Juggling Dust

Day 2,840.

Plaiting fog, knitting gravy, juggling dust – just some titles of tricky little human irritants (caused by other actual human irritants) that make the roadmap of life far from easy.

They drop their spectral fingers on the anti-gravity button, causing everything we hold dear to rise up, fade and disappear. One minute everything is there within huggable distance: money, joy, employment, love, friendship, ripped abs (insert your cherished-whatever, here). The next: 3,2,1 up, up, and away they all go! Everything has gone. Everything but us, the emptiness, frustration and anger. Invisible ankle weights bear down keeping us fixed to the earth as we gaze up through glazed eyes, watching everything we had, shrink to a dot. Just when we least expect, it strikes like a prehistoric predator acting as prophet – Veloci-Rapture. All gone. Poof!

Of course, it doesn’t all happen at once. We don’t get it all over with in one agonising lump, then start afresh. No; like our breath in Winter, it evaporates in increments. Days, weeks, months, and years meld and blur behind us. A thief in the night\day\dawn – take your pick.

I don’t actually know where I’m going with this post. Really, I don’t! I may have written myself an over-wordy sinkhole. Well, you’re this far in with me. You may as well get the popcorn.

From screaming our tiny lungs dry on our first day of birth, to screaming back at the empathy-hoover of an automated voice on the end of a phone. We get though life by juggling dust. Unfortunately, it’s obligatory and non-negotiable whether we like it (we don’t) or not. We are not told about such things at our very beginning as we wet our pants, dribble and throw our food at parents. But it soon creeps up as we grow, as life kicks us in our financial, mental, and spiritual backsides. Them’s the unwritten rules. We are the jugglers of dust. Poof!

All life on earth could paved with such an endless abundance of love, joy and sustenance for all – if only it weren’t for one clutch of nasty little elements – humans. Or more accurately, the excremental (not a typo), labyrinthine undercurrents of human nature.

Add a heap of wealth to a nice human. Now sprinkle in some success. Stir in some hype, and add dollops of ego. Let it all cook slowly in government buildings, tv and film studios, organised religious churches and the like. Decorate with the lies and deception of the high-earning, low living accumulation of digitised, online Influencer detritus who throw their pixilated barbs into us for, follows, likes and cash.

Let it all simmer until you end up with charming a looking dish – totally inedible due to the rotten ingredients that steam and writhe within. I’d advise being in running distance of a toilet after gorging on all that.

Sounds bad? That’s us!

You still here? My apologies, and thanks.

It breaks my heart to see once-perfectly naturally beautiful girls and women, whose faces and bodies have been influenced, co-opted, branded and self-altered, become clones of one another. Lips are swollen into permanent pouts. Botox infused foreheads refuse natural expression, and (perfect?) eyebrows: waxed, tweezed, threaded, pencilled, tattooed and micro bladed within an inch of their once wild little lives.

Then we have the hollowed-out cheeks and the skull-like gauntness that haunt tabloids thanks to Ozempic or other dodgy alternatives. It was good at the start, they thought. Then . . .

The influencers make sure that natural beauty is never enough. A little fix here and there to begin with is never enough. Nothing is ever enough. We can all look never enough together until we all look exactly the same. Then comes thrill of the chase. More, more, more!

Addiction is its own savage and repulsive animal. But if it is fed daily by the greed and antipathy of the scum at the top of the mortality chain – it breeds and runs feral to the vulnerable who have already been emptied of the promises life once gave them. Its victims once the highest of intelligence and the most radiant of beauties, the strongest and most impenetrable of bodies and wills. But each will be stripped and ripped by the teeth of addiction into the most vulnerable and broken of souls. The animal is kept fed by the hand of the obsidian darkness, the bleakest of human nature. Fed by money, greed, desire; domination over every thing and every one. Nobody gets out with their dignity, beauty, finances, or souls intact. Nobody gets out alive.

As a child I used to believe in God. I was a cherubic little catholic; a choirboy and altar boy at my local church. I attended mass every Sunday. Now I don’t believe. Life saw to that. Nothing in particular happened. Life happened. But what sane god would allow the state of this once beautiful planet and its occupants to self-implode and burn like this? All tv and online news media are like scenes from Hellraiser and American Psycho. I’ve seen firsthand what organised religion can do to vulnerable, trusting people who become lost. All in the name of a loving god. They unwittingly lose their soul via their bank accounts and dignity. There are many, many genuinely good people of faith out there. There are. But devils walk among them dressed as angels and acolytes.

