I’ve been clean off benzos and opioids for more than 6 years.
Until last spring, in fact–for almost 5 years exactly–that sobriety was easy…almost ecstatically easy. Victorious and energetic.
Then something unknown happened last March that just devastated me and made me lose all that sense of independence and hope. I still don’t know what it was. Maybe it was turning 40 the summer before, and suddenly hitting some sort of midlife crisis, or something. Or maybe it was just the end of a very long, 5-year rebound “honeymoon period” of feeling great without drugs. Or maybe–and this is probably the case, if I had to put money on it–I just hit a big depressive trough.
One way or another, my desire to get high again has been steadily and strongly increasing. I know what a bullshit hopeless life being a user is, and what a miserably false promise the drugs offer, but for those short hours… For those short few hours when they’re in effect… Oh, holy shit…
One of the things that I used to tell myself in recovery that I found most helpful was the mantra, “…And then what?” Meaning, you get high, it wears off, and then what? What happens then? You have to get high again to keep feeling good. And soon you’re addicted and in the nightmarish high-withdrawal-high-withdrawal roller coaster ride. And everything else in your life suffers, no matter how precious. And here’s the other mantra: There will never be enough drugs in the world. Never. Even if you were alone on a desert island, by yourself, and a shipping vessel full of millions of Vikes and Percs and Xannies ran aground, it wouldn’t be enough. Because you’d kill yourself on them without ever feeling fully satisfied.
Those mantras–“…And then what?” and “There will never be enough drugs in the world”–are helpful to refocus me and help me remember the value in fighting. They really are. But I’m tired. Over the past 14 months, I haven’t exercised worth a damn more than a handful of times. I’m lazy and exhausted and unproductive at home. I’ve sobbed and sobbed and SOBBED more times than I can count. (“Crying spells” are what my therapist somewhat euphemistically calls them.) I ruminate on suicide, even working out plan specifics in my head when I can’t sleep at night and the anxiety and pain gets to be too much. I’ve spent spent so much time on porn–just as a way to up my dopamine pleasure release–that I’ve now found myself going to Sexaholics Anonymous meetings to try to deal with THAT addiction, too. I’m dejected and humiliated.
And for fuck’s sake, it all finally got so bad I had to start this blog. I want to be a good person again. I want to be a happy person again, too.
I just want to get high. But that runs counter to both of those goals.