Pure. [two] (Adult Material) - Writers Forum

faeriedanzer19 · 07-08-2006, 02:05 AM

another excerpts from what i'm putting together. this is a section from the main character's perspective. it shows the antithesis of the former chapter when she's in a relationship with David. she has had a messy break-up with him (there is mild hinting by her, but the explanation is left for another section...) and she is clean. in the early stages of recovery, she speaks rather bitterly about her struggle with staying clean. the next section (to be posted later) goes to the boy she mentions briefly in this section and explains a little of what forced her to get clean...ahh, enough of me blah blahing...read on. hopefully it deciphrable.

Disclaimer:

Adult Language and Content

Me

Think dark eyes
dark hair.
Artsy. Dancer.
Lonely. As all hell.
18-years old. Recovering from a bitch of a relapse but finally ready to get it right.
Lover and friend.
But never for too long.
Miserable.
Think boyfriends with cunning smiles and clever retorts.
Think discomfort.
think sex.
Think alcohol.
Think suicidal.
Think self-abuse.
Think disgraceful.
think detox
Think overly cerebral.
Think overly trite.
Empty wallets.
12-steps. Sponsors. Shrinks. Meetings. Literature. Late-night phone calls.
Think deleting phone numbers.
The joys of the ignore button.
“it works if you work it but you gotta work it every day.”
Filling up journals.
Dark circles under eyes.
And a brilliant smile.
How may I be of service?
(celibate for way too long.)

March 2006

“and now I’m all alone again no where to go, no one to turn to…”

Fuck. You know what’s nice about loneliness? About independence? About being single? Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. You and I both know that isn’t true but bear with me for a moment. I need to be extreme and over-emotional right now. I need to be pathetic. I need to disgrace every female who ever fought to establish the fact that us females can indeed exist without the aid of a homo-sapien bearing added free-hanging appendages between their legs. I admit it. I need said homo-sapien and their deliciously free-swinging appendages. Revoke my right to vote and run for offices. At 18 I haven’t done either yet…and since I can concentrate on little more than how I want to fucking shoot myself in the face at the moment, it doesn’t look likely that these events will occur anytime in the near future.

All right. I’m done being pathetic now. I really am. What’s going on… what is going on?

I’m trying to get myself to call my fucking sponsor. My shrink (who despite the demeaning name, I truly adore) suggest I call her. And as any good little girl in her second month of care in the outpatient, substance-abuse program, I am prone to start all of my life-altering, soul-searching, self-improvement statements with those very words. “Well Resa says I should…” Because I don’t trust my own judgment. At all. My own judgment had me destroying every aspect of my life, finding myself in so many horrible relationships ending in life-shattering heartbreaks, and a few handfuls of near-death, near-incarceration experiences, coupled with too many to count “I wish I’d died instead” experiences. So I rely on Resa. Because, I pay her to care. And she’s the first person I’ve ever been able to tell everything…or pretty much. So I’m supposed to call my sponsor. She seems nice. And I know at this point in my recovery I should be past fiending as badly as I do. So maybe I need more assistance. But I’m not prone to asking for help. Ever. It goes against everything that my mind has been programmed to do. If you can’t do it alone, you’re going to pay in blood, sweat and tears later for your weakness. Nothing is free or easy.

So I don’t call my sponsor. Again. Because step-work is kind of…latin to me. And every time this cute little lady asks me to tell her about my addiction I clam up. When she asks me what challenges I faced in my recovery today I kind of inwardly laugh. I don’t tell her how I keyed in my dealers number and pushed call and then hung up at least 56 times. I don’t tell her how it’s the first thing on my mind when I wake up. This recovery world was NOT my choice. And I feel fucking angry…and betrayed…and upset. That, YET AGAIN, I fell for every word. After everything with David…I fell… I still fell. Raw and ripped to shreds I opened myself up to him… Joseph… all 6’ 2” of him. Charm. Wit. Intelligence. Talent. Sex appeal. Creativity. Logic. Calm. Fuck him. We can’t talk about him right now. We’re talking about my recovery…and…fuck…
FUCK.

Where is a fucking bag?
“it works if you work it, but ya gotta work it every day.”

There are little tricks I learned the hard way that help me stay clean.
One. Get rid of cash. Become a check and plastic kind of girl. I can barely count the times that by the time I made it to the ATM, keyed my pin number, and hovered over the get cash button only to be rescued by a stroke of stubbornness in my recovery (I’m a Taurus), a friend who picked up the ringing phone just in time to offer me an alternative to a coke-induced coma (movies, sorbet, coloring books), or just a stroke of luck like where my dealer doesn’t hav4e time to wait for me to get cash. As soon as pushers start taking Visas, I for one am fucked (or at least in for a bigger struggle.)

Two. The ignore button. I push it so often that I often ignore people who I actually would like to communicate with. Pure force of habit I’m afraid. Actually, in the beginning or on more difficult days I developed a survival tactic that involves turning my phone on silent and turning it over. When I go out, I leave it. I go down stairs. Leave it. Where at one point, my cell phone was the equivalent of one of my vital organs, I finally can be free. Mostly because I don’t trust myself. But also because when I’m not buying no one calls me. I lost most of my friends.

Three. Stay clean by the day. Hour. Minute. Second as necessary…
I remember one day I locked my door, turned off my light, wrapped myself in blankets and chanted over and over to myself--

“I will not get high in the next five seconds.”

When that still felt overwhelming I dropped it down to two seconds. Even this exercise reminds me of him (Joseph, we’ll talk more on him later) though….because he taught it to me in the beginning. So, whenever I do it, however much it helps, it hurts… so I use it sparingly, only in times of desperate need.

Four. Don’t hold on to coke.

It seems simple. But me, I’m stupid. I’ve always had a stash. For as long as I’ve used. Which is a while…no matter what. I’ve rarely been the head caught fiending and with all my dealers phones cut off. I always have at least a taste left, tucked somewhere.

So when I quit.

I kept my stash.

So let’s change that previous statement shall we-- (since the honesty part of honesty, open-mindedness and willingness is my current focus)

So when I “quit”.

I kept my stash, so I could get high.

Even though I convinced myself I was keeping it for other reasons…

What?

What other use does 3.67 grams of cocaine have? It’s not like it does housework or anything… although, I when I’m blown I do tidy up quite a bit… I regress.

And I remember the first time I ever flushed a bag. I’ve never done it. Never gotten rid of a bag. I’ve hidden bags…placed them in locations where I knew I could find them when I wasn’t being pursued by cops…but never completely trashed a bag.

So when I flushed said bag.

I felt like my heart had been broken for the third time in four months.
But Resa said it’ll get better. When I let it. And something about keeping a stash of pure around while trying to stay clean just SCREAMS masochism…