Viva la Rebellion
It’s so weird to be alive. I wake up, eat, shower, get dressed, check up on the happenings of this strange world, run errands, eat, sleep, dream and wake up. The days meld together. Weeks turn into months. As I drift into the future the past seems more like a dream.
I try to make sense of it all, try to live each day unto itself. I try to dig a little deeper, try to better myself. I try to strengthen my spirit and lend a helping hand. Be a friend to my neighbor, and be grateful for what I have.
How can someone who burns so hot be so cold?
How can something that feels so right be so wrong?
It’s like I’m lost in space
And I can’t go home
The further I drift
The hotter I burn
The colder it gets
The more I yearn
For something less painful than the stake in my back
I can’t relax
I can’t look at myself
The disease of isolation
Self-pity and self-harm
Anger and resentment
Selfish lies and selfish wants
It’s baffling
So obscure
Cunning and hard
It’s your own personal Satan pounding at your door
It’s the first place you run to when you want to hide
And the last place that gets you where you want to go
It gives you everything you want
But nothing that you need
Sometimes I feel like I’m stuck between a dump truck and a cliff. As the days go by the harder it is to look back. But moving forward feels so empty, a void that can neither be filled nor emptied. The upside down of the right side wrong. The further I walk the more I’ve lost.
And as I lose the self that won’t come back to me. I detach from the life that meant so much to me. I can’t remember the good or the bad. It’s like I jumped out a wormhole and forgot what just happened.
Oh me oh my… Sigh… This may be a little early in my recovery, but I decided to do my first 9th step in response to my distasteful behavior on Twitter. I was recently put on a timeout by the Twitter police for calling someone a moron, thus prompting me to spend twelve whole hours thinking about my savagery and how it affects others.
Dearest Mean Mean Maria Jean,
We’ve been through many tough times together, and you’ve always been there to stick it to anybody who tried to hurt me. You’ve made me laugh, cry, gag, cough, sneeze and damn near crap my pants all at the same time, and for that I am grateful.
However, the time has come for me to let go of all my anger and resentments. I can no longer partake in pity-parties and mud-slinging contests with you. Although the things you say are funny, certain people might misconstrue some of the mean and hurtful things you say and do as childish and lacking in self-awareness.
Just wait a moment child
And the answers will come to you
As sure as I am
I assure you
The answers are there
And they are waiting for you
They’re right around the corner
They’re in your dreams at night
They’re in the dirt
They’re in the air
They’re in the morning light
The thumb is a symbol of great power. It represents a vital step in the evolution of man. The anus symbolizes repression, feelings of shame and self-esteem issues. And dicks? Well, I’ll let the reader decide the meaning of that vernacular.
Anyhoo, I’ve been doing a lot of dicking around with my thumb up my but lately. Indulging in pity parties, self-loathing, whining, complaining about everyone and everything, harping on what this one or that one did to me. Basically throwing my hard earned tools of recovery into the fire.
“The courage to change the things we can,” is one of the many messages we hear at every Twelve Step meeting. And with every meeting, the message grows, transforms, evolves into a battle cry that echoes through the darkest nights. But when we stop going to meetings, we lose our momentum, we forget the tools that kept us sober, and the war drum slowly fades into the distance until all we hear are the devil’s lies.
I was born to be invisible. Like the stump of a sofa that gets tripped into and cursed then forgotten once again. I always wondered what it would be like to have loving, doting parents. Would I have grown to be such a loser?
Sometimes I wish I was anybody but me. Then I look at everybody else and wish I were just plain dead. Because if I were the happy type, I’d be oblivious to the world that enslaves me in a bubble where my greatest defense against reality is to push the ‘block’ button. And if I were born with a silver spoon I’d be as rotten as a carcass.
The disease of isolation
Self-pity and self-harm
Anger and resentment
Selfish lies and selfish wants
It’s baffling
So obscure
Cunning and hard
It’s your own personal Satan pounding at your door
It’s the first place you run to when you want to hide
And the last place that gets you where you want to go
It gives you everything you want
But nothing that you need
