MORE WILL BE REVEALED
So there'd I sit, in a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, number 355 or something, wondering when 'it' was going to be revealed, and would it be in time for me to still be walking, non-psychotic, or derelict in a gutter? But no time is wasted, I guess. Perhaps if I hadn't sat in several hundred self-absorption sessions in various church cellars and community halls, I would still be doing it now, trying to work out why one apparently had to give up 'everything' just to get 'clean'. I mean, there were some guys in there who thought you shouldn't take antidepressants from your doctor, and who even had a timetable for you to use when weaning yourself of Methadone. But there were also some loving, kind people, who, in their varying ways, helped to save a life, or lives.
Even though I was reluctant, resentful, and resistant to the ethos on offer, of 'complete abstinence' (however one measures that), I was at least among other human beings, with a cup of tea or coffee in my clutches, and at least I could speak, if I wanted to, and be heard by at least some of those present. But often I was simply going through the verbal motions, trying to present a nice, neat speech about how awful crack was, and how I was like 'an ant following a trail of formic acid' around the various sidestreets of Shepherd's Bush, in search of the other naughty insects. I would even describe with eloquence the comedown, the remorse, the days in bed, the empty cupboard, but nothing happened, by chance, providence, or intention, or a subtle blend of the three.
Then there was residential rehab, where I was also playacting - twenty weeks of sitting in morning groups giving encouraging feedback to peers, whilst occasionally reciting an insightful description of my own dilemma, knowing full well that what I was saying wasn't what I was feeling.
Then back out into the real world, returning to my little studio-flat, where I still am, like a funeral-director seeing his chapel of rest after months away due to subsidence, or small earthquake.
And then, after vague attempt, even vaguer failure, I find I've faltered into 2015, which is just a number, I know. But more has been revealed, more than I thought would be if/when I ever got off crack. If there's such a thing as 'recovery', I don't think it means recovery from the much-mentioned 'disease of addiction', but more a recovery of things lost. And even a discovery of things new.
It's daunting. Here's footage of me putting up the backdrop of the little comedy evening I do, with a tune by me, awaiting its lyrics...
Thanks for dropping by, and being you.