Don’t Feel Sorry For Me

I won’t move. Not my mouth, or my feet, or my eyes. My hand, however, brings the joint up to my lips for the 9th time today.

Any excuse to stay home and forget warrants victory smoke. Any meal needs the proper prep. Any activity needs a focused mindset.

I have found comfort in the smell, the taste, and the excuses.

“It’s better than most drugs!” “It’s healthy, it’s a plant.”

My mouth still won’t move, other than to inhale. My eyes are dry. My hand, however, brings the joint up to my lips for the 10th time today.

This isn’t the worst thing in the world. I could be a murderer or a cocaine addict. I could be a human trafficker, but instead, I smoke marijuana.

My lips are chapped, other than to inhale, I don’t move. My eyes are dry. My hand, however, brings the joint up to my lips for the 11th time today.

Countless days on the couch, feeling brain dead, I can’t get those days back. I can’t get the thousands of dollars I’ve spent, back.

For the 12th time today, the joint touches my lips. I think about all the things I could be doing. Washing dishes, folding laundry, mopping the wood floors in my apartment. For some reason, it’s almost impossible to get started.

With the little motivation I have, I walk to the kitchen. Everything is in motion, but I feel as stiff as a garden gnome. I have no balance, not that I care about bumping into the piano or work desk. I hurt myself physically and mentally, but when I’m in that state, I don’t care. I’ll injure my hips from hitting things and numb my mind with smoke.

It’s the same old song. But for some reason I still like to sing it. The world, through my eyes, is warped & cold. I have no concept of happiness. I merely just exist. I’m as important as the need to drink piss.

I went away. Out of town, for the first time. Taking a plane meant not being able to bring drugs with me. Never going out of town means no connections to buy drugs there. Every day was torture.

Migraines, Irritation, anxiety, nausea, and loss of appetite. I wanted to go home the first day. I had to sleep without being under the influence. I had to wake up feeling fresh and alert. I had to spend my days breathing fresh air with a clear, content mind. There were so many smells that made me gag, so many sights that made me close my eyes. It was… torture.

For the 13th time, I bring the joint to my lips. I inhale, I feel the burn through my lungs, the relaxation of my body, and the guilt in my soul. Don’t feel sorry for me, I won’t stop.

The unfortunate fact about addiction, it took me years to understand this, is that those traits run in my family. My brother has a narcotic addiction. I’ve seen him refuse to do favors for our family in need unless he was given OxyContin or Hydrocodone. My mother is addicted to food. She has a stomach problem that makes her throw up almost everything, but she still eats, even if she feels crappy. My grandmother is addicted to money. She hoards it, even if she needs to spend, she’ll ask someone else to buy it to preserve her bank account. I have an uncle addicted to exercise. When he doesn’t get to exercise, he has these withdrawals, he gets anxious and moody. The worst addiction is my grandfathers. He had a rough life as a young adult, felt like a failure. So he works all the time. He works day in and day out. If he feels he’s not being useful, he’ll go find another job.

The people around me don’t see these addictions as problematic or harmful. They always have an excuse. It took me years to figure out where I got my mentality from.

Even with all this information, all my knowledge of generational trauma, the string of mental illness in my family, and the opportunity to be different, I still bring the joint up to my lips for the 14th time today. Don’t feel sorry for me, I won’t stop.