But god is not for me. I’ve never met a god that practices what he/she preaches. I’ve never met a god. Have you?

I’m not a vegetarian or a vegan. I’m an out-and-out carnivore. It’s in my (our) nature. I’m more than well aware, as we all are (or should be) of the sickening and horrific practices inflicted on innocent animals to get their meat to our oversized plates and mouths. I do feel that constant, distant rumble of guilt in my conscience as I chew on other-species flesh. But unfortunately, the meat still goes down. We carnivores shouldn’t be able to easily sleep at night. Our minds should be riddled constantly with deafening nightmares of the torture and depravity, perpetrated on our fellow, other-species earth dwellers. But sleep, we do. One day I will cut out meat altogether. I think it’s the right thing to do. They say ‘meat is murder.’ If you care about such things, I suppose technically, it is. I think about these things. I have a conscience. We all have a conscience!

But the slaying doesn’t stop at other-species.

And boy do we murder ourselves on a barbaric and disgustingly grand scale that would make Satan and his sick little minions wince a little as he hammers up the sign on Hell’s basement which says ‘No More Vacancies.’

Femicide, infanticide, genocide, suicide – pick a cide – but whatever cide you pick – it’s always the same cide of a bad cide of a bad lot. The inhuman side of human nature.

As children, we have the get-out clause written as the bliss of ignorance and innocence. As sane adults, we can’t use that same article. We’re willingly and gratefully ill-informed. We should know better, do better, be better. But we don’t.

If the human race were an actual greyhound race, we’d all starve to death in our wide-open traps, as the hare runs in endless circles.

You sill here? Wow! Help!

But all that stuff, the jet-black stuff, that’s all human nature gone wrong, stuff. The dark underbelly of a superb bit of still-evolving biological super-engineering, given as a gift from the universe to a spinning rock called earth. We schlepped out of the sea one day, many years ago and Bingo! You and me.

Humans. The average Joe. Joe Bloggs – just getting though life the best we can.

Always double-checking we are wearing pants before we walk out our front door, bleary-eyed in the morning. We fill our cars with trusting humans on the school run or work, and try not to hit and maim other biological familiars in similar, speedy tin-can transport. We start work and finish the day in the hopes of not trepanning our co-workers with a long, thick shard of coffee mug when they infuriate us. We bank on them giving us the same courtesy.

Most humans are fantastic ambassadors for upright, intelligent, and chatty biology. We do try our best on a daily basis. We really do. Although we only use a tiny fraction of our brain capacity, the miniscule part that we do benefit from is mostly put to good use. Mostly. We invented the wheel, some time ago, all by ourselves! We can pretty much take the credit for miracles of medical science. All the arts? Yep, all that was us. We also invented Love Island and TikTok, but we all make mistakes. We’re only human.

This post was supposed to be quite short. A rant and ramble about how life could be so wonderful if it were not for the hearts of darkness inside the small percentage of humans belching out smoke in front of distorted mirrors. The inflicting of so much pain on the rest of humankind, animal-kind, and ecological-kind. How recovery from addiction is made so much harder by the greed and soul-filth of others trying to drag us off our wagons and under the wheels. Why we are constantly influenced to be absolutely anything and everything, but ourselves. I could have just said that. But I didn’t.

If you made it this far, you’re a trooper and a star. Unfortunately, I can’t give you your time back. But I can give you thanks.

Thanks.

Take care everyone xx

The Vulnerable Dead

Day: 1146

Many people see addicts as frightening, or at the very least, intimidating. I get it. Before alcoholism sucker-punched my life, so did I.

Many moons ago, before the alcohol became bad, and when I was living near London, I regularly delivered stationary to a tourist information centre. It was next-door to a recovery centre. As is always the way, outside was always a raggedy group of recovering addicts, smoking cigarettes with shaky fingers. I had to park my van and walk past them, quickly wheeling my trolley full of stuff. I’d hear them, smell them, see them – fear them. They were never impolite or intimidating, simply jittery, frustrated, and anxious. Just a bunch of anxious people standing around and getting their last smoke in before a group or appointment.

