One of the most extraordinary thing about this blog, maybe the only extraordinary thing about this blog, is that it provides an amazing snapshot of exactly where I was emotionally in a given moment. I can reread the words and hear my tone, and recall where I was, who I was loving or hating, wether or not I was exercising, eating well, reading enough. Sometimes this is difficult, because if I’m unwell and I scroll down the page long enough to find a moment of happiness, then I’m even less happy. Those times are not the majority and most of the time I feel grateful looking through these posts. They allow me to measure a paradoxically objective sense of my development as a person. You would think that reading my own words is objectives opposite, but I feel I get a truth about where I was. It’s amazing how much we forget. The specific sting of depression, shame, rage, passion, frustration, impotence fade in time. Leaving only the truly intense bursts of aliveness to resonate fluorescent in the minds eye.
I’ve been letting good ideas slip by me lately. I think them, write them out in my head, but almost consciously delay putting them into writing. I get bored of my narration, and fear the egocentricities I’m sure will come if I’m too indulgent with my inner artist.
That reminds me of an argument I got into with a friend. He drunkenly levelled “you must be a very left brain kinda person, aren’t you?” at me. I didn’t say anything particularly clever back but it’s been bouncing around in my brain for a few weeks. The general gist of what he was saying was that I’m a reasonable person. I make lists and mostly make responsible decisions, that I’ve grown up. Peter Pan has ordered me off of never never land. He meant it as an insult.
He’s right. I only lose control when that’s exactly what I mean to do. I can remember when I cured myself of that abandon. The imitation leather coffee table scattered with cigarettes, little baggies, cards, lines of white powder, a rolled twenty dollar bill. I can remember the coke pressing through the booze, making my hands go cold, and every inch of my face numb. I can remember feeling the air get thicker, and the room get quieter although I sat cross legged between people laughing and talking. The panic set in pretty slowly, which is unnerving, as nothing seems to happen slowly when you’re that high. I kept going, taking my turn as it came, until my heart hammered in my ears, and I couldn’t get warm. My companions kept going until all the coke was gone, but at some point I had wandered off, to lay under my blankets, hoping to silence the sharp sound of drugs being pulled into someones sinuses, the only words making it through “We’re going to die, We’re going to die, We’re going to die.” Slept only took me sometime that afternoon when our guests had left, and I had a warm body to cling to. It took days to feel normal again, and I never really did after that, feel normal. One foot always stayed planted, even though the world around me kept going as it always had. I was now afraid of dying. Wether that said that I cherished life more or less, I’m still not sure.
That all said, I’m so much better than I was 6 months ago, better than a year ago. Maybe a little more tame, maybe a little more scared, but a little less sad, and maybe a little less dead inside.