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