Day Three

Posted on April 8, 2010


I was homicidal yesterday. Irrational. Wanted to cover my eyes with patches, stick lozenges up each nostril and put gum in my ears. I have no television so checking out was out of the question. I wrote about my faith, which helped to calm me down. But that was early morning, and by mid evening, I wanted to run in circles screaming. Everything around me turned into a cigarette. I was talking to Deezy over dinner and pointed to something, referring to it as a cigarette. He started laughing and I didn’t understand why, and then it hit me, I’d just called a fork a cigarette. A big freaking wreck.

Here is the difficulty in quitting…anything. When I quit drinking, and smoking pot, I was forced to sit with myself. To be present. Fully aware. When I quit porn I was forcing myself to sit with myself. To be me. To stand tall in the face of adversity, and sit quietly in moments of peace. All that time, I had cigarettes, and I’d still check out. I would walk outside and have a smoke. Check out. I would surf the internet and chain smoke~ never actually seeing where I’d visited. Checked out. I would talk on the phone and watch the smoke rise from it’s tip, watch it burn ever so slowly all the way down to the filter. Checked out. Now, not smoking cigarettes, sitting here in day three, I have overwhelming urges to shop and spend money. To walk around Hollywood with no destination. To crawl under the covers and go back to sleep. It all comes down to checking out.

Why do I have such a hard time sitting with myself. Why must my hands be so busy, my mind wander, my heart long for something to turn down the volume. I want to stay busy. I want to become hectic. Insanity is breeding insanity and even though I put my program into quitting smoking, I can’t figure out why I am so uncomfortable with being uncomfortable.

Today is much better. I had wild patch dreams, about Mr. Man, television producers, and little ballerinas dressed up as flowers and bumble bees. I dreamt I was in San Francisco, but knew it as Anaheim. Mr. Man was himself, but looked like someone else, someone I’ve never met. The little girls were all familiar and a giant rose made of pink, peach and yellow chiffon grew in the middle of the dance studio, I pulled it over and fell inside. I was out like a light, but am exhausted from dreaming.

After a shower, a new patch, and some soft gardenia body oil, I’m starting the day fresh. Loaded up on vitamins, drinking anti-oxidant tea, debating on if I can pull the screens from my second story window and launch water balloons with the ultimate sling all the way down to Hollywood Blvd and the tourists touring. I wonder how long it would be before they came for me.

It’s time to clean house.

Posted in: Good Days