Category: Uncategorized

I was rereading Rehab Sucks just now, making grammatical corrections, and I realized I didn’t nail what I wanted to nail with the second point. I said I know what it’s like to want the pain. I suppose that’s true to some extent. But, more accurately, I know what it’s like to not know what the pain is or where it’s coming from, to become frustrated with this and euphorically recall what it was like to be numb. It takes a lot of uncomfortable digging – a lot – to find the source of the pain. And once it is found, amidst overwhelming feelings to continue avoiding it, it must be felt. I have to sit down, bow my head and close my eyes, quiet myself – all the voices screaming at me Please! Not this! – and Go There. I’m not very good at it.
While I’m sitting there, in the middle of it, I try to remember to ask God about it. This is not easy. The temptation to just sit there and enjoy the sickness of it – I am fallen – is strong, because it provides a weird sort of rush, of the same sort I get when I do something I know is wrong. This is what I meant by wanting the pain. It’s macabre. I know.
But if I ask God about it, I can start hacking through the undergrowth because I can see now which is the direction of the light. This is tiring, but it is good.

Also, I figured out something about The Tape. (The Tape is what plays in an addict’s head over and over again, scenes from using that do not include the horrible results of using. It can include the excitement of going to get the drug, the friends one was with and the camaraderie felt there, the moments right before using the drug, the effects, and much more. But never does it include the almost-immediate remorse, or the looks on the faces of one’s family.) I figured out it’s no good to play the actual using part. Makes things worse. So, I apply Scripture – sharper, I tell you, than any two-edged sword – and I take this thought captive. I blink, mentally, and avert my gaze, ideally to things like what I referenced in Father of lights.

Well would you look at that. That’s starting to sound sane.

I just realized something: being hard on myself is mostly a result of believing my actions save me. I think very often of the mistakes I’ve made, and until recently, I had the idea that God was Up There shaking his head at my most recent intemperance. Within the last year, helped by Phillip Yancey, God has revealed that “grace” means there’s nothing I can do to make God love me more or less. And I’ve spent the last year attempting to work this into my awareness.
Of course, I must remember the slavery from which I’ve been brought out, but the effect this retrospection has is not immediately apparent. That is, it doesn’t make me depressed, but, compounded by the fact that I didn’t escape slavery but was rescued, gives me great joy as I consider an almighty, universe-sustaining God who loves me so.
Also, I’m not saying my many offenses against various individuals are paltry or inconsequential. They aren’t. But if on thinking of these offenses I despair of a saving righteousness, I’ve forgotten that my righteousness is not, in fact, my righteousness. It is Christ’s, imputed to me, despite what I’ve done.

OK, that’s not what I sat down to write. I sat down to write about one of my favorite verses and its cross-references. To wit:
Ephesians 5:14 – Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light.
I chose the KJV translation because I love how it puts that last phrase, this imagery of Christ the light-giver. One of my favorite names for God is Father of lights.
Luke 1:78-79 – …the sunrise shall visit us from on high to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.
The light this Sunrise is giving us is peace. I need peace, and my God knows it.
Isaiah 60:1 – Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.
Malachi 4:2 – …but for you who fear my name, the sun of righteousness shall rise with healing in its wings.
Read that last one over and over, Christian, and see if your soul isn’t transported. How badly do you want to be healed? To find refuge from devastating pain? To step out of the night and into the sun? Our God knows and is powerful to do it.

It’s a long one, so maybe fast forward to minute seven or so, because that’s where it gets ridiculous. Actually, start at 6:45 when he tunes his guitar in the middle of a riff and just goes on. Words are useless.

Rehab is not an easy place. I see people come in and go back out and it. is. exhausting. I mean, I remember how I was in my addiction, how no one could tell me anything I didn’t already know, how the problem was always someone or something else, never – perish the thought! – never me. And I remember all the reasons I had for continuing to use. So I feel for them – the guys who go back out. But it hurts, for two reasons.

