Realising since i’ve consumed alcohol close enough to each weekend since i’ve been 14 years old ive skipped a vast majority of having a childhood.

My mind has crumbled into a miasma of half forgotten addictions identities aspirations and promises of who i was.

I think im getting this addiction under some form of control, my recovery has not been dry unfortunately, though nor have i drowned. I havent been on any benders or had a drink without considering it, no involuntary action has thrown alcohol down my throat.

I tell myself im not kidding myself.

I tell myself this is acceptable.

But extended periods of sobriety have bought back long forgotten memories, ive reevaluated nearly every decision i have made whilst drunk or briefly sober. I am ashamed by how many people i have let down or hurt (myself included). I am hoping to rectify that

However….

As my mind is not submerged beneath an equaliser of deadened synapses and lack of cares, my mind is firing off in a million different directions and trying to rebuild itself with no blueprint or instructions and my mental state is clinging on grimly to sanity.

Its a tenous grip to say the least.

Like a barnacle encrusted atlantis rising from the deeps of a bourbon sea, structures and edifices of who i am are dragged, eroded from the abyss and strange currents, into the harsh light of recovery and cure.

I feel like i am sifting through a million pieces of sand trying to reconstitute them into the shells and pebbles they once were.

I have no idea who i am or what i want and i am working on that with little frame of reference.

In short, i am scared, in short give me some time, in short i am recovering….slowly.

The problem with recovery is that its a process not an ending.

Recovery meeting and a hasty cheap sandwich does not a lunch break make

Alcohol is so deeply ingrained in society it may as well be indoctrinated.

Far from ever asking co workers to go out for a coffee on a friday after work it seems commonplace to suggest the pub as a social hub to catch up, gossip, hang out, act outside the constraints of office decorum and poison oneself with consumeable relaxation, affability, and later embarassment, stupidity and clumsiness.

Friends will more often suggest “drinks for my birthday” than an activity such as paintballing or extreme sports or whatever the hell it is functioning members of society do for fun in the absence of booze. the notion of a nice meal inherently suggests rather more “mature” and perhaps slower deadening of synapses induced by the reds for the steak and pasta or whites for fish or salad. Perhaps even the asian or continental lager along with the machismo of the hotter-than-thous curry night with the group of friends affectionately, and surprisingly, with little sense of irony, known as ‘the lads’

Hell even the idea of going to see the latest movie is rarely without the occasionally unspoken caveat of…. drinks afterwards.

Perhaps the concept of an activity or meal is too redolent of childhood birthdays;poorly organised though with the best intentions but invariably with that one weird kid from school, one of the spoiled, the bullying, the smelly ones, that an eager and blissfully unaware parent ineptly and innapropriately invited because “youre all friends”. Perhaps it is this that an adult mind rejects, the faint notion of horror from a half remembered birthday party that was never as good as you had envisioned, so much so you enforce your structure on it, your adult rules. The alcohol an unwitting, unintentional defiance to still being a child.

Certainly an unsuccesful one for a generation little more than children with greys and unmanageable overdrafts.

Perhaps this is just my experience. Maybe I’m just projecting.

But families celebrate with alcohol too. A promotion, a new job, a new baby, a marriage, a succesful divorce, Christmas, New Years….lets break out the champagne.

Celebration and the consumption of alcohol has been misconstrued the celebration is the good thing the alcohol just for the occasion. But you cant celebrate every day and irrevocably the consumption of alcohol creeps back in to get that good feeling.

Such an interesting replacement for endorphins.

Hell, perhaps the British stiff upper lip is held steady by a stiff double gin.

As i say perhaps this is just my view based on my experience, or that now im not observing human function through the distortion of a bottom of a glass i notice the prevalence of drinking culture.

All it means is ive realised just how difficult recovery is really going to be….

Goddamn bass amp is missing, need some terrible trance/relatively decent music software and a mic port for my decrepit laptop, canvases are slowly drying and deepening in shade of base coats for new pieces of art, my poetic musings are taking shape form and meaning in Keats-esque cantos, im structuring the layout for my collection of short stories/graphic novels, ive started working out again, im using my great grandfathers oil painting sets on hard chip board, a paintbox he constructed himself, far from crudely, smelling faintly of varnish and turps passed on from my grandfather due to his failing eyesight, Im righting letters to write my wrongs…

….only im not …i have half a million half assed projects begun, cobbled together and then abandoned at the first hurdle, lack of materials instruments and tools but more importantly enthusiasm.

Goddamn apathy.

Im on my fourth-time-round third damn day of consecutive day of sobriety and i cant feel one iota of creativity. I am just tired and listless.

I have my initial one to one assessment tomorrow with a four hour break before my first ever workshop in a recovery program…i swear if the next six dry weeks (which include my 23rd) do not give me some new insight to this fucking addiction or i stay in this funk then im pulling a Hunter S. and longevity be damned…ill create art and be happy that i failed sobriety.

I sincerely hope i actually manage it but im stubborn and impatient….bitter sober thoughts scream “stop trying to kid yourself you weren’t unhappy drinking!”

