box all alone – his safety net; he unknowingly becomes a ticking time bomb; he craves human connection, but in his mind, the risk outweighs the reward – the thought of rejection or abandonment is too overwhelming to handle; so he just sits silently by his lonesome as the world keeps spinning; life passes him by; he can’t get in the mix; the torture is unbearable; he intensely prays for it to be over – his prayers for relief are answered; the answer is no; the heinous cycle continues with no end in sight.

The yellow of his deceit and deception is prepared to reveal itself directly underneath the blood-soaked red of desolation.  It’s how he maneuvers his way through the daily grind of a dilapidated existence; dodging and weaving, he meticulously spins a web of lies around himself; a shield built to protect how he thinks his world should work and what all the players in it need to comply with to best suit the motives of his self-interest.  He becomes trapped in his head between the worlds of wanting to be left alone or forgotten and yearning to be endeared or understood.  Building up these falsities becomes his only purpose for waking up in the morning; he has to maintain the madness created in desperate attempts to fit in; he has to nourish the misrepresentations generated during his trials and tribulations to fill up and seal the emptiness perpetually lingering inside.  The way he goes about it never changes; he never redirects off course.  It’s always been a losing battle, yet he chases after the idea of fulfillment nevertheless.  Insanity interpreted.

9Tpoj6XTEDeep and sheltered in the core of his being lives black; the black he painstakingly attempts to conceal from the world time and time again; the blackness of his cold, tarnished heart and the darkness it constructs, spreading throughout every facet of his life with the zest and insidiousness of an infectious disease.  Its power and authority is unmatched; surreptitiously he meanders about; he feels most comfortable traversing through the cover of night, protected under its blanket and veiled by his matching cloak.  In the darkness he is his genuine self; stripped down and bare to the bone; in black he is a man using every resource at his disposal to hold himself together as he inescapably falls apart…

Heartbreaker

heart_break_001Bona fide metamorphosis; I persistently mulled over the invented elements featured in that newest round of transformation; convincing myself in a desperate, self-soothing manner that I had thoroughly evolved that time around; besides, authentically believing in the fabrication myself was of crucial importance to ensure that all those around me bought into the act as well – the new me that is; proclamation of a wholehearted oath secured through the blood-soaked signature of sincere intentions and paramount promises – this time I recognized the remedy; this time I was cognizant of the solution; I predicted a warm embrace; I felt I had undeniably earned it; anticipating a warranted welcome with open arms; presuming all infractions would be expunged from my inadequate record – a clean slate; I had, in fact, led any questionable culmination to be in tune with the blatant fact that I was cured; that I had no control whatsoever over my thoughts or actions prior to this conclusion, citing, as any good alcoholic would, that my illness had made me that way – why should I suffer for it after the fact? 

stock-illustration-22467839-captian-at-wheel-of-shipI had diligently worked at making it come across as if my life finally rerouted back on track; a quintessential illusion; my master-minded manipulations continuously cultivated their effectiveness with every booming beat of a heart pounding on borrowed time.  My primary purpose became exclusively pursuing a hunger for that recognition; the validation of anybody noticing a job well done with me at the helm – whether or not it was “real” plays no significant role in conjunction with my ill-fated agenda; it was the obligatory recipe, fueling operation of the subsequent pride filled ego-trip that inundated my consciousness and generated sensational feelings of invincibility – like I got one over on everyone again; I had outsmarted and outplayed everybody once more; I, in all my glory, had engineered a masterpiece; let me reap the rewards of such tiresome work and let everybody else settle in with the idea that a new and improved Chris had arrived back in town – obviously that was the case.

fists-vector-3705Then reality steadily forced its way back up to the surface; and in succession with every time before that, defective words launched from my lips vanished and faded in the distance, getting lost in the background and swiftly becoming virtually valueless due to a lack of physical effort to fortify their fidelity.  The only real illusion was what I had erroneously convinced myself of in attempt to soften the relentless and never-ending, self-inflicted fists of life beating me into submission; the masterpiece I thought I had skillfully constructed around me wasn’t that at all, but no more than counterfeit concoctions of an ill-minded imagination; travesties of my sickness; corruptions of my curse – when all was said and done, I assuredly found myself further down the rabbit hole than where I had begun.

