My Drugs, My Withdrawal

I was on medical leave due to a particularly vicious Bipolar depressive cycle for a couple of weeks and my restlessness reached a peak that I’ve never seen before.  Years of hemorrhaging money via my impulsive ways combined with a final realization that things have to change caused me more or less to lie paralyzed in bed.  In many aspects of my life, I am an addict.  In all cases, it is because the status quo is simply unbearable.  The land of tranquility for others is my personal purgatory.

Cutting is my drug against the crushing forces of nihilism and depression as well as the infrequent emotional turmoil caused by my Borderline Personality Disorder.  Alcohol was my drug against the crushing restlessness and dissatisfaction of a life often lived too fast, often too slow.  Impulsivity, via reckless spending and other avenues, is my drug against a similar restlessness.  At all times, I am seeking external forces to replace what comes from within for so many others.

Sometimes this catches up with me, such as the chaos created by my alcoholic ways of the past or my destitute financial situation of the present.  Sometimes it does not.  Rarely do I learn, however.  I turn 30 this year; this has to stop.  I want to spread my wings and start again.  I want to find a new home and a new town to thrive in.  The psychopath is not one to learn from mistakes – usually – and I wonder if it is truly possible for me to rise when I’ve been chained to concrete for so long.

Junkies face withdrawal as they titrate off the drugs they’ve used for so long.  I can only wonder if I will survive my own withdrawal from my maladaptive tactics of the past.  Will the restlessness consume me?  Will I return to the bottle?  Will my arms carry more scars than they do now?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that the past has not worked for me and I must be born again.

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