...at least we can joke about it now, what do I know

Considered quitting coffee, decided against it. Not that I don't think that might have benefits, but I want to draw a fucking line somewhere.
There's already a lot of shit I willingly sacrificed. Not that I regret any of it. But coffee? Fuck no. Purism can end you on your own stake, set ablaze by your own torch.

So I'll stick to our dear lady insomnia and her sacred liquid. I can't overdo it anymore, but two cans of espresso is something I will be able to avoid.
That was just dumb.

Wow. Three weeks. I mean, there where a lot of close moments, but hey, thats not too shabby.

 

Morning wood and general functionality much improved. I'm finding it hard not to MO.

Not sure if it's just a fluke or if I'm okay again. Getting rid of PIED never seemed to take super long with me, and it's been around a month and a half. (Counter being for no MO.)

Maybe I should start looking for ppl. Haven't had much sex/intimacy since my bf left me (that troglodyte) in late summer.

 

Ah. MO'd. Getting sloppy. Thought being busy was a cure all. Don't take long though, masturbating. Don't feel like I lost it all.

But this needs readjusting. Tomorrow. Todays admitting I fucked up. Tomorrows back to business. Order and stuff.

 

AND ALL THE LITTLE RED LIGHTS FLASH RED AND ITS NOT AN UDSSR DISCO

oh capslock. we dead in the water, fam.

 

Picture this undertaking as climbing a mountain. Ice, wind, bla bla. Last weekend I fell, not all the way, but down some. Biwaking now. Dug a little hole into the mountains side. Can't press on, still too rattled, won't go back. Risky moment.

Apart from extended metaphors, I find myself looking at sextoys in online shops, and finally have a clear understanding of the porn subs thing. Fun.

Soon I have to break camp and get back to climbing.

 

You can do it drdv!

 

ty ty, rudolf.

time to go. bound to the wheel until you step down.

lost time. motivation kaput. relapsed. kept sober in regards to physical drugs and smoking. thats something.

back to the bloody saddle. spring is here, its no time to be a sad porn watching ogre.

 

There, didn't do no nonsense for a day.

Pretty depersonalized today. Drifting on the flat, aimless, peaceful ocean of not feeling much. Except for the moments where a form of sadness comes and goes.

Don't even wanna be a person that much these days.

I know, that prolly sounds nonsensical.

 

Ah. I have been wrecking my brain as to how to proceed the past days. Or maybe as to why.

I will have been three months sober next week in regards to alcohol, smoking and weed. That has brought some sort of clarity, some apparent ability to see whats there and whats not. Here's the thing, that was misleading as all hél.

Cause whenever I looked at stuff, all I could see was the extend of the damage, while failing to see as to what had been damaged, really. And because I was sober, I would trust that there was nothing else to be seen, or learned.

I've been trying to come up with a battle plan for a fight for something I have lost the ability to believe in. To the extent that I couldn't even bloody perceive its existance, anymore.

I looked at the world, and me, and back to the world and I found fucking nothing to hold onto. Nothing of substance. No wonder I went back to gaming, porn, masturbation.

We had a line in a theatre production once, more than sixteen years ago.

Roughly:

Ach, lieber Gram, willst du nicht kommen mit mir heim? Meine Liebe hat kein Schutz und kein Haus, und muss allein vergehn.

Oh sorrow dear, won't you come home with me? The love I feel has neither shelter nor protection and must perish on its own.

Before I am all, all alone, mutterseelenallein, (no, there's no translating that term, sorry), I will always rather go with the sorrow that is using.

To at least not be alone. Because, really, I couldn't see with clarity what I have lost, am in the slow and insidious process of losing still, step by step, every day, a war of attrition.

And that is trust. It has been so destroyed in me, by my hands both and others, that I even forgot how it fucking looked like.

That it ever existed. My bloody sobriety even lended false credency to my bleak assessment that, no, life was a void, and I was broken, not shattered, but broken, and that I still had to fight on, because my passing in suicide would simply too destructive to even be considered.

To fight on without cause, or any ground to stand on. Yeah, nah, thats not gonna work.

Two weeks ago I saw my grandmother. We spoke, for a while. It was the first time we saw in about a year. It was the first time, too, I had felt safe from harm, trusting, loved, too. In what felt like forever.

I cried all the way home on my bike. I hadn't thought I would feel like that, ever again. Trusting, loved, protected.

