Chronic emptiness is a symptom of borderline, which I can understand and accept. But
why allow this suffering? I could spend hours looking for something to do but
the answer to that question comes from within the person.
Outlets, I mean. Healthy ones. Unhealthy
ones.
Anyone can have a bad day and it is the
matter of handling it. Today I'm going to calm down from my panic and get done
what I said I would.
Positive influences for my outlook include
remembering not to judge everything before me. If I am docile, there is no
mental pain. I look forward to the future but I do not dread the present. I
remain grateful for what I have and will never see the world with eyes that are
indifferent.
—
My decision to become an addict did not present in an ultimate inquiry life-saving to myself.
I did not ask myself, "Do you want to be fucked up?" I believe it is fair to
say I already was. You cannot ask life to get along with you. You can change
your odds but the increasing rate of depression amongst North America isn't
promising you a life away from bleak outlooks, bad decisions and a lack of
introspective. This is where I fucked up.
I thought my life didn't matter. Being high
got rid of the pain of my sheer disappointment, to put it simply. We all con
ourselves into believing healthy outlets depend on who we are, not what we are.
Sick, fascinated, moved, intolerant, self-sabotaging — whichever reason one
would put a substance in their body — you do not win in the end. Entrusting
your mind, body and health in medicine that wreaks havoc on your sanity is a
trap only you can get yourself out of.
To me, that is the scariest thing. To think you're
being helped. Subsequently having to dig yourself out of your rather early
grave. Avoiding falling into the hellish loop again and again as life smacks
you around as though a fool, effervescently coming back for more each time you
stand back up.
I hid from disappointment through opiates.
Ran from the emptiness and boredom using alcohol. Filled an entire void, or put
myself under an impression I did, with benzodiazepines. Each addiction only
leading to near death, psychosis, or actual death, in the end. (Dying
temporarily is not what you think.)
It wasn't willful overuse. Addiction is
sneaky and proceeded to fool me into believing too much was okay. Acceptable.
Survivable. I didn't believe I was hooked because I could stop whenever I
wanted. Which, no matter how true, did not stop me from polyuse in the long
term.
Recreational or not.
—
There is no internal humiliation on Earth
brought on worse by being so desperate for drugs you took over the counter
allergy medicine to achieve a high. I was pretty fucking stupid. Nothing
memorable took place. If I never opened the door to pills I doubt I would've
found a subsequent interest to nearly overdosing on them to get
high(hydromorphone). Or blending them in with the already existing effects of
alcohol(zopiclone).
Who could forget the small amount of times
I tried to deliberately harm my body over negative feelings from narcissistic emotional
abuse I couldn't outlet properly?
I knew what my borderline mentality
circulated around and what I needed. I just couldn't fucking get it. Immaturity
was in the way of finding my self-esteem, which would have aided my outlook in
not being so dark. I thought of dying so many times in a week anything would
simulate a difference in perception. I enjoyed being ill at the same time as I
abused pill after pill. They tasted bitter like detergent. Something that could
bring grey to the pain I felt.
Most times, I'd fall asleep and have vivid,
congruent dreams, atypical to what I usually saw in my sleep. I often woke
disillusioned and groggy which brought on an utter intolerance for taking on
the rest of the day. Slowly I'd move, recovering from whatever I had done to
myself, too sleepily distracted and distanced mentally from what I was doing.
It was like being in a net I willfully crawled into, not knowing I'd have no
way out.
For a while, I went on like this. At least
for two years. These random silly relapses on, my God, antihistamines did not
take place often. It wasn't daily, weekly, or even monthly. But it was enough
it disgusted me. Hearing stories of others' use online makes me shiver in sheer
hatred for my irresponsible, abnormal use of these drugs of truly no
recreational value.