But they were addicts!

The hollowed-out cheeks of heroin addicts terrified me. Were they heroin addicts? How the hell did I even know? I was clueless. Others were red-faced and bloated. Probably alcoholics. Again, I was naive and judgemental. But what if the heroin people mugged me for their fix money? What if they injected me with dirty needles just for kicks? Because that’s what heroin addicts do all day, right? What if the alcoholics got together in an alcohol-fuelled rage and beat me to a pulp? Just for the hell of it! Because that’s what, blah, blah, blah . . .

Ah, stigma. I knew you so well!

There was more chance of a vagina growing on my elbow than any of this ridiculous internal fear-mongering coming true. But I didn’t know. I was too busy being paralysed by fear, hyped-up on media, gossip and rumour.

I was simply walking past a group of fellow humans who had dealt with their past problems the wrong way. They were trying to put things right for themselves.

Most addicts are passive, shy, and private due to huge amounts of shame and guilt. Many are terrified. Aside from the rare few who feed the stigma machine, addicts wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

* * *

Skip a few years. I went from addict-phobic, to standing outside a recovery centre, anxiously smoking roll-ups with my fellow addicts, in-between groups, and appointments. We would, amongst other things, talk about how harsh it is to be stigmatised by judgey-normals.

But I can absolutely understand why people fear addicts.

During addiction we can appear like the animated dead, unreadable expressions on our faces as we stumble and mumble. We’re anxious, depressed, frustrated, and poisoned. We have been known to vomit and urinate in public (wherever we lay our hats, and all that). Sometimes we sleep in the wrong places (sometimes at the request of the police). We can smell odd, often eye-wateringly so. But we are mostly people who got life wrong for a while – and became stuck.

But what you’re actually seeing is total, raw vulnerability.

We often get preyed upon, blamed, shamed and taken advantage of. Why? Because it’s easy. We are rarely aware when fingers are pointed. Also (mid-drink or drug) we don’t care. Apart from flooding of our blood with various poisons, we rarely care about much. You tell us black is white and you’d maybe get a thumbs up and a nonchalant smile. We mostly just want people to leave us alone.

On two occasions, I really did take people at their word. I paid for it dearly, for years afterwards. Here they are:

1: I received a standard letter from the bank asking me to come in for a review of my account. Nothing bad or even anything to worry about. Just a chat. I went. I think I did! I must have done. Because when I woke up the next day, I had printed documentation in black and white with my signature confirming it. I didn’t remember a thing. But I’ll guarantee you this – I will have staggered into that bank, slurring my words and stinking to high-heaven of booze. I would have been unshaven, scruffy, and wearing the same clothes I’d been in for days. It wouldn’t have been a pretty sight, or smell. So why did I wake up the next day with a crumpled contract for a £4000 loan and a credit card? I only went in for an account review, right?

2: One morning I woke up hungover after a blackout. Next to me was a brand-new mobile phone and a wine or blood-stained contract. It tied me in for £70 per month for two years. All neatly signed by me! This was from the friendly local Vodafone shop. Done and dusted!

To this day, I remember nothing of both occasions. But I definitely remember the years of struggling to pay everything off.

So who’s fault was it?

Mine, obviously. I got slaughtered on wine or whatever, and staggered into two corporate, money-hoovers when I really should have stayed home in bed. Simple. Got me bang to rights, guvnor! Stick the cuffs on.

But I have questions! Not many, but a few.

You’re a phone sales human, or a bank human. You see, hear, and smell an obviously intoxicated person stumbling in through your doors. Obviously, you gently persuade them to go home and come back another day, right? You’re not going to get any sense out of them. Or you go to your manager and ask for advice? He/she would advise the above, obviously?

Obviously not!

You go for the money-shot. Straight into the pockets of the vulnerable and pull out as much cash as possible. Drain that bank account and milk it for what it’s worth! For years! Because you’ve got them where you need them – vulnerable! You may as well kick a homeless person in the face and steal their change whilst you’re at it. Pull a feeding baby from its mothers breast as well. Why not eh? It’s all the same thing. Taking advantage of, and taking the money from, the most susceptible people who walk through the door. Making the figures look good. Having your tongue firmly wedged up your greedy boss’s ass.

