I am finding that as I shoe-horn more and more time between the days I was a drooling, sick meth head, and myself today, I am becoming more and more expressive, far more creative than I have been in years – but that doesn’t mean that I was dry, during the years of addiciton.
Posts on my poetry blog are a stark insight into my most raw emotions, that could not be summed up in prose, but which danced frenetically, instead, in poetry.
This one, which is a free verse summation of my last night in London, captures the broken strands of my mind, and the disjointed river of personal experience, and the deep self-loathing I felt as a drug addict, living a double life:
you know those times after a good party when you’re on your way home but things just don’t focus, so you pour all your energy into focusing on the salient points that will guide you home and get you there safely because that’s the only way you’ll manage the only way you’ll see yourself safely home although safely is subjective so really just as long as you make it through the front door whatever happens after that is just fine this was one of those all I could see was the train board saying all trains go to brixton brixton where’s that is it close is it in the right direction can I get home oh god let me sleep
I wrote that after a night out, clubbing on ecstasy and cocaine; I passed out on the bench, waiting for the morning trains, and someone took my photo using my camera, and put that camera back in my pocket. Still, despite the horrific image of a drug addict passed out on a bench at 5am on a Tuesday morning, I sank even deeper into my addiction.
This next poem celebrated – indeed – made mockery in that celebration – of my cocaine addiction:
one little line defined
one tiny life – a line
too far yet still I’m
here to watch my
fine time come
last thing we need
the first thing – greed
for more, time, more
lines on which to write
our past present future
here now in this one tiny
life by lines defined.
As the reader travels through my poetry blog’s 113 poems, ignoring the one or two paeans to love, or the few lyrical jousts for the love of words, you get a very accurate sense of the emotion in an addicted mind, of the self-loathing, of the lies-to-self that wallow just below the surface. And I dislayed it all there, for the world to see.
It was not an outward cry for help, it was an expression of my dissociation from myself. And even though I wrote those, and read them, regularly, it is only now that I can see them for what they are – pieces of me, lying on the ground, and I am slowly putting these pieces together to form a picture of who I was, and what, and who I am, and what I will become.
This person in the image is me, but he is dead – I am no longer that slave to meth – slave to myself. I am free, but not out of danger – the cravings still come, and come hard. But now I know I am not alone, and I know I am not weak, and I know I am fearless in this journey.
The only one who can beat me down, is me, and that version of me is dead.
© healing.me 2012. All rights Reserved.