Anyone can get sober, but it takes a certain type of individual to stay sober. Apart from the fact that I am pushing 200 lbs, I am not hungry, and that bad thoughts are snaking their way into my membrane – what really bothers me is that all these goodhearted inclinations I’ve been making for the past two years are starting to be doubted.
It is not because I have subtly suggested this lifestyle to my close circles as a foundation for change in my life, it is more so the bad tendency of not being accounted for, and that I am coming up with all kinds of excuses why this lifestyle is bullshit.
No. That’s not it either. It is that I am not living aligned with God. I know it. You don’t know everything, but I have enough of an intuition and inclination that when I am lying to myself, jumping ship, and everything I stood for is being compromised, that I ought to take a look in the mirror.
Last night I printed out a picture of Henry Rollins and taped it to the mirror in my bathroom. He is a straightedge punk from the 80s. He’s over 60 now. His lifestyle stands for discipline. When I was younger and dumber, I revered writers like Hunter S. Thompson who chased the flame into insanity with drugs, alcohol, death, and cigarettes. That is not what I stand for, nor want to stand for. I will take a disciplined punk as a role model, over an alcoholic suicide any day.
And then there is John O’Brien – author of Leaving Las Vegas. I gave my copy to my sponsor who writes like him. And John O’Brien died from alcoholism. Sobriety is not a joke. It absolutely and wholeheartedly is not. At least for me anyways. It’s not really an option if I want to live, let alone write.
Last year I gave up writing to quit smoking. It is not that I can’t write without a cigarette in between my lips. It is that I had the integrity to not write anything that was clouded with a narcotic. And it’s hard to not be able to resign myself to that same resolution two years later. I’ve been smoking cigarettes on and off and on for the past January, February, March, April, and May. That is a long time. And I’ve gone about halfway to hell. I’m sure I’ve written extensively about quitting and starting, and it may sound redundant, but trust me when I say you don’t want to read my journals which almost solely focus on restraining from masturbation. This time, I’m quitting smoking to write.
My life is very good. I have a beautiful life that has been afforded for me through consistent sobriety. And I know, without a doubt, that if I were to relapse, not only would I squander anything I have gained, but I would also have no telling if I would ever find my way back to where I am. Perhaps today I have a slight complacency with life, that life is not enough. But it means so much more than a never-ending pain and confusion. Lies, deceit, insanity, symbols without reality, voices, suicidal ideation, fear, and loathing.
And when I say sobriety, I really mean sobriety from all substances. I am cheating and lying myself (and others) when I call my sober when I am smoking cigarettes. I’m a good person, and any future employer who is reading this should know that first and foremost. People who struggle with themselves only prove that they still have a conscious. And sometimes I am inspired by my ability to write it out, publicly.
So I’ll end this portion with the fact that my “doubt” with recovery is self-inflicted. It is because I am not being honest with myself and others. I don’t like people who blame the victim of alcoholism that they should just stop. It really is not that simple for the alcoholic. Wish it was. But I can tell I am not sober; It’s fun, and nice sometime sure, but I can just tell by the way I am that I am not. I am so smart and funny and charming sober – most people are. But I am about half a second off in all my interactions and it really kills the joke.
I was on the patch for about a month. I don’t know. I don’t like to have a constant stream of nicotine being dispensed. I am very, very productive on it, but it feels close to ADHD medication. Effective, but fallible.
I met someone I respect. His name is Max. He is about 30 years old and trying to become a librarian. He is depressed as hell. However, he reads and celebrated 3 years without a cigarette. He admitted that the gum helped him. So tonight, in the pouring rain (a good cleansing omen) I walked to my Walgreens, had a nice encounter with the cashier and I spent a lot of money for me, to buy Nicorette gum. I sure hope it helps. The cravings for a cigarette come hard and fast. So at least I will have this when that time comes. I am postponing the patch.
I also had tens of great conversations last night just smoking and talking philosophy shop, outside at the church and the bars. And I money was spent. But money, is not the object of life. Neither is cheap banter. Will keep you posted, but in my heart, I know I shouldn’t go to the party this Friday, and frankly, I should recommit to sobriety.
; Check the date if you haven’t already.
Last night, in bed, I thought about stuff. I knew I was not clear of mind enough to do a Typewriter Tuesday, being that I have a lot of thoughts that deserve to be edited.
During one of those philosophical talks last night, some people shared that they wanted to uncover the meaning of life in third grade through philosophy. I relayed that I discovered love in the fourth grade and put that at the focus of my life’s meaning ever since.
The truth is, when it comes to love, I have spent a lot more time in heartbreak than I ever have in love. I’ve written that I recently have gotten out of a purgatory situation in which I was still in love with my ex-girlfriend for that past five years. I think it is more common than people admit. She was the main character of my life, as I explained it to my therapist. A very good protagonist in my opinion.
But now, I am the main character of my life again. And lo and behold, I left of right where I was ten years ago. Chasing girls, and smoking, and being the stupid center of attention – this time enjoying it unlike I haven’t been ever since I was humbled.
I think a lot of people can overthink, especially when it comes to sex. I am not ignorant to women flaunting themselves in public, whether it be to me, or a few people at a time. This practice has a name. But I always feel dirty when girls intentionally turn me on in public and I do likewise. I’ve also caught ex-partners doing it in front of me to others as well.
That all being said, yeah, I’m kinda getting back out there and doing my thing and I’m sure there will be consequences pretty quickly. Because at its heart, intimacy is not encapsulated between two people. Nowadays, it usually has a few players involved. And then there is the moral lines to be crossed or not. I don’t know, maybe sex isn’t exactly a moral question, but as I stated at the beginning of this sentence, I don’t know.
I do know this. In a movie titled The Notebook, Ryan Gosling’s character writes 365 letters to Rachel Mcaddams. Ya know? And I didn’t exactly do it like that. But I wrote over 365 posts in the past five years for someone. It wasn’t “I Love You blah blah blah letters“, but they were letters. And now, ya know, I still write them, but ya know, it just, ya know, they aren’t disguised love letters any more. And it sucks to go through years of old poetry and to see that all the love poems are inherently bad. Not because they are bad writing, but because they have a reader’s sole audience of one. Maybe two.
So whatever I guess. I’m not here to pat myself on the back. I really think I’m just saying that a lot of that feels in vain when the second I can go do and be whoever I want, I do. I don’t feel an overwhelming compulsion to go back to pining over a dead love. But that’s what I thought about in bed last night.
Ben Bonkoske 