I’m torn. Torn between my desire for thrift in using every page of this journal, and between my desire for ink that flows freely from the metal nib of my new fountain pen that soaks through and makes the back of the page unusable. I opted for the flow of ink this time, as I think most easily for wordsmithing in cursive, and the bold lines stand out indelibly dark purple against the pleasantly beige page.
I almost forgot to write today, I remembered at five minutes to midnight.
I’m writing in the garage, the only place with the needed combination of adequate light, seating, privacy, and the ability to chain smoke cigarettes, a bad habit I will soon enough need to untrain myself from. It’s going to really suck trying to write for a long while when that happens.
I’ve been in a funk the last couple of months. It’s been difficult to get out of bed for any reason but unavoidable obligations and social occasions for that time. I wish that one antidepressant were sufficient for combating my clinical depression, but wishes have always been fishes in that regard ever since I hit puberty.
I’m glad to be clean off drugs, but sometimes I really wish I didn’t have cravings anymore. They depress me even more. I cleaned the garage out today all the way back to the wall for the first time since we, my husband and I, moved into this house in 2009. June, in fact, so this month makes it five years that we’ve been here. So much has happened since then that it feels more like it’s been a decade, but anyway. While I was moving the dust around, er, I mean moving boxes, I came across a couple of baggies that had once held drugs. Not together, separately. One was one of the baggies from when I was snorting cocaine, toward the beginning. The other had likely held crystal meth. While I’m glad I was able to eliminate their presence from the house, it was a real harshmellow (a word I invented many years ago) to find them. A small part of me wished to be doing drugs still, so I could lick the baggies in futile thriftiness – futile because no small amount of residue they could have contained could have any perceivable effect, but I would still have considered that action a relapse. Most of me was just sad in remembering that I used to hide back in those areas of the garage so that my husband, if he suddenly came out to check on me, wouldn’t see the straw or flame from the lighter and pipe in my hands before I could hide them, to prevent the explosion of rage and sorrow in discovering me attempting to use in secret – yet again. Every time I encounter another reminder of my not-so-well-kept-secret life, I mourn for all the heartache I put my husband and my family through. I didn’t share that at my meeting tonight, the focus/topic was on other things and I was more focused on carrying the message to the newcomer who was there, but I talked with a new female friend about it after the meeting. She was right, a person so early in recovery like myself shouldn’t be dealing with paraphernalia alone like I’ve had to on several occasions (I blogged about one of those times recently), but necessity has made my cleaning a solitary trial, so far successful in staying clean through it, however. Yay, I filled two pages!