Cannibal Resource
High Wire Girl
Thread Starter
Join Date: Apr 2014
Location: Charlotte, NC
Posts: 87
Cannibal Resource
Okay, no more drinking. Just drugs.
That has to count for something, doesn't it?
Only now, there is no lubricant.
Just startling, angular highs.
Joyless and terrifying.
I cannot eat or sit down. My mind anticipates everything I'm about to do. It thinks I am already doing it, but I'm not. I am always moving, going nowhere.
There is virtually no sleep. Shadows appear on every wall. Dark images grow where my eyes rest. They become weird shapes - insects, mostly. Worms and beetles, moths with large wings. This affects my driving. I can't leave if I get too loaded. I am stuck in the house.
*******
When David and I were a relatively new couple, we went to the Northshore Animal League in Port Washington and got ourselves a dog. A cute little brown thing, perhaps a cross between a German Shepherd and a kangaroo. Unapologetically rambunctious. We named her Bubbles.
Bubbles was the sweetest animal in America. She loved life and everything in it. Birds, cats, squirrels, other dogs - she longed to chase them and be friends. All sights and sounds piqued her interest - feet sliding into shoes, doorbells on TV, keys, potato chips, the coffee maker.
Some dogs are maniacs if they can't blow off steam. Bubbles would pace about the house, toenails clicking along the floor. Tweeting, chirping and whining. She chewed her feet nervously. She shoved them into her own ears, scratching until she cried out. She licked her snapper like she was in a trance. She needed outlets for her energy.
Sometimes, I'd bring her with me when I was in the yard. I'd position my beach chair under a tree and hook her leash to the armrest. Together, we'd sit. Two anxious girls, just trying to be in the world.
If the phone rang, I'd get up and go inside to answer it. Upon my return, she'd be gone from our spot, having dragged the chair clear across the lawn and into the woods. She couldn't help herself. Running around was all she'd ever done.
I was Bubbles for many years. A nice dog that just went nuts.
When I started going to AA, it was recommended that I try to improve my conscious contact with God. At that point in time, all of my relationships were in jeopardy. It seemed that every single person in my life was negatively impacted by my self-destructive excesses. I really needed a reminder that God was also on the list of people who were annoyed and disappointed with me, like a giant hole in my head.
There was nothing purposeful about my wandering away from God. It's not like I deliberately stopped having faith one day. Little by little, I just quit thinking about Him. I had other stuff on my mind. I suppose I still believed, but we weren't hanging out much. When we did, our conversations basically consisted of me, making wishes and begging for help because I was in trouble. If God couldn't get me high or pay my way out of a jam, I just wasn't all that interested.
I went to those first few meetings, trying not to crawl out of my skin. I was still doing speed, so it was tough to concentrate. I tried praying, but I couldn't put my thoughts together. I'm certain folks knew I was jacked up, but nobody hassled me. They smiled when they saw me again.
"Glad you're here, Mary."
"Keep coming back. It gets easier."
I wanted to believe them, but I really didn't. Not yet, anyway.
When I met with Dr. Korman, we talked about me trying to put the drugs down. I was afraid. I felt sad enough without the drink. The situation remained this way for another two months. I tried to convince myself I wasn't a drunk anymore. Just a junkie. Only one bad thing instead of two. I lined the tiny area between rock and hard place with my own crap and covered it with leaves. It still stunk like ****.
During this time, I thought about God more frequently. I wondered if He remembered me. I wasn't sober yet, and I knew I couldn't get straight on my own. I started praying in a different way. I quit trying to make manipulative deals. I surrendered everything to God. I put all of my decisions in His hands.
*******
March 26th, 2001 was a Monday. It was the last day I got high. When I finally shut my eyes, I slept so long, I pissed my bed. I woke up, changed my pajama bottoms and laid a big towel on the mattress. I went back to sleep.
