Red flower blooming

WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AHEAD

-this was written around 10 years ago when I was in full-blown addiction

The blood in my head was roaring like a crowd, spinning like the top note in a lullabye. Ringing startles me into reality. Ringing and rhythm. My head rings to the beat of my sputtering heart. Then another sound bleeds through with light the light draining from my purple curtain.

Phone.

God damned phone.

Scream away, I refuse to open that door right now. No more peace of the senses. Reality strikes me as a beer-bellied bone-digger, mouth of a brewery, reacting like a smoke machine to outside trauma.

I rise, slowly, and climb aboard the day like a saddle-sore cattle-herder. Not even realizing what is real, I roast my tongue on the first cup of wake-up. What day is it? Fuck it, its all the same. A day by any other name…

I remember Bukowski, and the spider in search of golden flies. I suppose he’s right… While I flinch from the crackling glass surrounding my bones, and rub my arms to warm away the chilling and smooth away the crawling, I decide he was a crazy drunk. But he was right.

Since I woke up, somewhere, everywhere in my mind, I’ve been dreaming of a red flower blooming in my hand. That crazy old drunk decided his cross, much like Christ’s, was on his mind from the beginning.

And like Bukowski, and Christ, I reckon as I reach for my wallet and phone, I decide not to climb down from my cross. To climb down would only mean finding another one to die on. Because I doubt anyone could call this living.

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Old Post – Why I’m not a junky anymore (see old post page ’til I figure out the technology)

I am no longer a junky because I am tired of running – from my consequences, from my debts, from people that hate me just so they can not love me; from people I’ve hurt, burned, conned, lied to, stolen from, wounded, scared, or just put at risk.

A junky eventually has to run from everyone, withdrawn into seclusion, ducking into shadows and avoiding mirrors. Then self-loathing sets in when there’s nothing else left to use. The internal turmoil is overbearing, to the point of bringing actual physical pain. It aches.

Denial is the most powerful thing I’ve ever used. But denial saves a junky’s life every time. Because if I had ever awoken from a nod, sat up, and really processed what I’d been doing, I’d be dead. If I ever sat down and considered that every person that ever came into my life was impacted by my habit, I’d be dead. If I’d really thought that it wasn’t always and only what I was doing, but also what I wasn’t doing, it would have been over.

Not that I’d do it to myself, although I’m sure a few more years would bring me there. But I’d just stop fighting; stop trying not to die. I’m sure I would have just let go.

Because a true junky has no god, no hope, and no redemption. At least, that’s the way it appears from the inside. Because the path behind is littered with debris, and the path ahead may as well lead up to Mt. Everest. And the body’s natural defense against hopelessness, in the form of endorphins, don’t work anymore. There are no longer any natural rewards, for a long, long time.

I am very small. What I know is nothing. But I do know what its like to be in, and what its like to come out. And all I can say is this – its a tough, tough road. And expectations are a bitch. My life doesn’t stop sucking. People aren’t any more sane or any less ridiculous. There is still never enough money.

And I still know how to engulf my world in a euphoria few ever really know. But its fake. Plastic. Digital. Chemical. Its a trick. Its a lie. Its a delusion.

Its denial.

That’s the true drug. That’s what I really couldn’t kick.

I had to come to some sort of understand about what I fight for everyday, or I was going to stop. I had to define my struggle. I had to stop and feel.

And what I felt was Hope. Not god, not love, not redemption, not relief from shame… I felt none of these. I still do not today. But I have something most people don’t know anything about.

Hope.

Don’t get me wrong. Lots of people have hope. But they don’t know anything about it. Because they’ve never really had to live without it. And they’ve never had to fight to regain it.

There are no grand and glorious days. I do not have this overwhelming sense of relief that I am clean right now. I don’t have lots of extra money and new friends.

But I have Hope.

Hope is a subtle thing, noticed by me at least only by its absence. But it is much like my heartbeat – I don’t think about it often, but I’m certainly glad its there. Because without it, the end is much closer than it may appear to be.

Many days I sat and consciously decided whether to let go or try to hang on for another day.

So these days when I’m sitting around, doing nothing, every now and then I take a deep breath. I feel my body’s exhaustion from the years of abuse, months of withdrawals, weeks of being behind the curve, days of fighting, hours waiting waiting waiting, minutes being high, and seconds real living.

And I’m relieved that I’m not worrying about running low, running out, copping and getting busted, lying cheating stealing and draining the life out of everything around me and me.

Hope. This is why I fight every day.

I may win, and I may lose. I may be high next week. I can’t make any promises about the future but I can say WHY? Now I can relax, and breath, and dream, and know…

I am very small. And what I know is nothing. But I know fighting for my life to have something is better than having nothing at all and no hope.