the cycle

Goddamn spinning brain, keeping me up, up to no good.

Good news, and bad news... The good news is, my brain is healing. I'm getting some vitality and creativity back. I don't hate myself utterly, there may be a place or purpose for me, somewhere, eventually. I'm not so depressed. My body is forgiving, considering what I've inflicted on it, the last few weeks. It's begun to regenerate. It hasn't even been a week.

Time crawls when you're trying to stay sober. One day at a time.

Which brings me to the bad news. It hasn't even been a week. And I'm hyping a "streak". And already, I'm starting to get obsessive cravings, even for the specific drugs that hollowed me out so terribly, so recently, but more for old favourites I haven't come across in a while. When I try to sleep, my mind starts scheming, planning, ways I could score this or that, this in combination with that, on this or that occasion, with this or that person, a certain method, something new, or something I haven't tried in a while. This is what happens when I start feeling healthy again: I lose the dread and disgust. Racing for the death of all good feeling and meaning and spiritual sense, with the pedal to the floor, seems like just a part of this complete breakfast. It's what normal people do, it's just getting high with your friends. I've waited long enough, I can go and use again, and yeah, I'll feel like shit after, but it'll be fun, and I'll deal with the downer later. Ugh.

That's what keeps this wheel spinning, the one that’s such a boring blur I barely know what to write about it anymore. I don't feel so abysmally low, like I did a few blog entries ago, when I wrote desperately, just to try and think of something, anything, to do, the thinnest shell of meaning: "I can hardly say anything at this point". The cycle, the stupid horrible cycle. I am Grateful with a capital G, that I have recovered to this point, where I can feel happy again, but I am still SO addicted, and so in the obsessing stage. My sick mind is spinning schemes tonight, one after another, all sorts of ways for synthesizing my own private satori, my clandestine lab. I had to take a sleeping pill. A garden variety drammie, and I don't like delirium much anymore, not even soporific delirium. I'd rather just sleep, like a mammal.

I won't succumb this time, but it hasn't even been a week. Grumble. Keep coming back, I guess. Not to my own spiritual sinkhole, but the Other. The fellowship. It's lost its novelty for me, but is gaining the worn wisdom of repetition, trial and error.