That Thursday, I met with some terrific folks at St. Claire's in Boonton who eased me through my detox. Within a week, my outlook began to improve. I wouldn't say I was happy, but I did feel much better.
That has to count for something, doesn't it?
Only now, there is no lubricant.
Just startling, angular highs.
Joyless and terrifying.
I cannot eat or sit down. My mind anticipates everything I'm about to do. It thinks I am already doing it, but I'm not. I am always moving, going nowhere.
There is virtually no sleep. Shadows appear on every wall. Dark images grow where my eyes rest. They become weird shapes - insects, mostly. Worms and beetles, moths with large wings. This affects my driving. I can't leave if I get too loaded. I am stuck in the house.
*******
When David and I were a relatively new couple, we went to the Northshore Animal League in Port Washington and got ourselves a dog. A cute little brown thing, perhaps a cross between a German Shepherd and a kangaroo. Unapologetically rambunctious. We named her Bubbles.
Bubbles was the sweetest animal in America. She loved life and everything in it. Birds, cats, squirrels, other dogs - she longed to chase them and be friends. All sights and sounds piqued her interest - feet sliding into shoes, doorbells on TV, keys, potato chips, the coffee maker.
Some dogs are maniacs if they can't blow off steam. Bubbles would pace about the house, toenails clicking along the floor. Tweeting, chirping and whining. She chewed her feet nervously. She shoved them into her own ears, scratching until she cried out. She licked her snapper like she was in a trance. She needed outlets for her energy.
Sometimes, I'd bring her with me when I was in the yard. I'd position my beach chair under a tree and hook her leash to the armrest. Together, we'd sit. Two anxious girls, just trying to be in the world.
If the phone rang, I'd get up and go inside to answer it. Upon my return, she'd be gone from our spot, having dragged the chair clear across the lawn and into the woods. She couldn't help herself. Running around was all she'd ever done.
I was Bubbles for many years. A nice dog that just went nuts.
When I started going to AA, it was recommended that I try to improve my conscious contact with God. At that point in time, all of my relationships were in jeopardy. It seemed that every single person in my life was negatively impacted by my self-destructive excesses. I really needed a reminder that God was also on the list of people who were annoyed and disappointed with me, like a giant hole in my head.
There was nothing purposeful about my wandering away from God. It's not like I deliberately stopped having faith one day. Little by little, I just quit thinking about Him. I had other stuff on my mind. I suppose I still believed, but we weren't hanging out much. When we did, our conversations basically consisted of me, making wishes and begging for help because I was in trouble. If God couldn't get me high or pay my way out of a jam, I just wasn't all that interested.
I went to those first few meetings, trying not to crawl out of my skin. I was still doing speed, so it was tough to concentrate. I tried praying, but I couldn't put my thoughts together. I'm certain folks knew I was jacked up, but nobody hassled me. They smiled when they saw me again.
"Glad you're here, Mary."
"Keep coming back. It gets easier."
I wanted to believe them, but I really didn't. Not yet, anyway.
When I met with Dr. Korman, we talked about me trying to put the drugs down. I was afraid. I felt sad enough without the drink. The situation remained this way for another two months. I tried to convince myself I wasn't a drunk anymore. Just a junkie. Only one bad thing instead of two. I lined the tiny area between rock and hard place with my own crap and covered it with leaves. It still stunk like ****.
During this time, I thought about God more frequently. I wondered if He remembered me. I wasn't sober yet, and I knew I couldn't get straight on my own. I started praying in a different way. I quit trying to make manipulative deals. I surrendered everything to God. I put all of my decisions in His hands.
*******
March 26th, 2001 was a Monday. It was the last day I got high. When I finally shut my eyes, I slept so long, I pissed my bed. I woke up, changed my pajama bottoms and laid a big towel on the mattress. I went back to sleep.
That Thursday, I met with some terrific folks at St. Claire's in Boonton who eased me through my detox. Within a week, my outlook began to improve. I wouldn't say I was happy, but I did feel much better.
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