Common sense might offer up reasonable rationalizations as to the benefits of cutting out this way of living altogether, but when it comes to alcoholics and alcoholic behaviors, common sense is non-existent – on a side note, when I really get wrapped up in my analytical state and dissect it, I’m not all that sure I can even buy into the ideology of common sense being an entity at all; what is common to me may not be all that common to you; it’s a blurry line, at best; I don’t see the sense in any of it really.  Regardless of whatever sense it makes to cut it out, it’s imperative to remember that we are sick people; connections in our brains are, for lack of a better term, not entirely connected; it’s also imperative to remember that we cannot use that as an excuse or justification to continue on down a calamitous passageway, writing off any and all options that offer us the solution to our malady.  As with any of the countless other illnesses that live and thrive, we too must be treated, despite our awareness that no cure currently exists (“We are not cured of alcoholism. What we really have is a daily reprieve contingent on the maintenance of our spiritual condition.” – Big Book, pg. 85) – it is our responsibility to seek that solution; to be honest and truthful with ourselves first and foremost; if we ever expect to break the cycle of continuously trying to fool everybody, including ourselves, to no avail, that is what our predecessors have found to be required – in the end, no matter which way you slice it, it’s simply wasted time and energy not to give recovery a genuine, full-fledged effort. 

We are men and women, young and old; we are sons and daughters, fathers and mothers; we are somebody’s friend, we are someone else’s enemy; we are praised professionals running multi-million dollar businesses; we are homeless and forgotten, finding shelter in an alley behind the dumpster we scourged for our last meal; we are immensely intelligent and stunningly creative; we are charming, fun, and easily loveable; we are dark and lonely lost souls, never truly able to find a place where we fit or a setting where we feel comfortable; we are full of potential, yet time and time again we are left with more to be desired; we offer up bright and promising lives, although we are not always proficient in keeping true to our promises; we break hearts over and over again, hoping someday we can peel away from the perpetually poisonous pattern of building up expectations, just to become a major let down one more time.  Many times our intentions are good, but our outcomes are not; throw caution to the wind until we meet again, heartbreaker.

Supremely Extreme: A Mid-Detox Dream

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“This isn’t real…this isn’t real…this isn’t real.” – walls ripple like waves of the sea; bends and twists; maneuvers that defy laws of physics.  “This isn’t real…this isn’t real.” – distorted figments of my imagination emerge; balloons conceal an ivory white ceiling and confetti spills out; at first a jubilant blizzard, followed swiftly by vibrant, assorted shreds of celebration drifting softly through the air prior to final descent, reconstructing the floor into a resounding work of art.  “This isn’t real…this isn’t real.” – a phantom silhouette develops in the window; moonlight launching life into its shadowy, dark form; catlike eyes shoot sinister shots striving to slaughter in every direction; an impetuous endeavor to claim itself a new victim. 

“This isn’t real…this isn’t real” – there are crowns on the clowns slipping in and out of the walls; little green men running loose through the halls; a mermaid lies resting at the foot of the bed; kittens wearing mittens of green, blue, and red.  “This isn’t real…this isn’t real.” – a paralyzed body shelters this lively, vigilant mind; bathing in sweat, permeating through stiff motel sheets, irrepressible shivering stays steady despite this interminable excretion of moisture.  “This isn’t real.” – desperate now for this ostensible nightmare to end…a battle of eyes to stay opened or closed. “This isn’t real!” A sudden, silent spine-chilling void in the room; the phantom is gone, the moonlight shines free – no more balloons or little green men, no more confetti or kittens in red; the clowns wearing crowns have retreated back home, I’m finally left in this room all alone.

Delirium Tremens: commonly referred to as DT’s – a psychotic condition typical of withdrawal in chronic alcoholics, involving tremors, hallucinations, anxiety, and disorientation. 

This “fun” new feature added to my personal history of detox symptoms has just started to occur while sobering up during each of my last two consecutive relapses; the disease progresses, and as I have recently experienced, trailing right on its coattails are the effects of withdrawal.  Unwillingly it has hurled me orbiting into the next realm of my life which has been lived primarily for the extremes; where law and order cease to exist; balance is non-existent – readings from my scale of viability cannot be perceived as anything other than an eternal enigma; I’ll invite fellow drunk, Billy Joel, to break it down for us:

“Sometimes I’m tired, sometimes I’m shot, Sometimes I don’t know how much more I’ve got, Maybe I’m headed over the hill, Maybe I’ve set myself up for the kill, Tell me how much do you think you can take, Until the heart in you is starting to break? Sometimes it feels like it will,

Darling I don’t know why I go to extremes,  Too high or too low there ain’t no in-betweens,  And if I stand or I fall,  It’s all or nothing at all,  Darling I don’t know why I go to extremes”

-Thanks Billy, you’re truly an inspiration.