I’ve heard so many similar stories like mine from friends and ex-clients. Mine isn’t a one-off story. I’m not the only addict who’s been taken advantage of like this. Unfortunately, I won’t be the last.

But I’ll tell you what! What goes around, comes around! Many of us recover. We begin to shine and we never forget being screwed-over. We make our own money and pay our dues and debts. You’ll never take advantage of us again. When the going gets tough, the tough get creative. We write letters, books, essays, memoirs, emails, messages, posts, and blogs – sometimes about money-stealing, life-wrecking, cowardly excuses for humans.

If you are one of these modern-day robbers, I do forgive you. But I hope after reading this you’ll never screw-over another addict’s life like that again. Be fair. Be nice. Be a decent human being. Just be kind to your fellow humans. Life is too short. Simple.

Have a lovely day, stay amazing and be safe xx

Art by Mark Masters. Click photo for his site

An Illusion Called Time

Day 468.

This is a dark post. A bit grim and raw. It’s not in the slightest bit uplifting, because it’s the ugly truth. It’s a snapshot of the future if addiction gets hold of you. If you want your day brightening up, I’d skip this post today. It’s not for you.

* * *

The days, weeks, months, and years are so full of time. We continually think of all that time, time and time again. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

Addicts can magically erase all that time. Poof!

Once our bloodstreams, brains, and bones are flooded full of our substance of choice – time, no longer exists. It never did – poof! Every day is a filthy, bloodied, tear-stained, non-existent, Groundhog Day. Our next drink or fix dissolves the minutes, hours, months, and years into a liquid and mercurial state.

Addicts exist in a swirling grey fog of nothing. It’s the first wish granted when we rub the magic addiction lamp. Eventually, further down the line, ‘I wish the next drink will kill me’ is the one wish that never seems to come. But give it time. That final wish will come true. It always does. Just give it time.

Every day we hear people say the same thing. Time flies! Where does all the time go? I can’t believe how quickly the time has passed! The time has literally gone! Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

Anything and everything merges into mush. Life (whatever that may be) swirls around us like the filthy blood sloshing around our veins. We have given ourselves a licence not to think any more. Our feelings put on pause. We laugh and we cry but never know why. Some of us cut and slash our sick, yellowing skin because we need to transfer the searing mental pain onto something tangible. Something we can see. There is enough rage and guilt in our bodies that the cuts never hurt. The pain moves a million miles away. The screams become distant echoes.

The dried blood and scars become the addicts Braille our fingertips read when the lights go out.

The door never opens because it’s always locked. The phone never rings after it’s unplugged. The outside world is simply that – outside.

Outside exists only when it must: when we get our drinks, when we meet our dealers, or when we finally have to sleep in it. Life never comes to us because we never let it in. Too embarrassed, too angry, too ugly, too far gone, too paranoid – too dead.

We don’t know where time is anymore. Time rots our food, rots our guts, makes us stink, takes our kids, un-employs us, desexualises us, imprisons us, removes our souls, cages our minds, makes shop doorways our beds. It builds our crosses and crucifies us.

But we don’t care. We never care.

We’ve spent many years re-wiring our brains with poison. We hacked our fleshy, sputtering software so that giving a shit does not compute anymore. We’ve crashed our system – blue screen – error 404. No option to reboot or reinstall. We are totally corrupted. All data lost. Blip! Gone.

Our tiny universe has stopped all the clocks. Nothing revolves around our world – only drink or drugs – drugs and drink. Our weather is toxic; the ground is a waiting grave. One day we will be worm food, plant food, maggot-ridden and fly-blown. It’s then up to heaven and hell to fight over our ragged souls and show us our new home.

I wonder if Jesus still does his water into wine trick! Does heaven have a rehab? Can the biblical and eternal screaming hell that our churches and priests condemn us to, match up to the hell we created for ourselves?

I doubt it. It’ll walk in the park.

Anyway, happy thoughts, eh!

Stay amazing and safe, everyone xx

Self-programmed & Self-destructive

Day 306

Is addiction a disease or a choice?

That is a massive can of worms that squirm around the recovery world and stubbornly refuse to go back inside. It’s a minefield that addicts and professionals have been debating, often heated, since the first ever addict thought to themself, “I like doing this! I like it a lot! It’s all everyone else’s fault anyway, not mine! Fuck ’em!” That’s the subject of my next post. But until then . . .