1. I remember my own past: the people I hurt who were trying to help because they loved me, the way I didn’t love anyone but me, didn’t know how to or couldn’t or whatever, and the way some of those people left my life altogether because I’d really, seriously injured them. Everyone close to me ended up a victim.
2. I know the pain to which they will return. I know it well. And I know what it’s like to want the pain, if only as an excuse to use. And then there’s the awful truth that quitting is like leaving an old friend, one who is always there, from whom you can always know exactly what to expect. When I stopped smoking pot, I mourned. I still do, as often as I remember it. When I stopped shooting heroin, I mourned. I mourned the needle, too. It was really hard. It felt, in some really twisted way, like betrayal.

So I get it. But it sucks. Not to mention it’s a constant reminder that so few actually make it out of addiction, and I am terrified by this. (Not a plea for assurance. Just a statement.)

Every now and then, I confront the question: Why do I write? This is different from the question: Why write? There are a lot of really great and romantic reasons to give for the second. For the first, not so much. I’m pretty sure I write because of a compulsion to do whatever I can to make people like me. So, following the logic, I must think I’m a good writer. And so I do, sometimes. But when I return to this blog and read over some of my blatherings, I cringe as the many critics in my head and the voices I’ve given to the people who probably don’t even read this accuse me of fraudulence, denounce my writing as self-important and trivial. Worse, I imagine someone happening across my page and thinking to themselves, “Well… he’s really trying… and that’s worth something, isn’t it?” This makes my face flush. I really hate caring about what you think of me.

And so I arrive at an even more interesting question: Why, knowing all this, do I continue to write? Answer: I’m insane, and I (apparently) wish to remain that way. Here is an instance which backs my theory:

A couple of weeks ago, I felt like I needed to write a letter. (At least, this is what I was telling myself. I didn’t.) I stared at the computer screen for a while, and then I typed a couple sentences. My heart was racing, my adrenaline pumping, because I knew full well I was doing what I should not. And then, succumbing even further to impulse, I added a line at the end of my two-sentence letter that I really should not have written, but I was extra weak that day. And then I sent it.
I sat back in my chair and immediately started to go crazy. Will this person respond? I wondered. What would this person say in response? What if this person doesn’t respond? If this person doesn’t respond, is it because of anger, or because not to respond is the better thing to do? Why the hell did I even write that? That wasn’t a good thing I did just now. It was manipulative. I’ve probably just further disqualified myself from something I might have had if I’d just held on, exercised some fucking self-control.

So you see, in sending the letter, I damned myself to insanity. That is, there was no possible outcome – response or no – which provided for anything other than insanity. This is why I think I’m addicted to it.

It’s embarrassing. But I’m writing about it because I really do want to be free of it and because I suspect I’m not alone in it, and I have this conviction that freedom can’t be reached alone, not in my experience, anyway, because we weren’t made like that. We need more than our selves. We need each other. And we need to delete our facebooks.

The following occurred a few months back.

Two gentlemen walked up the stairs today. They had overcompensation written all over their faces.
“Yo, man.”
“What’s happenin? You guys bring your IDs?” I responded.
“Yes, sir. It’s right… here.” Hands me the wallet. Follower-dude also quick on the draw.
“Thank you, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
“Just lookin for a new piece. This guy’s a total stoner,” slaps follower dude on the back.
“Well unfortunately for you, you’ve established illegal intent. You’re no longer welcome to shop tobacco products today, and you’ll need to vacate the premises immediately.”
“Duuude–“
“No dudes. Leave. Now.”

the glare of the sun off of the windshield
the high-pitched whine of machinery
the rip in the new nice denim

the tone of the accuser
the immutability of contesting wills
the angle of the hang of the head

the sudden decrescendo of sound
the sink of the pit
the excruciating molasses of time

Everything started after a semester at school. Well… before that. It’s always before, isn’t it? But that semester set it off. I was wound up tight. Restless, without peace. I felt okay when I left that town, never in it. Too much baggage.
I went to Mexico to clear my head. To relax. I packed my car, stopped before leaving town to fill up. I hung up the pump with an air of finality, electricity in my blood. Bid that town fucking adieu.
Now just the road. I had enough pot for the first part of the trip, and my cousin had some waiting down in Texas. Perfection. I stopped to see him graduate highschool, and then he came with me. He’d grown up quick and tall.
Excitement! The road! Mexico! I left the tension, the restlessness, and I drove. Got high and drove. Tell me I was immature, reckless. I didn’t care. I don’t care.
Me. On the road.

