...against whom not all of us are meant to emerge permanently victorious.
Compulsions take us when we least expect them to. As a recovering addict, I have learned this the hard way.
While I certainly consider myself more fortunate than many of those with whom I regularly associate, the last 12 years of my life have been shaded with weak justifications as to why getting high on dextromethorphan should be an acceptable substitute for confronting reality.
Bouts of binge drinking, often marked by self-inflicted cuts (I've only needed stitches once, thank God) have also stopped in for the occasional celebratory offering to the Porcelain Goddess.
Luckily, these bouts are few, far between, and typically very short lived.
Lately, the battle seems to be heating up. Greater expectations than those under which I'm accustomed to writhing are now upon me, especially with my little girl coming of the age where things start to make less sense, and with this blog, which I've vowed to keep up come hell or high water.
The reality is I need to write about my struggles with compulsion because transcendence is only human.
I am not a God. I breathe air, just you guys. I cry, curse, laugh, pray and fuck up just like you guys.
I do not have a higher perspective on life. Rather, I have a unique perspective on it (thank you for helping me put that to words, Jeff), and the gift of the written language as a tool through which to carry a message that the Universe needs to get across.
My ability to carry this message will depend heavily upon my continued sobriety, my ability to view any given situation from as many angles as possible in spite of a spiritual thirst for simplicity, and the unending search for Nirvana.
Most of all, my ability to stay human.
Compulsions take us when we least expect them to. As a recovering addict, I have learned this the hard way.
While I certainly consider myself more fortunate than many of those with whom I regularly associate, the last 12 years of my life have been shaded with weak justifications as to why getting high on dextromethorphan should be an acceptable substitute for confronting reality.
Bouts of binge drinking, often marked by self-inflicted cuts (I've only needed stitches once, thank God) have also stopped in for the occasional celebratory offering to the Porcelain Goddess.
Luckily, these bouts are few, far between, and typically very short lived.
Lately, the battle seems to be heating up. Greater expectations than those under which I'm accustomed to writhing are now upon me, especially with my little girl coming of the age where things start to make less sense, and with this blog, which I've vowed to keep up come hell or high water.
The reality is I need to write about my struggles with compulsion because transcendence is only human.
I am not a God. I breathe air, just you guys. I cry, curse, laugh, pray and fuck up just like you guys.
I do not have a higher perspective on life. Rather, I have a unique perspective on it (thank you for helping me put that to words, Jeff), and the gift of the written language as a tool through which to carry a message that the Universe needs to get across.
My ability to carry this message will depend heavily upon my continued sobriety, my ability to view any given situation from as many angles as possible in spite of a spiritual thirst for simplicity, and the unending search for Nirvana.
Most of all, my ability to stay human.
posted from Bloggeroid
No comments:
Post a Comment