Do we pre-programme our self-destruction as we grow up? When we embark on our addictive careers, do we simply pick and choose our own triggers and happily flick them as we darken our lives around us. Switching off our self, bit by bit. Lots of questions there and I realise that I’m digging quite a hole for myself because the answers, if they exist, aren’t readily springing to mind.

One of my earliest memories is wobbling on tiny feet up the hallway in my parents’ house as a very young child. I stopped dead in my tracks, craning my neck back to look up at the light switch. Way out of reach of chubby little fingers. But I remember wishing and hoping that one day soon, I’d be big enough to be able to turn the light on and off all by myself. Was that my first sense of optimism, wonder and awe? Was it already there or was I pre-programming it for the future?

Skip forward a couple of years.

I was pushing an electric plug, half in and half out of the wall socket; metal prongs still exposed. I was intent on touching them, aware it was very dangerous! I was happily conscious that I’d get a shock. I probably may have even known I could die. I couldn’t quite get my fingers inside to touch this live suicide device so off I trotted to find something thin and metal to get in there. Thankfully I must have been distracted because I didn’t return to it. But I remember not caring about the huge bolt of electricity that could have charred my skin and bones black. I gave no mind to being flung across the room, shocked into unconsciousness, or death. I really wanted to do it. Give it a try. I was around three or four years old. I didn’t seem to care. The strange thing is, I was a very happy kid with lots of friends and a good family. But I wanted to give pain or death a real go. Right out of nowhere. Was it already there or was I pre-programming my insanely self-destructive nature for the future?

In my early twenties, I caught the train from the north where I lived to go to see my drum teacher for my lessons. Local? Just around the corner? No. A little bit further; all the way down south to a bustling, professional rehearsal studio in Kings Cross, London. A good two hours on the train.

Terence Trent D’Arby. Remember him?

He was unknown(ish) at the time and rehearsing his hit album there as I had my lessons. Little did I know that hit songs were being worked out and rehearsed there by other bands – as I had my lessons. I met these people and watched them play. They watched me play. It didn’t seem like a big thing. I simply wanted my lessons with one of the UK’s top drummers. I didn’t care about all the exciting stuff going on around me. Nobody really knew who Terence Trent D’Arby was at the time (he was eventually huge in the 80’s) and the hits hadn’t been released yet. I just wanted to learn drums. I knew what I wanted and who with. I wanted to be as good as the best. So that’s what I did! Many trips and many lessons. Because that’s exactly what I wanted and I did it! I got good at drumming, damn good. Whatever it took to get better, I did it. Motivation, blinkered focus, dedication, and determination at such a young age. Right out of nowhere. Already there or was I pre-programming for the future?

Around the same time, I was happily (happily?) slicing my arm with a scalpel. Nothing deep or savage but something that would have shocked friends who would have seen it. Nobody did. It was always hidden. I was getting a bit low, possibly slightly depressed, mentally isolating myself and lost. Nothing major. I was merely at a low ebb. But rather than ask for help from friends and family, (I still had a lot of friends and doing well playing in bands) or go to the doctor to discuss medication or therapy, I simply decided to transfer all this unwanted mental pain onto my skin. I was placing something unseen onto a brand-new canvas. I could look at it, touch it and add to it as the waves of darkness washed over me. The cutting didn’t hurt as much my mind did. In fact, it didn’t hurt at all. I’d learned a sort of mind-over-matter from somewhere. I managed to put a pain buffer on the physical act, something I couldn’t achieve with my mental self-bullying. It worked. I found a newly discovered tool that (rightly or wrongly) worked. Unconventional coping tools, mind-over-matter, a dogged stubbornness against asking for help. Already there or pre-programming for the future?