This may just be the alcohol (or lack thereof) speaking….

….bottoms up, the only thing ill be knocking back is my words and swallowing them with my pride

I wanna thank you for being a part of my forget-me-nots and marigolds and other things that dont get old….all of you

Slowly, painfully but promisingly. After 4 attempts going cold turkey im cutting down slowly before stopping and im starting a non religious recovery program for six weeks soon….this time i wanna be sober and have done with relying on something that makes me a vague approximation of who i am….wish me luck?

sarahgawterrwhiskey:

finding what you love to do and doing it. And if you are good at what you love, my loves, that is great. If you are great at what you love, that is God*.

*And by God, I mean spiritual energy, not God as defined by the Bible. 

Slowly getting there….stuff like this is wonderfully inspirational and helpful….i apologise i havent had any original thoughts my brain is a horrific mess of weary dendrites misfiring synapses and inadequate seratonin. Getting there inch by lowly inch…sip of drink by less sip of glorious drink…

kazland:

AMERICAN GOTHIC

My friend what does pictures n that…..a man ive reblogged through recovery, hes better in real life but i fucking love this piece

well here goes nothin’….staggering down the road hungover (if only because my taste for the dramatic has more than just a soupcon of irony) i feel like im partaking in organised religion and i cant help but hate myself for it. The building is shady and down back streets close to some annoyingly good pubs…its safe to say i am not confident after making sure i knew the location yesterday…casing the joint like a hard drinking detective with far too few great hats.

The receptionist is a recovered alcoholic herself with a great attitude and despite my reserved opinion on overly staff she seems to have a great grip on people and im on the verge of tears the entire time she doesnt bat an eyelid.

The waiting room has a friendly caterer and fellow alcoholic waiting his appointment who seems eager to share his story. Our stories couldnt be more different, him a binge drinking camp 40 year old but we both share the sentiment “its good for us to be here”

My counsellor is young and again foreign he blushes when he asks if im a sex worker and i have to laugh. Yet that being said and despite his apparent inexperience im amazed by how stoic and unperturbed he appears during my boilerplate questionairre cos my jaw drops when my drinking is quantified and put into figures, all the vague questions on blackouts self injury violence et al each one rumbling a distant dredged up memory, half forgotten, barely remembered and repressed.

At the end of it he expresses his serious concern and books me in for a six week course, three weeks away, after work and convenient, with the added caveat of six weeks sobriety.

Sobriety beckons and i am scared as hell.

Recovery has to begin somewhere….

iwilldestroyme:

alabasteretard:

essentiallydazzling:

Russell Brand speaking before the Parliamentary Committee on Addiction yesterday.

Remember that time Russell Brand spoke about addiction at the MTV Awards after Amy Winehouse died, and barely received a tepid applause from an audience full of supposed role models?
He may be a shit actor, but he’s a splendid human being.

^This. He is extremely eloquent, and I agree with everything he said. 

flygonin60seconds:

“The Egg” by Andy Weir

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”

“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.

“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”

“Yup,” I said.

“I… I died?”

“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”

“More or less,” I said.

“Are you god?” You asked.

“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”

“My kids… my wife,” you said.

“What about them?”

“Will they be all right?”

“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”

“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”

“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”

“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”

You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”

“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”

“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.

“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”

“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”

“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”

“Where you come from?” You said.

“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”

“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”

“So what’s the point of it all?”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”

“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.

I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”

“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”

“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”

“Just me? What about everyone else?”

“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”

You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”

“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

“Wait. I’m everyone!?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.

“I’m every human being who ever lived?”

“Or who will ever live, yes.”

“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”

“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.

“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.

“And you’re the millions he killed.”

“I’m Jesus?”

“And you’re everyone who followed him.”

You fell silent.

“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

You thought for a long time.

“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”

“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”

“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”

“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”

“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”

“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”

And I sent you on your way.

Near enough as to what i believe anyway….but there are probably closer to 500 real people on the earth at any one time (which explains why they keep running into each other all the time)

Growing old doesn’t scare me anymore. Growing alone does.

I would like everyday to be a warm breezy summers day with wine and food and friends and someone to devote myself to. Every evening to last four hours longer than we deserve, every evening to have wind and rain pounding against the windows as we lie illicitly in each others naked arms warm and full and content and in love.

I miss you all already; you women and friends who make life so implicitly worth living. Heres to perfection never gained though always striven for.

The moment the doctor says that you don’t have an arrhythmia or as yet anything wrong with your liver and you’re basically pretty healthy is normally a good sign. However the actual diagnosis is most certainly not

The reason my heartbeat fluctuates during work is not down to stress or bad blood pressure. It is not heart disease or anything like that…it is withdrawal symptoms as i sober up through the day.

This is, in his words “a crisis point” i’ve yet to do any serious damage that a 15 minute check up should uncover but I’m not far off.

Dammit pilgrim hand me that box of my words I spoke, i’m getting hungry and I think i’m gonna eat them. Where is that damn local AA