Writings from last spring, a week in solitude.
April 1, 2014
Sun mottled backyard, sitting a top a paint chipped picnic table, rows and rows of young veggies sprouting up in the house garden, a vacant stick and string tied structure awaits tomato vines. An eagle soaring overhead, a vast blue sky. Three days ago I packed my lap top in my little black suit case, two sweaters, a pair of jeans, a white woolen shawl and bought a one way ticket to the only place I knew I could go to escape from who ever it was that was inhabiting my blood and bones. A self-induced rehabilitation. I can pin point the very hour this version of me awoke, it was four months ago, the middle of autumn, the ending to a month, the approaching of a new moon.
Two days ago my mother stood in front of me at the coach bus station, wrapping her arms around my weakened shoulders "You've been asking why I've been so sad lately, it's you Vera, I don't recognize you anymore." I held myself together and attempted to breathe some weightlessness into the air, "I'll be fine Mom, I promise." I spent the next three hours in delusion, shaking, examining the cigarette burns on my hands, too empty to read, too disturbed to listen to the music on my phone, how did I get here?
Four months ago I had ambition, I woke up every morning and jogged, I was being notified that my photographs would be published in several publications, a book even, my vintage shop was getting the attention of several interviewers and collaborators, I had big dreams, a sea of motivation. And then... I sacrificed it all. A bargain with the devil, all self-control in exchange for the immediate satiation of my cravings and desires. Four months ago I had two choices: to attend my second AA meeting or succumb to my darkness. When you're not busy dousing light in the inner nooks and slivers of the all encompassing Mind, there's no resistance, no effort, no worry, no anxiety, not a care in the world. How tempting that was to me, after so many months of strengthening self-discipline. I craved excitement and adventure, and I got it. I craved hallucinogens, empathogens and my long time friends whiskey and indian pale ale, and I got them all, more frequently than I even wanted to. I craved eccentricism, a life on a film reel, beautiful guitar string picking boys, music that rearranged my cells, hand rolled tobacco, magic, divination, an exploration of the spectrum. I wanted to to run away with nothing but a backpack nestled to my back, rubbing long ware marks on the back of my suede vest, a string puppet of thirst, no plans of returning home. I became a slave to my own freedom. Oh the irony.
I thought I had tapped into the ultimate mode of living, "life doesn't have to be difficult, if I remain in this flow then the Cosmos will bring me everything I could ever desire. As long as I don't worry about a single thing, I can continue along through this magical existence". I began waking up craving a drink, so I drank. I woke up the following morning craving a drink, so I drank. I went to work, during my break I would drink. After work I began to drink. During my days off I drank, painted, smoked, drank, danced, took M, dropped acid. I was living with my best friend, money was coming to me whenever I needed it, spring was approaching, our nomadic summer was all planned out, life was good. Depression began to slyly creep in on my sober mind, easy fix. The Friday before last I blacked out into a telephone pole and broke my nose, got stranded in a neighboring town with no way home. Last Saturday after being dropped off at home after a night at the bars I spent six hours pouring vodka down my throat, alone, I blacked out at 8:30am. I woke up and tears began pouring down my cheeks. Uncontrollable, muscle jolting tears. Who the fuck was I and why was I back here again?