In my early thirties and I wanted to become a fiction writer. From childhood I had always been a bookworm but hadn’t given a thought to writing. But right out of the blue I start writing. I wasn’t very good. But as with my drumming, I knew I would improve with practice. I practiced a lot. I wrote letters to a professional horror author who I had read and enjoyed. He replied with very kind and supportive advice. I sent him my first ever short story and he sent it back to me, splattered with constructive, editorial notes. This confirmed to me – the story was crap. I had a lot to learn. But I was good with, and actively encouraged constructive criticism. The author had given me the starting blocks to build with. Gradually I improved. After a year or so of rejections, my short stories began being accepted in magazines and published. Eventually I met and befriended the cream of the crop of British crime, sci-fi, horror and fantasy writers. The best of the best in their chosen fields. It was a wonderful family of motivation, friendship, and peer support. I felt accepted. Home. I had found my people. My writing continued to improve. I was making a name for myself as I became very active in the writing community. I was being regularly published. I even began and co-edited a brand-new magazine. My friendship and writing network grew. A promising writing career was slowly being born. My first novel was all planned. Everything was going fantastic! Then . . . I simply stopped. I allowed life to get in the way and the whole thing ground to a big nothing. In the Seventeen years that followed, I wrote one short story in a creative writing group. It was good but apart from the group, nobody saw it. Hard working, learning new skills, good with criticism, building a support network, encouraging peer support, positivity, highly motivated, promising career – all gone. Already there or pre-programming for the future?

Thirty-nine years old and my drinking career is well on its way to thirteen years of chaos and oblivion. The alcohol is increasing to toxic levels and my tolerance level is rising like a thermometer in the Sahara. Everything is a trigger. It’s already everything and everyone else’s fault. The pity-parties have migrated online thanks to the invention of Facebook. Most mornings before work are spent deleting spurious, worrying, and forgotten-about posts. But never worry, furious and frantic workmates have already taken screenshots to show me what an arse I had been the night before. Just so I’m reminded of what I’ve already forgotten. But I still do it all again. Every night. That’s the least of my worries.

The razor blades are out in force and the gentle slicing of old have turned to savage sweeps covering the full length of my inner-arm. Wrist to elbow. The early days of pain displacement are a romantic memory that my mind drunkenly retains because the pain is both physical, mental, and constant. The cutting is merely because I hate myself. But I pre-programmed myself for pain so I simply and drunkenly slice away. It’s just what I do. And it’s bad. I’m metaphorically putting the plug half in and out of the socket because my insane self-destruction is off the scale. Fear of death isn’t high on my list – if it’s even on it. As you know if you follow this blog, my constant prayer was that the next drink would kill me. I’d pre-programmed my own hell and damnation and the software was running nicely (nicely?). “But I wanted to give pain or death a real go.” Remember that? My pre-programming did, as it rapidly kicked in! “I was getting a bit low, possibly slightly depressed, isolating myself and lost. Nothing major. I was merely at a low ebb.” If the young me only knew what legacy it was leaving for the older me down the line. Old habits really do die hard. They never leave. “I couldn’t quite get my fingers inside to touch this live, suicide device . . .” I had become my own suicide device. If an accident with a drunken blade didn’t get me, the alcohol would . . . eventually. Alcoholism, the slowest suicide known to man and woman.

But I haven’t self-harmed or drunk alcohol for almost two years. I don’t hate myself quite so much as I did. I hate addiction and how weak and vulnerable it made me for so long. I have no plans to be that person again. How do I know it won’t happen again?

I don’t. It’s not a promise any of us can make. We are only human. But we can fight it day by day, minute by minute. Don’t forget all the good and positive pre-programming: unconventional coping tools, mind-over-matter, optimism, wonder and awe, motivation, blinkered focus, dedication, determination, hardworking, learning new skills, good with criticism, building a support network, encouraging peer-support, positivity, highly motivated, promising career.

All that is inside me too and that software is running nice and smoothly, so far.

I can never promise addiction won’t get me again. But I will fight it to the death – its death not mine. I’ve pre-programmed that now, for my future.

When I want something, I give it everything I’ve got. That has always been there. I just need to remember not to let life get in the way of my life again. Ever!

Stay safe all.
xxx

Newborn

Day 260

Early in sobriety it seems much of our time is spent trying to explain to non-addicts (family, friends, loved ones, work-mates, partners) what addiction is, because they don’t get it. I totally understand, it must be so frustrating for them.

But we are so busy saving our own lives daily and getting on with our recovery, we don’t have spare brain-space to explain to everyone who doesn’t get it. We are teaching by example simply by living as well as we can. Also, we don’t get it. We just had to live it.