Through a combination of trauma, a family blighted with addiction and, as much as the term is overused and losing meaning, narcissism and a string of dumb and hurt lovers that I had all picked for myself for reasons, and by giving it up each and every step of the road, I have lost all trust in both me and others.

Save for grandma, apparently.

I've been looking for a mode of how to proceed, or why, these past days. And then I dream some weird shit, remember things from my youth and realize I lost all trust, so hard I wasn't even looking for it anymore. I even forgot I was lacking it.

I have been making a brave face while staring into nothingness. I kinda want to add "for too long" but that would be bullshit.

That never makes sense.

Well. Now I know where to start working on, whats damaged, that life sober isn't a meaningless hellscape. I have little fucking clue as to how yet, but I tend to be able to come up with solutions, after a lot of try and error bs.

 

Here we go, again. All that introspection don't win no fights. Break camp, start climbing. Momentum won't be born from waiting, inert.

Move, bones, forward. I don't care whether or not you feel dead, I care for you to move. Do it. Fight.

 

The wheel is just a wheel, urges are just urges. Pick a task, any task, and do it.

I won't be getting through this one without losing some sanity points, won't I.

Don't matter. Just do stuff.

 

Hm. At an impasse.

I need to approach this differently. Need to go deeper. No offense, but I need a level of detail I won't go into on a public forum, I think.
If anything can get me through the shit ahead its going deeper, honestly. And I guess no one would care to read that amount of wordiness.

Will check in from time to time, though.

 

Yo. That did the trick. I can put myself back together in writing, realign, rebuild, I just cannot do that in public.

Huh. One step further, I guess.

Edit: Stepped under the shower and only then it really hit me. I can self regulate by writing. Effectively. Reliably. And being dysregulated is my no. 1 reason for using.

Woah. Dude, I mean, duuuuuuuude.

 

Been writing in the mornings, evenings, and once at work, yesterday.

Writing as in fiction. It's nothing fancy, just short scenes, or stuff that could be short scenes. It's not a coherent story or anything, tho I do come back to some stuff. I do it just to entertain myself, and to process emotion, in a way.

I write about the same amount I would sometimes journal in a day. But journalling isn't as constructive, it's sometimes just driving myself around a topic, always on the hunt for the next therapeutic insight.

I've been at this point before, where I feel fed up with always having that mode of seeking for improvement, of looking fir errors. Cause it implies one's not enough. That's fair, at times we aren't. But it's no way to live constantly.

So I do something to entertain myself, that helps me process where I feel I am okay as I am. And that goes a long way towards being okay, actually.

And I've begun washing out the bitterness I have accumulated. It's a iterative process. I'm rebuilding my trust in myself by, well, trusting myself.

Sounds like new age bs, maybe. But it's working. And I feel my sexuality is renaturalizing. I don't have as many porn images in my skull (tho there are a lot still) and my own kind of fantasy is coming back. But in a way that is way more relaxed and not as driven by the urge to use.

Sex, of any kind, although theoretical on all levels in my life right now, had started shifting from a burning need/necessity more to an option.

I'm still able to fuck it all up. But this is the first time I am finding a path through all of these pits and thorny hedges that does not feel like just pain, confusion, war and hate.

I'm turning into a hippie, aren't I. :3

What a departure. Feel more like a gardener than that found my hill to die on martyrer crusader kind of doomer.

 

"In the garden, growth has it seasons. First comes spring and summer, but then we have fall and winter. And then we get spring and summer again."
- Chauncey Gardiner

 

aaaaand I relapsed. I start to fucking hate weekends.

since I am sober, relapsing to porn has gotten worse, somehow. about every other relapse is followed by a depressive attack.
today it's one of the killing kind. I know this feeling, I know this special taste of ash.
I was able to write a bit, enough to get me out of my deathlike feeling of being stuck. But the depression lingers, still.
I feel dumb for having been so hopeful about my getting back to writing. I know also feel, as I am writing this, that my feeling dumb
about feeling hopeful is the false feeling of the two. I am getting closer to getting out. And the addiction seems to push back towards that.

I won't be dissuaded. As destroyed as I feel, this is just depression. Yes, the one that makes windows into doors, there is no two ways about it,
it has gotten way way worse than it used to. I think it might be time for therapy again, maybe medication.

