Where have I been? A serious question I pose to myself.
Lost on the hamster wheel of hustle culture if I’m perfectly honest. I hate to admit that I get sucked into the vortex of capitalism and continuously find myself stretched so thin in every direction that all I engage with can’t possibly have enough substance to fulfill. Yet once again I’m splayed, Gumby like and nearly transparent at the joints. This could be from societal indoctrination that tells me I need multiple income streams, my money needs to work for me and I need (non-alcoholic) Champagne on a private jet. OR it could be a sense of making up for lost years while deep in the quagmire of addiction. Although a fairly well-functioning drug addict and alcoholic for most of my life, sheltered by the skateboarder persona I donned to create some sort of allowance for my terrible behaviour, those last few years were a fucking doozy.
I feel as though I must succeed. I must attain some false status of what I imagine other people's perception of me must be. Without stopping to ask myself what I want, I’m on to the next thing, and the next, and the next in h
opes that I’ll gain fulfillment once I feel I’m accepted by fictitious people judging me for that which I haven’t done. No wonder I used to drink. But not drinking or using is not enough, well it is but I’m so geared towards grinding from battling addiction and then clawing my way out of massive debt that I struggle to turn it off. I struggle to enjoy those things that bring me joy. I have to struggle even though there is nothing to struggle against; I will create an insurmountable obstacle to bare down on so I can force my way through.
There is an odd guilt I feel in taking time for myself. My therapist tells me time doing nothing is time well spent, and that sounds like great advice I might give someone else. But I’m working on it. I’ve discovered baths. I’m writing in my journal again, both privately and this public-facing oversharing debacle. I missed the entire fall fishing season but I won’t miss the spring. My motorcycle is getting a makeover when the weather permits some dexterity in my frozen little fingers. I’m laughing and eating well with my girlfriend and getting to the gym. All while being solidly sober for 4 years, 11 months and 14 days; not that I’m actually counting. And for all of this, I welcome all non-fictitious people out there to judge me as they see fit.
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