We are as newborns in recovery, seeing the world for the first time. We stumble out our first terrifying baby steps.

Staying sober and holding it all together is a twenty-four-hour job. It’s stunningly hard. It’s impossible to try and explain the never ending can of worms that is addiction to everyone we meet. Most people ask the usual questions, ‘why didn’t you just stop? Why can’t you just drink normally?’

Professionals have been struggling for decades to define, pin-point, track down, research, treat, and explain addiction. How the hell are we supposed to do it?

I mean, how do you explain wishing the next drink would kill you? Your hygiene is so bad but you don’t care. Running out of hiding space for bottles and cans until the floors are rolling in glass and tin. Wearing the same clothes for days, weeks or months. All control of bodily functions is lost; it’s ok just because that’s the way it is. Sobbing your heart out for no apparent reason. You’re in pain and seeing your own blood so often you could identify it in a line-up. But it’s inconvenient to go to the doctor because waiting rooms cut into your drinking time. The phones are unplugged or switched off. The doors are locked and the curtains are never open.

Anything to do with the people you love are cancelled because they can’t get hold of you – nobody can. You’ll stop drinking tomorrow, but you don’t: it’s Christmas, new year, my birthday, your birthday, week off work, holiday – eventually you run out of excuses and it’s simply just another day. Tomorrow. But tomorrow never comes. Ever! Hell is the norm.

Eventually you don’t/can’t even try to stop because your body is so chemically dependent that it won’t let you anymore. But your daily prayer is that the next drink kills you. But it doesn’t. But you still pray for it and you still pick up that bottle or the can, praying at the altar of alcohol, because all other gods have failed. Nothing else matters.

That’s just a mere fraction of what was my daily life. My addiction/your addiction/our addiction! Everyone’s addiction! Alcohol, drugs, whatever the substance.

How can you explain all that to someone who doesn’t get it? Life’s too short to even try.

So, why/how did we survive and stay alive?

Luck. Pure luck.

I’ve seen many people pushed back into active addiction by constantly trying to explain and justify past actions. If people don’t get it that’s their problem – not yours! You just stay busy living with addiction and ripping its throat out! keep doing that! Every day.

Baby steps. The biggest steps you’ll ever take!

Stay safe and amazing!

Station to station

Day 246

Just because we’re in recovery, doesn’t mean that we’re not allowed to get angry at the injustices around us, especially when it negatively impacts the important services that we use daily to help us get on with our lives. Some things make the top of my head volcanic, particularly the misuse and waste of public money. I wrote the words below a few months back. My anger hasn’t diminished. I’ve tweaked it a little as my claws and teeth have sharpened over time.

* * *

When I first returned home for good last year, our town centre had a perfectly good bus station. You waited for a bus, you got on the bus, you went home or wherever. Job done! Then one day, the powers that be, ripped it all down for no apparent reason whatsoever. Today I used the brand-new station. Again, it’s perfectly good – you wait for a bus, you get on the bus, you go home or wherever. Job done! Exactly the same. The only difference being – it cost over fifteen million pounds to build!

In 2019 we still have homeless human beings freezing to death in shop doorways. This morning, I saw two shivering souls asleep in the entrance of a bank. The irony in that scene is a humanitarian blasphemy.

Alcohol and drug abuse continue to kill, tearing families apart in ever growing numbers as addiction rips through society like a plague. Our recovery services have no money to employ enough staff and no resources to cope with the growing demand. The workload increases daily as workers try to bend and warp time to accommodate every client. There aren’t enough hours in the day!

Domestic violence and rape victims struggle to be heard, treated, and stay safe because of massive cuts. Single mothers struggle to pay childcare just to earn a living every day. Mental health services and the NHS get kicked in the teeth, daily.

Everything seems to rely on the public kindness of charity donations. Seemingly nothing at all runs without the goodwill, time and effort of unpaid volunteers.

Everyone around us suffers and goes through daily hell as a way of life because that’s just the way it is. Everything is run on a shoestring so frayed; it barely exists anymore. People are literally dying on their feet because money can’t be found – anywhere!

Really? Anywhere?

But hey! Nice, brand-new, shiny bus station that nobody wanted or asked for, that does exactly the same as the old one did, which everyone was happy with in the first place!

Hope those millions were worth it eh!