Speaking only for me ( as if I could speak for anyone else) - addiction proved to be a pathological avoidance of feelings. Numb and dumb. Obsessing on everything except what was going on. Flailing, fledgling failure to control life. Still an addict, but 40 years abstinent. Still think I would make a great Emperor of the Universe. Still not (thank God! You think the world is screwed now? Imagine me at the helm!). Still wishing I could control life: speed it up, slow it down, make people be more or less this or that. Etc. Things are so much better now except for when they aren’t. Addiction is a cruel teacher. I learned my lessons well. I don’t ever want to take the class over. I hope and pray that when I die, it will not be as a groupie of some fucking drug.
Absolutely, yes—that’s what I mean by addiction serving a purpose. You used it to numb feelings; for me, it’s the opposite. Trauma left me numb, docile, and I use drugs to feel something beyond the void. Ultimately, you’re right, it’s still avoidance, a desperate grab for anything but the present. I’ve danced enough with my demons to face them better now, but the real fight is fixing my brain to start each day at zero, not -15. I hear you, but being a groupie sounds like it has some degree of fun potential. I feel like a minion, a slave, hostage—drugs keep me from travelling, scared I’ll run out across a border and crash. I’m barely active in my community, always hiding my secret. That’s not living.
Pathological avoidance of numbness and docility. I am presently a slave to nothing but in service to much. BTW, I sent you a message somewhere asking for your brilliant poem, The Maw of (don’t remember the rest)…
I've got ADD (no H) and I know what it's like to live your entire adult life with a thimbles worth of dopamine, whilst everyone else has a full tank.
It's hard and it's hell.
I'm rooting you on from the sidelines. You can do this.
Thank you Edward. Appreciate the support, truly.
I imagine hell to be like this. Sending you much much love peace and light. You are not alone my friend.
I am so blessed to have you in my corner 🖤
Speaking only for me ( as if I could speak for anyone else) - addiction proved to be a pathological avoidance of feelings. Numb and dumb. Obsessing on everything except what was going on. Flailing, fledgling failure to control life. Still an addict, but 40 years abstinent. Still think I would make a great Emperor of the Universe. Still not (thank God! You think the world is screwed now? Imagine me at the helm!). Still wishing I could control life: speed it up, slow it down, make people be more or less this or that. Etc. Things are so much better now except for when they aren’t. Addiction is a cruel teacher. I learned my lessons well. I don’t ever want to take the class over. I hope and pray that when I die, it will not be as a groupie of some fucking drug.
Absolutely, yes—that’s what I mean by addiction serving a purpose. You used it to numb feelings; for me, it’s the opposite. Trauma left me numb, docile, and I use drugs to feel something beyond the void. Ultimately, you’re right, it’s still avoidance, a desperate grab for anything but the present. I’ve danced enough with my demons to face them better now, but the real fight is fixing my brain to start each day at zero, not -15. I hear you, but being a groupie sounds like it has some degree of fun potential. I feel like a minion, a slave, hostage—drugs keep me from travelling, scared I’ll run out across a border and crash. I’m barely active in my community, always hiding my secret. That’s not living.
Pathological avoidance of numbness and docility. I am presently a slave to nothing but in service to much. BTW, I sent you a message somewhere asking for your brilliant poem, The Maw of (don’t remember the rest)…
I aspire to be there (no slave but in service of) soon, too. I like the way that lands.
I will send it to you.