I hate having a sex drive. If I could join the ranks of them asexual people, somehow, magically, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Fucking traitor sex drive.

Huh. Pain/Dullness fades. Anger comes back to surface. Writing really is the best strat for reagining my feeling of self.

I was right to be hopeful. I'm not done yet. But the better I get at using the tools I have at my disposal, the bigger the chance of someday breaking out.
And I cannot ignore the impact todays relapse had on me. I might need more support than I can give myself.

And I need to admit I have gotten sloppy. Not planning my free time, not doing exercise in the morning. I have stopped gaming last weekend.
That is something. Fucking forever war this is. But fight it I must.

here's what i wrote to get my mind back together. its not super great fiction or anything. just something, something to be between me and the void.



She sits on her window sill, petrified as if struck by a gorgons gaze, while the traffic roars on the street level. If only she could open the window, get some air in. If only she could get unstuck. If only she could breathe.


She feels so dirtied, so debased. Like life was a river splitting around her, leaving her on the dry, to watch, and loathe herself, and be addicted. Forever to push that boulder up the hill, forever be smashed by it rolling back down.


She could just go out, meet the day, as ordinary as it was. But something in herself had settled over her ability to move like dust - and now she is all stuck. All spiteful.


It is her day off, too. She's wasting her day off with being this. This sad, this stuck. The fear, the anger wells up in her, a choking sensation in her throat. There is an empty coffee cup, from yesterday, or before, a spoon stuck to the residue of coffee and sugar on the bottom.


Before she can calm her mind, she has grabbed the spoon, and twisted it in a sudden rush of anger, thrown it across the room.


The useless violence does nothing to calm her mind.
Nothing seems to.
She runs her fingers over the woodchip wallpaper, her skull still itching with that weird, mad tingling sensation.
She traces the forms of the chips under the heavy paper, painted over three or four times.


There is a uniformity to them, and still no two of them are truly of the same shape.
Here's a bigger lump.
There is a leftover string of some spiderwebs. The structure is cool.


She's half aware of what she's doing.
Anchoring herself back to this world, out of the endless wasteland in her own skull.
Just a bit, just enough leeway to sit up straight.
Put her feet on the floor. Turn around.
Open the window, the traffic more audible now.


She still feels the hate, the hate for how her life gets sometimes, but she can keep it at bay, getting that crucial, tiny bit of distance to that numbing sensation.


She manages, now.

Slowly the spell fades.

 

You fell, you stand up, stand tall and keep moving.

That writing... That's nice. Multitalent, it seems. That's some good stuff, man.

 

A whole industry, often close to collapse, just to produce something of a...

Fuck, I am in that depressed/overthinking mode. Can only do so much about it right now.
Go for a run, cold shower, listen to loud music for breakfast. not much time. not much trust right now.

don't think now. just move forward, work, meet people, sleep, repeat.

your mind has nothing but bleak vistas today, its all a trap. just move forward, make what you do not have but need, yourself,
out of nothing, nothing at all.

 

Gods but I need a better job. I was at my LQA job yesterday when the boss of a theatre I work for and run with for a long time called and told me there was work to do. I was way too bloody happy about leaving the office job behind, and be it for a while.

Its the kind of work where the task is just nonsensical bullshit. I like the people in the office, they are a nice bunch, but the tasks are violently dull.

I appreciate that what I find acceptable as a job changes while I try to better myself. And I don't want to shit talk my job when I'm the one thats changing. Well, hopefully. I've managed sone days without MO/PMO now and I'm still not sure I'll get it right this time.

I'm shy about the whole process of finding something better because of all these panic attacks I'll be having in the process, but there is no way around it. Because this is way too much an important part of my life to just leave unchanged.

 

Okay, somehow I seem to have managed that critical stage of quitting masturbation. Ended up with a high score in youtube binging unbeknownst to man before and did stay an inhumane amount of time in bed, but I'm over that initial hump.

I got through, but in a sorry state. I have given up my routines (like journalling and yoga in the morning and all that wholesome boring shit) and my motivation and morale are low. Everything has a peice doesn't it now.

The good news is the flatline is here, so I get a brief (or not, who the fuck knows with these things) pause to kind of get my shit together and take better care of my sorry ass before the urges come back to kick said sorry ass again.

Praise ms flatline, for she is kind. Maybe boring, too, but kind.