So then, back to my question, on the nature, the identity of love: because today is another hard day, where I’m craving the precious poison so badly, and missing it so much that I ache for it, I long for it, I desire it, I want it so much, so badly…I almost think I need it. (In my mind’s eye, OB1 passes his hand before this deleterious wantage and monotones monotonously “THESE are NOT the wants of now…” – I’m fighting to make that true!)
This ache is no different to the ache, the pain, the stomach-churning, frenetic chaos that is love. By that you can take it that as an added bonus to the cataclysmic self-destruct mode I have been in, I have also fallen not only on hard times, but deeply, madly, truly in love, and have been so fallen for a number of months…er…that number exceeds 20 but is less than 200, just in case you thought you’d try and guess at the identity of the focal point of my love’s cruel reality.
When I think of …oh…I nearly said their name…so let’s name them, with a new identity, so that we can talk about it – them – this love, and this person – and the innocent won’t be hurt – let’s name my love…Cris…that is fitting, yes, for a meth-head like me? It’ll do. When I think of Cris, I really DO go weak at the knees, my stomach does its admirable best to kill me, by inverting, and making a granny-knot out of my intestines and spleen; my palms sweat; my paranoid jealousy (such an attractive trait in Glenn Close, so much less so in me) soars and my capacity for logical thought and verbal communication, or any communication that is vocabular, rather, diminish faster than the trays of fried chicken at a company employee party (though not as fast as the trays of free booze!)
On the other hand, when I think of crystal, I get itchy feet – itchy to get into the car to go buy some more, despite me having lost the car, the source of income and the cash reserves needed to do so. My nervous system pre-empts the silky, crystalline smoke infiltrating my lungs, and thereafter my blood and the self-same central nervous system, and my bowls invert, almost literally, knotting my stomach in a fight-or-flight-style response that only fellow junkies will understand. My paranoia that everyone KNOWS what I am doing, what I want to do, takes on the eerie resemblence of Boy George-like mania, and this tremulous fear quivers me shimbers, and any hope of thought, logical, or conversation, comprehensible, emulates those very similes I used describing love.
Love is a condition, not unlike Rabies. Addiction is conditional, not unlike Pavlov’s poor, stupefied and slightly deaf dog (or is that conditioning, and Pavlov’s hare? I always get them befuddled!) Love is a many-terrored thing, according to Annie Lennox, and according to me, it differs from addiction only in the way that there are no Love Anonymous support groups, no wallet-raping prisons-dressed as 5-star hotels pretending to be able to cure you of love…love and addiction, addicion and love; both so destructive and distracting and damaging and dreadful, and both so achingly, wantonly beautiful, so very part of the warp and weft and weave of life that life without either seems impossible, from where I sit.
Will I survive?
© healing.me 2012. All Rights Reserved.