It haunts me at night and plagues me by day, this battle between extremes – diving deeper down daily; making myself lost within the manipulative maze of my mind; I get sent spinning off course, analyzing and dissecting how much my circumstances digress every time I unleash the active disease to showcase and prove its persistent progression.  I consistently collide with these disheartening dead ends; retreating and rerouting in hopes to discover an innocuous way out, knowing full well there is no exit at all, safe or otherwise – not in the maze of this mind at least.

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How do I restore a balance, or probably more accurately, establish one for the first time?  I feel faced with a question that may never birth an answer.  How do I embody a genuine value in my life while I flounder at rock bottom, when I couldn’t even see a value in it when I had risen to the peak?  I begin to believe my life is merely living at each radical end of the spectrum; a human ping-pong ball; a bunch of drivel adjoining time and space in the superfluous intervals; pounded back and forth by the paddles of life.  I physically fight; I mentally fight; I spiritually fight; I become drained and discouraged; critically and cruelly cast down – up to date my record corroborates a uniformed overpowering – but lucky for me, all it may take is that one crucial win to be set on the right course.   

This Tour Intertwined with a Nursery Rhyme

Waterspout_vs_Itsy_Bitsy_Spider-vay6s4-d

Atmosphere.  Sustenance of shelter; careless and carefree – perfection; this world within a world; security before insecurity is understood, it’s comfortable; no formidable argument could be made to abandon this accommodating abode, nevertheless, venturing into the world above is unavoidable; farewell and good luck.  Peer up into the unknown; nerve-racking and overwhelmingly uneasy – yet no other course of action is in play, so press forward; head up.  Storms brew over the horizon – darkening skies with an aroma of rain; there’s no other option – ascension remains.  A few drops at first; a drizzle of sorts, but it can’t overpower the driving life force.  But the drizzle won’t last, the rain goes full throttle; once again found right back at the bottom.  The shelter’s still there but it’s just not the same; no more perfection and no more security; regardless, it’s more comfortable than that world outside here.  The argument can be made to leave here again, but the desire to hang back stays extraordinarily strong.  There’s a faint, distant light – it can be seen through the blanket of black; it ignites that life force – yet one more attempt to venture out of this shelter; the decision’s been made – now to press on, to that world up above, in search of a life that’s worth living; and for love.


   “The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the waterspout,

Down came the rain and washed the spider out,

Out came the sun and dried up all the rain,

And the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.”


 DrSeussQuotePoster

My fascination and interest in children’s books is no secret, especially the likes of a Dr. Seuss (Theodore Geisel) or Shel Silverstein – more so now than when I was actually a child.  The wisdom hidden or implied within their pages is the knowledge of genius’s leveled down into words and sentences a kid can understand, read, and enjoy.  This is not to say that children generally comprehend or see what we can as adults, but it’s still pretty interesting that all those nursery rhymes and beginner’s books are being stored into the memory of a forming brain; that later on we can look back and say to ourselves, “whoa, that’s what that meant?”  The itsy bitsy spider translates much different to me now than it did twenty-five years ago – that spider is me, I relate to it; my whole life I’ve been climbing up the waterspout and then alcoholism showed up and wiped me out – completely.  But the rhyme doesn’t end there; the rhyme goes on – there was light and subsequently there was hope; the storm passed; the spider could have conceded and gave up, what’s the use?  He was so far up that waterspout at one point and to start all over again would be too hard and overwhelming; the cards were stacked against him – surely there would be more storms; it would just be easier and more comfortable to stay put at the bottom; but the spider chose to climb nevertheless and that, in and of itself, is respectable.  That’s the attitude it’s going to take to make it in a life of recovery.


“Oh the places you’ll go, today is your day!

Your mountain is waiting so…get on your way!”

– Dr. Seuss

Hustle or Bust – Act 2

Addicts and alcoholics such as myself are extremely resourceful and clever people; the gift of desperation can work for or against us depending on state of mind or, more importantly, spiritual condition.  The following are merely a couple examples of how I, myself, and other addicts I’ve met along my journey have supported the habit.  With that being said, how we did it is not really the point of what I’m driving at. 

