There’s a storm brewing. It’s pretty fitting actually. I’m feeling that rebellious soul inside of me banging on the bones of my rib cage, begging for a hit of something...anything. I’m tired. My soul is tired.
I continue to fight. My mind, bloody, from overthinking and picking at scars that have long since healed. These are my little tumbles along the way to whatever these false prophets (dripping sarcasm here) call enlightenment.
Understanding fucking sucks. Understanding the miracle that is life and not even beginning to describe what it feels like to have pieces of your heart walking independent of you in contrast to not being claimed yourself as a child makes this struggle of staying present unreal. They keep telling me you have to find it within. To have that willingness to dig through yourself to find that love and define it for yourself and apply it...you must be desperate to survive and to remember that you survived. I guess I am.
When I was in active addiction it was so easy to love everyone including me. My substance took on a life of its own. It gave, over and over again, a lie that took away all the pain. Looking in the mirror there was finally this recognition that I was worthy of something. I felt untouchable. I felt comfortable in my own skin. It took away those little murderous comparisons. I was comfortable trusting, being in crowded places, letting the inner child play. I didn’t sit in my pain, and process it. I was soaring high above it. Detached from it. Without a care. Until I went to a therapy session sober and I nose dived into it.
In that one session I sparked some epiphanies about the true nature of some of my familial relationships. PTSD ignited my adrenaline every few minutes. Right in that moment around every corner was a trigger of some sort. I went outside on my patio and sat down and smoked...a lot. I smoked so much and it didn’t do a goddamn thing. I smoked until I could barely breathe. I was at the height of my addiction. No matter how much I smoked there was no escaping my reality unless I crossed that threshold of cross addiction.
I was enraged. I cried. Yelled at the sky and then asked through tears, and another pointless smoke, how I was supposed to let it all go. Then the words came to mind. “Get sober.”
Well, here I am. 160 some odd days in and still hoping for a good 24 hours. Releasing what “no longer serves me.” Thank Goddess it isn’t shitty like this everyday and that I stocked up on art supplies. Time to let the inner work bleed onto paper.
Much love,
Athilea Etla Lucem
Comments
Post a Comment