I’m bored. I’m anxious. Because nothing belongs to me.
Because I owe.
I fight to be something I’m not.
I am weary. Weary of trying to think new thoughts. How do I think new thoughts? It feels so new it’s not me. It’s fake. It’s tiring.
But there are glimpses of hope, like today. Then I immediately fear my hope because it crumbles, always. Falls away.
I yearn to express myself poetically and I fail because I try. Too hard? Yes. Too hard. And what am I trying for? Newness. The newness I fear and is elusive.

Avoiding. Avoiding me. I’m avoiding me. I come to the brink and retreat back. Because it’s unknown? Kind of. Not really.
Because it doesn’t work.
Not the way I want it to. And I fear it never will. That is my fear. Mediocrity. I fear being one of the crowd. Indistinguishable. Because I hate the masses? Yes. The masses, not individual people. The stupid masses, I hate. And I am lost in them. I cannot escape. I can. But I won’t because I choose not to. I choose to stand and fight, not escape. Overcome, not escape.

I want reality to feel better. Peace. I am not at peace because I don’t live now. I live then, or before. To live now, see the trees, smell autumn, do, finish. To lift my arms, to raise them and shake fists! To seek truth, to say truth, to live it. To believe it. Mostly to believe it.

Droll argument.

Rather droll, once it hits there. Belief. Life. Do they cross? Droll. Why? No progress. No moving forward. Just idle arguments. Idle words. Words make me feel like I’m doing something when I’m not. Words rarely satisfy. Do I not believe in them? Less and less. Words are folly. No one hears them. It matters not what I say, but how I say it. I hate this. No one listens. I don’t listen.

We are preoccupied. The present is vulnerable and painful, yes? Living now, this is painful. And boring. Why do I feel pain in boredom? I feel pain everywhere. I cannot escape it.
I can!
I don’t.
I will.
I won’t, needs facing. Process. This is what I’m told. Process. Think.
I don’t want to. It’s the same every time.
But it’s not, if I try. Not try – if I stop escaping. Emotions are in control. I am not my master. Emotions run free. And drag.

And now I am tired. I am broken, feel empty. Drained of useless thoughts, the goal. But never drained, really. They sit and they wait, the follies. They claim me at my best and desert me. Flee. Like rational thought.
Too intellectual. Too.. bleh.. abstract. I hate that word and what it means. Pseudo-intellectual. That’s what comes to mind when I hear or say or write the word abstract. Overused. Overadmired. Now scorned.

There’s a good one. Scorned. Word.

I’m trying to drain it all. Trying to sleep. Trying to remember myself. Trying to keep it together.
(Partial bile upheaval.)

Scream. Scream again. From the guts, now! From the belly, tearing through the throat, the body resonating like a beat drum, bare teeth SCREAM!

Imagine there’s a Heaven. And imagine it’s where you’re made to be.

I hate. Odd place to turn, I know. But there are some things I hate. People acting, for one. Acting different from because they’re embarrassed of.

Speaking things into being. Interesting concept. God’s vehicle in creation, our best way toward healing. Yes. Dark thoughts need to be spoken. Loudly. Not without propriety. Not to just anyone. Not at dinner. No, no, NO.
Keep your head on.
Don’t mess up.
Be a jackass. They love it.

After lunch today, I went to Caribou Coffee. I sought to begin writing about a recent six-month period of my life. In thinking about the project beforehand, I’d had many ideas for subject material. When I sat to write them, I blanked

I thought hard for five minutes, strenuously wrote one to two sentences, and collapsed back into my chair. I then grabbed my coat and took out my cigarettes, put my coat back on the chair, put a cigarette in my mouth, and walked out the door. In front, the store blocked the sun. So I walked to the side. I paced back and forth, attempting to gather my thoughts. I had two or three brilliant thoughts, two or three directions in which to move. I finished my cigarette and walked back inside. Sat down,

looked at the words in my journal

Nothing. I’ve decided to try using a voice recorder.