Writing not smoking

I’ll sleep “fine” tonight. Oddly enough, I hope tomorrow night I won’t.

Already smoked again, it was all too much. I threw my rage, my anticipation of a lighter way of existing, my resentments, everything hidden below the surface – directly at him. 

And he talked about the world ending. He asked who would even want to be sober to see all of that?

So I stonewalled and snotcried and I promised my mum I wouldn’t smoke tonight. My best friend called me and made me laugh and smile and hold strong, only 5 more hours until bed time after all! And I’m so damn tired from last night’s insomnia. Missing just a j before sleep left me with night sweats, mosquitos made up and real, and a night spent watching videos of people who had overcome weed addiction. I felt strong in the fact I could follow suit.

When I decided to go for a walk in the park at 6am, make a coffee at 7am during a NicA meeting and couscous during the 8am MA meeting – I was positive I had it in the bag, just for today. I even made it out to see a friend who’s never used and never wants to. We sunbathed in the park and talked for hours, planned art exhibitions and book ideas. Took photos and shared sushi with a bottle of hibiscus kombucha. Laughed at the Angolan chickens that roam the park nearby. Fatigued, yes, but I felt so damn good.

Until a high pressure situation occurred. Are we going to break up? Can I date someone who’s not ready to accept my needs to ditch green? How much longer can I put up with a feeling of inadequacy self-created and externally triggered?

Coming to terms with the fact I am an ugly addict means coming to terms with the fact I’m probably not best suited to choosing my path forward, under the influence that is. 

I smoked up, cried more, felt like I’d died all over again. I suggested we break up, let me find out who I am, and maybe down the line when I’m regulated and maybe he’s changed his mind on a few things – we could try again. 

We talked and talked and talked, and now I’m going to try and be patient. Start again, name the rage I throw against him in the process, take responsibility for my emotions – or at least try to – in his presence, without smoke. If it’s impossible, I can close the box on us.

So here I am writing and smoking, letting strangers on the internet know I am spineless. Not editing anything, especially not before I make it even 24hrs out of this hole.

So long as I continue to create and listen, I will be led. I am allowed to nurture my artist.