“All discomfort comes from suppressing your true identity.” — Bryant H. McGill
Currently playing: Kelly Clarkson’s Sober.
Somehow I managed to come across the most distressing topic that I didn’t want to hear about, right in the middle of my second dependency recovery group.
As a fake ass bitch, when I say “I can quit drugs with no problem, what I want is to learn how not to start up again,” what I mean is, “get these urges away from me using magic and no introspection whatsoever.” Because at the end of the day, under all the drug induced euphoria — or paranoia if I did enough — there is a reason that I’m doing it.
Group Leader showed us a scary “your brain on drugs” video that only made me nod my head in agreement when the person undergoing opiate withdrawal was having a shit time and when it said something about the physical dependence not correlating with the severity of the addiction. Something. Whatever. The discussion was lighthearted and I sat there almost happily, laughing about how there’s no “drug of choice” when you’ve already started taking something since that’s when you’re most likely to just take anything when I heard it. That Word.
Uncomfortable.
More specifically how that moment of taking whatever you come across stems from being uncomfortable in that moment and not being able to cope with that discomfort, and using substances as the coping mechanism. Which — that’s not wrong. As someone who’s conducted actual research on substance abuse and its successful treatments (ooh fancy!), I objectively know that there is evidence that can back that shit up. But under that blanket of intellectualization lies the realization that I am extremely uncomfortable in most if not all daily situations.
That simple statement brought up at least three (3) Moments that I feel like discussing. Or do for now; we’ll see how that goes.
One, 04/21/2018.
This is more of a passing statement than anything. I arrived at the AH to meet friends, I see PJ. He immediately offers me a bowl. “No thanks, I don’t smoke.” Fast forward, four vodka redbulls. “How do you smoke a bowl? I’ve never done that before.” Fast forward leaving… the thrift store? Restaurant? “I thought you’d be smoking. There’s been times when you’re already drunk/high when you smoke with me.” Just a quirky little anecdote about my constant discomfort!
Two, 04/14/2018.
So, EDM is a thing that I like and none of my other friends do (because they hate me.) This year at an event, I wanted to see some DJs that I’m a fan of. Fortunately for me, my best friend (AJ) allowed me to bring a friend who does like EDM and they went with me. On 04/13/2018, I rolled my ass off, had the time off my life dancing and feeling overall incredible. The following day? Not so much. It wasn’t even the comedown, though that didn’t help. Crowds roaring, bodies bumping into each other, bass bumping and the only thought running through my head was “Oh god, I need molly right now.” I could not let myself enjoy the scene, the music, because I was not in the moment. A roadblock built itself in my brain and nothing could demolish it. All I was aware of was the tension, the presence of others around me, the thought of “oh god what if they make fun of me what if I look ridiculous.” These stupid what ifs.
Three, 02/09/2018.
You can thank Walk the Moon for me remembering this date — the Night of the Nefarious Nod. It’s something that I talk about, in jest and seriously, because while it fulfilled something on my bucket list (arguably, it shouldn’t have been on there), my life went downhill immediately after it. I want to say it had been a “bad week” and it culminated in this disastrous event because of it. Really, I was just tired. Tired and stressed, and poorly handling a drug problem that was growing out of control more every day, and my best friend (BK) was there to lend me a shoulder to cry on — and drinks. Eight (8) drinks, that I can remember, from about 9:20 pm until 10:45 pm. That’s what I remember, because then it gets fuzzy. Then I’m leaning against the wall outside the bar while said best friend is buying H, yelling at me about how I’ve always wanted to try it and when else am I going to get to try it?
They weren’t wrong, because if that opportunity hadn’t presented itself, I probably wouldn’t have done it (that night at least.) But I was uncomfortable. Even now I remember feeling out of place, messy and drunk and like nothing I was doing even mattered so fuck it. I’m already fucked. But then I felt more uncomfortable, judged for not smoking properly, anger as a defense mechanism driving me to do more to silence the voices. But the discomfort didn’t go away, just hid itself until 1:45 am, when I regained real consciousness. Then it turned into shame, dawned on me that I’d dissociated (nodded?), smoked H in the middle of the street, was with strangers — I panicked and it all got worse when I stumbled standing up, obviously still fucking high. It wasn’t even worth it.
It never is.
Jeez. I told you this was a secret recovery blog. There were bound to be messy stories. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Man, tell your kids this story. “Don’t drink Johnny, you’ll end up on the corner of Turkey Leg and Tambourine Street smoking Heroin!”
Anyway, I’m glad those pesky mental health professionals know what they’re talking about because I have no fucking clue. BK says that he thinks I want to stop but he doesn’t know if I want to stop more than I want to continue to use. He’s not wrong but he’s not right. That notion makes me uncomfortable. People asking what I want gives me goosebumps; that’s some pressure, it’s a choice I’m not in a rush to make.
My idea of a perfect, happy medium, would be if I were productive in the same way I was during Summer/Fall 2016 but having as much social interactions as I am now. Discomfort is winning. It’s keeping me tied down, it’s the reason why I’m told “you’re only fun when you drink,” or that it seems that way, or things of that nature. It’s fostering this vicious cycle: drink, hate, drink, hate.
I want to be fun. I want to feel fun.
But I’ve always been the hot mess and it hurt when AJ told me she doesn’t get drunk with me because usually I’m the one who’s trashed. It’s probably unhealthy to want your friends to be free to get fucked up with you, but it’s more of the fact that I don’t want to be the one constantly needing a baby sitter.
So maybe that means facing some of this awkward-discomfort shit. Maybe facing the discomfort means acknowledging the emotions behind it. Yesterday I wrote that I was terrified of going in to work today because I thought WL would be upset with me. Terror stemmed from a place of inadequacy and guilt — I knew I hadn’t been performing well and I felt that I was under-qualified for my position. So I went to work. I said hi. I awkwardly, but bravely, joked with my coworkers and supervisor. I expressed irritation at the slightly unfair parts of the job I had to do. I listened when WL spoke to me, respectfully, and I agreed that I would do better. And then I did it. What had taken me so long to complete was over and done with in an hour, taking with it the discomfort, the anxiety.
Today I marked “day one” clean/sober (for alcohol. Cocaine’s been 11 days. I smoked weed 2 days ago.) Today I kicked discomfort’s ass.
The Sun Came Up 