I almost relapsed

at 401 days sober

I wish I had something insightful to share.

Something anecdotal.

But I’ve got nothing of use.

Other than the fact that I was uncomfortably close to relapsing a couple of days ago. I guess I’ll share about that since it's the only thing I can be analytical about right now as I have torn myself apart, trying to stretch myself thin over the last few months (is it plagiarism if I’m taking words from my other writing? See reel for original).

So a few days ago after a very ordinary, unspectacular day at the 9-5, I made my six-step commute to my structurally corrupt, wannabe of a sofa. As I plopped my numb, jogging-bottom covered arse onto the scratchy, bubbly, dusty rose duvet that is currently acting as a sofa cover, I connected my Spotify to the TV and played Halsey’s BADLANDS (Live from Webster Hall) album. I am a huge Hasley fan. I discovered Halsey’s original Badlands’ album in 2015 and immediately synced with the volatility in her vulnerability against the backdrop of her Alt-pop/dark-pop sound. This record soundtracked every solo journey - to uni, to my part-time job, socials…it was always beating on my eardrums and permeating my brainwaves. I deeply connected with this album and it became an ally as my mental health significantly continued to decline during this period. 

You know what else became allies? 

Alcohol and weed. 

I would smoke, then drink, then stick my headphones in to zone the fuck out so I could ride the beats, float on the notes and lose myself in the lyrics. It was my favourite form of escapism and in the moment, I thought I had discovered pure bliss. Serenity. I had found a way to transcend my reality and plunge myself into an alternative pool of tranquility. Emphasis on alternative (lol. Alt-pop. Get it?). 

Fast forward 9 years to a couple of days ago, while listening to Hold me down, all I wanted was to be high and drunk. Or what I refer to as ‘waved’. You see, life has become very troublesome of late. I have realised that I want to pursue art. I want to write, I want to sing, I want to create. I want to blend and blitz my feelings, experiences, thoughts and imagination, and pour it into a story, a poem, spoken word, songs, a play, a screenplay, a monologue, photography and film. I want to make art. And I’ve been experimenting. And it has felt so right. Like when you get a diagonal line of identical counters in connect four, when you put a jacket on and it ties your entire outfit together or when you drop a perfectly sized bouquet of flowers into a perfectly sized vase. It just works. That’s not to say everything I’ve been creating have been spectacles of art that must be witnessed. That must be marvelled at. No. But the process of creating and releasing the work into the wild of the world aligns with something within me that personifies my being. Like I’m static or inanimate until I create. 

The problem however, is that I work a 9-5 because I need money. Your girl’s got to pay rent. I am not in a position where I can make money from what I create yet. So I spend 40 hours a week working a job so I can eat, pay bills and invest in myself. 

Bringing my creations to life usually catapults me very high. It's a surge of adrenaline and dopamine that births a fluttering sensation that rises from my stomach to my chest, and like an electric shock, it pulsates through my body, guiding my fingers, my eyes, my voice. It's euphoric. But then I have to put it away. 

Cue the comedown. 

The flutters in my chest fall to the pit of my stomach like a led paperweight. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. I’m not going to be where I want to be anytime soon. The reality of finally finding your passion but not having the resources to explore it to the extent you would like to is debilitating. Like I’m being crushed by that paperweight.

So I’ve been trying to work writing, specifically copy, into my job in any way I can. It's a small thing that might help me not want to *insert dark joke*. In addition to making my job a tad better, I’ve been looking for opportunities to expand my professional copy portfolio so maybe if I have a valuable enough portfolio, maybe I can apply for a full time copy/writer position. In addition to my addition, I’ve also applied for the technical writer position at the company I currently work for. As we welcomed the unexpected warmth of the Spring darkness one night, my bf and Khleo were snoring away while I worked late into the early morning on my cover letter, adjusting my CV and answering the application questions. 

You see, I’m trying to make the corporate side more bearable as I pursue my creative side. My real side. And while that’s happening, there’s a case of ill-health in my family that is unbearable. The NHS is in tatters so the waitlist is exactly that - waiting on an incredibly long list to see a specialist who might be able to help. Oh and inflation is still happening. Bills are increasing but is my salary increasing? Is my salary even market rate? And are there a lot of companies hiring right now? What’s the job market like? Oh, shit? Yeah. And today (19th May 2024) is 3 years since Kobe 🐾 was ripped away from me. His absence has been loud recently. A behemoth emptiness. The guilt and anger is at the forefront of my mind.

So in summary:

• I can’t pursue the work that breathes life into my withered soul to the capacity I want because I need money and therefore must engage in corporate life

• I’m applying for opportunities to enrich my corporate life so it feels less corporate and more creative (i.e. more me)

• Inflation still be inflating so life is spenny but salary doesn’t match

• Job market is shite

• Sick fam is sad and NHS continues to be in tatters

• Grieving is hard

So as I sat catatonic with depression on my couch while Hold me down blasted from my TV, I reminisced on being 21 and the immediate absence of pain I felt when smoking and drinking my aches away. 15 minutes went by and Ghost was now playing. With curiosity tightly wrapped around my bones, I felt a tug from the kitchen. So I rose from the sofa and with tension underpinning every Croc covered step step, I walked over to investigate the cupboard. I hadn’t committed to relapsing at this point but I was actively inquiring to see what liquor was in the flat. 

Nothing. Cupboards were empty. The fridge was empty. So if I really wanted a drink, I needed to action quite a few steps. I had to put on my trainers, jacket, baby-proof the flat for Khleo 🐾, double lock the doors, walk to the shop, pay £15 and then walk back. I didn’t consciously decide against drinking. I just found myself in a foetal position on the sofa with my face wet and salty from mass tears. I guess I was too tired to relapse. So I continued crying and listened to the rest of the album. During I walk the line, I dragged myself over to the freezer and picked up a tub of ice cream. A clean spoon. Stumbled back to the sofa where I resumed crying and ate the ice cream. It’s crazy how all of these emotions physically weighed me down, like crutches would have been much appreciated support when walking over to the freezer. 

As I placed the ice cream tub on a coaster (good sign that some care for life is back),I ripped apart my intention to drink and rifled through the scattered answers with the enthusiasm of a kid who’d just beat a pinata into bleeding candy. After shoving the answers down my throat and regurgitating them, I managed to taste the logic and found the craving eviscerating. It was in the final stages of decomposition. It took feeling my feels, crying, looking for drink, looking at past behaviours with rose tinted glasses and accepting that life is kind of shit at the moment, to remember that a drink wouldn’t make anything better. It would do the exact opposite. This is what moving through the craving rather that getting over it looked like for me.

Nothing has changed since my almost-relapse a few days ago. Life is exactly the same. I don’t know if I have a chance at the tech writer job, I still imagine a life where making art is my career and today I remember saying bye to my boy 🐾 three years ago.

Like I said at the start, I don’t have anything of use to say.

I can’t close this post out with a moral to the story like the fables we read growing up. There is no highlight. The truth is, life is shit at the moment, it doesn’t seem to be letting up but I still have the energy to try and put one foot in front of the other, just not in the direction of the corner shop.

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