I’m in the wrong session of rehab. Then again I shouldn’t be here at all, but I’m forced to come in. Every minute of every day.Enduring the slow, agonizing ‘progress’ of my abstinence. No detoxification plan, no decrease in doses; Complete and absolute withdrawal and I’m meant to some how recuperate. They must not know the depths of my problem. The commitment. My addiction and the heartache it’s absence brings. They must hate me to keep me from it. To convince me to refrain.
“FUCK RECOVERY !” Those sweet, sweet words, almost meaningless as they promise nothing but uncertainty and torment. I can empathize with my pride no longer. My medulla oblongata won’t have it ! Remove me from this shameful intervention. I don’t want to be here. I’m not crazy, I just need another hit.
I dared myself to the edge of the mountain of pathetic,standing on the very precipice of my hope convincing myself into taking a leap under no rational conclusion but – how worse can it get? And after several minutes of hesitation I jumped off…
And landed on my ass.
Once again I’ve talked myself into an ‘obvious ending’ situation with way to many expectations and this time all I can say for myself is ‘at least it wasn’t on your face right?’.. right ? Right. My subconscious is having a laugh at me. Shameful me and I deserve it.
‘What were you expecting, Superman?’ Ha !