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They are found in neighborhoods throughout the country; undersized and red; mostly disregarded or neglected; never in the forefront of busy minds traversing through daily life – work, kids, bills, friends, family, and the list goes on.  They are positioned up or down depending on the situation; their unvarnished intention to notify postal workers of outgoing mail – and what is generally mailed out from homes?  Payments for various personal bills and expenses so, consequently, these indicators also dispatch the same information to criminals and identity thieves looking for a score.  Now, this was never my hustle, but I have heard scores of testimonies about the triggering effect these seemingly harmless red flags have on the drastically desperate addict or alcoholic consumed with obtaining the next fix; even to the point where cruising through a neighborhood on the prowl for upright red flags becomes an entire addiction in and of itself.  The prime targets are obviously checks, gift cards, and even cash if folks are naïve enough to send it snail mail – checks seem to be the most frequent find and its surprisingly somewhat simple to execute check fraud once the check is in the wrong hands – all it allegedly requires is a little sandpaper, a pen, and some balls to go through with it.  I’m certainly no expert in the business, but I imagine there are all sorts of other ways that it can be done as well – this is purely the version I’ve heard.

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Getting back to my own lunacy…

As I retreated from laying my soldiers to rest in the dumpster of the high school across the street, I schemed and analyzed – thinking of anything or anyway I could diminish my distress; this unrelenting, incessant desperation digging deeper by the minute; by the second; completely overtaken as my head relays to itself an urgency; deprivation has become a threat to my survival – it’s out of my control, the power of choice stripped away.  The hour of insanity draining little drops of liquor into a medicine cup was, for all intents and purposes, just a teaser – undisputedly igniting the over-powering phenomenon of craving; it was alive and in full force.  Distraught and on edge, I paced the kitchen when all of a sudden it hit me like a sack of bricks.  Out of all the fucked up things I’ve engineered, plotted and carried out over the years to support my addiction, what popped in my head that night was the lowest – at least it was to me – from a moral standpoint; hell – just from a human being standpoint.  But nonetheless my mind was foggy and overridden by selfish desires so I walked towards the kid’s room, slowly and quietly, every effort and measure taken not to wake them.  I turned the doorknob and peered in – two sleeping children; just what I wanted.  I slid in, shut the door behind me, and laid cold, dead eyes on the target of this mission.  The Spiderman nightlight provided just enough glow to guide the way while also reminding me that I was preparing to army crawl through an innocent child’s bedroom in pursuit of a piggy bank; I had become desperate enough to commandeer quarters from my five-year old.  No words; no justification – just shame and guilt and remorse.  Addiction in its cruelest hour.

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I’ve also manipulated people in my family for money, sold valuable belongings to pawn shops, and cashed out gift cards; all pretty typical in the world of addiction.  I’ve heard stories anywhere from folks selling drugs to selling their bodies on the streets of wherever it is they came from – the desperation factor is incredibly strong when it comes to getting that fix; that tiny taste of relief I talked about – soon to demand it again, and again, and again – where does it end?  I work and scheme and think and plot; I plan well in advance; I deceive others; I fool myself; it rents space in my head from the moment I wake up until I pass out into oblivion; and even then it haunts me in my dreams – the effort it takes; it’s an extraordinary undertaking when I really think about all the time and energy it takes to keep an addiction active and alive; all the willingness I had in me to chase bottle after bottle.  It’s commonly agreed upon in treatment centers around America that if we, as addicts and alcoholics, would put a fraction of that energy towards recovery, our chances of successfully remaining clean and sober would significantly increase; yet we continue to relapse, and at a rather alarming rate – why is there virtually all the willingness in the world towards killing ourselves via substances, yet virtually none to break free of the bondage and actually live? 

This is the question I desperately want an answer for, but I still haven’t found – I’m not sure there is an answer…that I want to hear that is; maybe I’m wired wrong and I’ll leave it at that – it could be something greater than just that alone.  The Big Book conveys a message somewhere to the effect of no human power having the ability to relieve our alcoholism; we suffer from a spiritual malady; in which we need a spiritual solution.  I don’t like that answer, I don’t like that solution; it’s not tangible; I can’t see it – it’s too hard for me to reason with, or analyze, or the number of other ways in which I want to find that easier, softer way.  I want to fix this myself, but I am human, and all I have is human power which suggests that no matter what I try, no matter how hard I try it – I will never fix this myself; it’s literally impossible and it’s one of the biggest resentments I have in my life – it tears me up, I crumble over and over at its mighty hand.  I know all this; the information is in my head, and after everything I have put myself through, I still yearn to find a different way.  I despise doing things that are difficult, and recovering from active alcoholism is exactly that; it’s my big white whale.  If my hustle doesn’t change, I never will – this cycle of bringing about still more and more pain will continue with no care or regard for me and my life.  Actions speak louder than words – the cliché thing to say I know, but it’s true – conceding that I cannot do this by myself and putting all my knowledge of this disease into action will be the hardest thing I ever do this lifetime.