Switching Addictions

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Metamodern Literature. Switching Addictions

“I’m independent; I’m a dread locked free thinking gypsy; free love pot smoking drug dealing butterfly; artist writer amazing kind of independent…aren’t I?”

By Ursa Dae
Trans-Sculpture by Javier Perez

“Cookie.” Cookie. The first word articulated in this life and understood by those who shared my language. Sugar – my first addiction. Known for overindulging and then vomiting the remorse of choice from an early age, the pattern of addiction was quite clear.

The addictions evolved into strange patterns, building blocks of certainty in an uncertain existence. The framework of network television, of TV shows appearing at the same time every day, giving structure to an uncertain sense of confusion that was the underlying hum in my life vitality statistics. The years pass and my patterns evolved. Television. Escape by Book. Escape. Space out. Isolation. Habitual Tendencies. Smoke. Smoking. Smoker. We’ve arrived at my tenth year alive in this body I loathed. Evolving self deprecation. Cutting. Scissors. Safety Pins. The strap of my Lucky Charm wrist Watch in Debate class, 9th grade. Doesn’t anyone notice these screaming sores? Smoking. Cigarettes. Pot Smoking. Out of Pop Cans. Out of Apples on Elementary school steps. Hanging out with the boys, the bad boys, the bad girls, I’m the good one, I’m the good one, remember? I’m the good one of the group, I’m not like them. Too blond. Too nice. Too smart. Too innocent. So innocent. Fuck innocence. Fuck my innocence. I fucked my innocence.

Pornography. That comes into play. Channel 402 on a satellite dish, hand on the remote, heart racing. Heart racing. catch me. Don’t catch me. Please don’t catch me. I’ve finally found ecstasy… and now it’s gone, it’s not the same, not the same as the first time. Chase the dragon once again. Pleasure. Pleasure. Be gone… how do I find this? How do I keep this moment of bliss?

Boys. Teenage Boys. Older Boys. Drop out Boys. Pedo Men. Relationships. Teen Line Validation. Fee Me. Feel Me. Touch Me. Heal Me. See Me Feel Me Touch Me Heal Me See Me Feel Me Touch Me Heal Me SeeMeFeelMeTouchMeHealMe seemefeelmetouchmehealmeseemefeelmetouchmehealme

Sex. Sex. Sex. SmokePotHaveSex. More Pot.Cookies.Television.Space-out. Porno. Cigarette.

Words evolve into things like “Codependency” but that’s not me. That’s not me. I’m independent I’m a dread locked free thinking gypsy free love pot smoking drug dealing butterfly artist writer amazing kind of independent …aren’t I? (whoami? at seventeen.)

Chains break when you see the pattern, the mistake. But if you keep your eyes shut long enough even when the loudest knocks, the brightest lights stir your subconscious, a thousand dollars lost to a bad drug deal shortly after you receive your license. An apartment off Ingersoll broken into after college by people searching for your cocaine stash. your computer and all your writing is stolen. What will it take to wake you up? None of this is enough. None of this is enough. It’s never enough. That’s the whole point isn’t it? That it’s always one more cookie, one more drink, one more bowl, all this until you “fall asleep”; pass out. One more movie, one more round of sex, one more cigarette, one more line, I want some more. I need more. I’m not high enough. My brain can take more but my body cannot. No dope? Let’s smash Rx and I wake up on the floor, or find myself in a strip club with a childhood classmate’s tits in my face. It starts with cookies and ends with a destroyed person. Shaking. Sea Sick on land behind a coffee counter, detoxing pills and pain and whiskey and god knows the years of behaviors and substances washed to a stain on my psyche. You find yourself in another city with a kidney infection and “whoops” – you smoke pot and the cycle starts all over again, but with more mindfulness, which in turn makes the monster even more sneaky, more revealing, more deceptive, and you find yourself reeling, on the floor of your bathroom snorting an angled straw from a glycine package you got from a young Dominican your buddy met in lock up, while your dry boyfriend sleeps and you are filled with lies. It takes your best friend putting a hole in his heart for you to wake up. And then hope happens. You find a friend. You try yoga against all your better judgment. You recognize your pain and you scream and you scream and you scream and you cry and you scream some more from all the pain in your hips, the high school star quarterback jacking your virginity from you at fifteen and you’ll never get it back you’ll never get that flap of skin back in tact. And you hold your arms to the sky and the person you thought you trusted was a sham. And you can see all the glamour of being an artist of being a writer of having cool friends and smoking cigarettes and how stupid it is to put poison into your body and skew the way your world is perceived to make fucking art. I’m making fucking art now and I’m six years sober. I relapse on penis’s attached to narcissists when I’m in a rough place. But that’s all vanity, just another drug. All these patterns. All these patterns. I sat for 100 days and looked at my mind and all I saw were patterns, were pain, were boys, were distractions, were addictions and I looked at my heart, and I could see it’s goodness. I could see my place in this world, and I thought, man, if I can love that bumblebee I can love that plantain plant and that pond, and maybe if I try really hard I can expand on to that and try not to project my own shit on to other beings. So I move home from the big apple and I fall in love with this unwanted family dog that was always the extra unloved mouth to feed. And I began to rebuild myself with new patterns. Kinder patterns. I thought over and over again about this day on retreat, when the inner circle went for ice cream, and there was no reprieve. There was no relief in that sugar milk. There was no joy and no escape in that ice cream cone and it was then I realized that comfort comes from within. Comfort and joy are generated from within, and there is no anything in the outside world that will ever give me comfort the way I can for myself. There is no cookie sweet and soft enough, no bag of ganja strong enough, no dick big and hard enough to fuck me into bliss /joy/freedom. I own my happiness, and I generate my joy and I am responsible for my life, for my feelings and for what I give, not for what I receive.

02.13.2016

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