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I was just out in the garden, having a smoke, quaffing Bailey's (which is now making me feel sick), and, because the Bailey's makes me tired and I wanted to be awake (and drunk) to write music, I'd picked up a few Warp mints that I've been scoffing all night.
So I'm standing in the garden and realise that in my right hand is these two white tablets that I'd forgotten about.
And suddenly, through pissed-memory, for an instant, I thought they must be pills (ecstacy/'X' to the yanks).
And something in me wanted them to be pills, and wanted to open my mouth, throw them back and dive into a big, warm, bouncy-castle of E.
Then I realised - I'm standing in my garden, smoking a tab, these aren't pills, they're mints, and I don't even want caffeine really now because I'm sufficiently tired that really, I just want to finish my ciggy and go to bed.
So I wondered why I wanted them to be pills.
I've not bought drugs for over two years. This is an important distinction - it means that I've not intended to take chemicals while I've had my faculties about me... it doesn't mean I haven't done so, because, on about four occasions, I have. But, the stupidity of being drunk and unable to remember that I Don't Do This Anymore aside, I've been off the chemicals for a long time now.
So, why did I suddenly crave pills?
I realised that there was something sensuous about throwing a pill or two down my throat, something like jumping into a mosh pit, or sitting on the crest of a rollercoaster.
If you've seen Requiem for a Dream, the fast-cut sequence of pill-bottle-mouth-body-eyes-widening / etc, for me, I see pills in my hand / pills thrown in my mouth / swallow / top of a rollercoaster / pregant pause, looking around / DIIIIVIvvvveee. Or, for coke/speed: line on the table / snort / jump-off-bridge / fall / bungee-cord-bounce.
Before the effects actually kicked in, the act of throwing these things into my mouth and swallowing was my way of saying (because I know enough about the risks of drugs) "FUCK this - let's go!" - two fingers to the world I live in and all the pain and nasty involved, risking the possibility of Bad Drugs (bad experience/death/awful reaction), throwing magic beans at the world, at me, gritting my teeth and opening my arms and saying "COME ON, THEN!"
I've done my share of drugs (and yours), but I remain (before I take them) scared of what might happen, and this makes the ritual so much more exquisite.
I'm throwing these two tiny white bombs at myself and my life, saying "I don't care if this kills me, ruins me, transfigures me, destroys me, so long as it obliterates what I am now, bring it on!"
And, sometimes, it did all of that. So I stopped doing it.
I realised that on a bad day, when I drink, I do the same thing with the first few shots of the night. I throw them at myself, down my throat, at great velocity, in anger.
I'm splashing this drink in the face of how I feel right now and the weight on my shoulders and the worries and anxiety of life.
And another, and another.
It's an act of violence, rebellion, abuse, an "I DON'T CARE" and a "FUCK YOU!"
So. I came to the conclusion that I no longer want to drop these bombs in my head because I've had too many experiences of coming back to the fallout and having to be the man groping in the debris from this Other Guy That Was Me Last Night, who declared Jihad on myself.
And yeah, I still drink, I'm still grappling with that. Badly, sometimes. Sometimes OK.
But I think I sussed out that I don't actually want to throw missiles at myself or my life anymore.
Maybe the odd slug to the back of the head, but no more ICBMs.
I'm going to bed now.
So I'm standing in the garden and realise that in my right hand is these two white tablets that I'd forgotten about.
And suddenly, through pissed-memory, for an instant, I thought they must be pills (ecstacy/'X' to the yanks).
And something in me wanted them to be pills, and wanted to open my mouth, throw them back and dive into a big, warm, bouncy-castle of E.
Then I realised - I'm standing in my garden, smoking a tab, these aren't pills, they're mints, and I don't even want caffeine really now because I'm sufficiently tired that really, I just want to finish my ciggy and go to bed.
So I wondered why I wanted them to be pills.
I've not bought drugs for over two years. This is an important distinction - it means that I've not intended to take chemicals while I've had my faculties about me... it doesn't mean I haven't done so, because, on about four occasions, I have. But, the stupidity of being drunk and unable to remember that I Don't Do This Anymore aside, I've been off the chemicals for a long time now.
So, why did I suddenly crave pills?
I realised that there was something sensuous about throwing a pill or two down my throat, something like jumping into a mosh pit, or sitting on the crest of a rollercoaster.
If you've seen Requiem for a Dream, the fast-cut sequence of pill-bottle-mouth-body-eyes-widening / etc, for me, I see pills in my hand / pills thrown in my mouth / swallow / top of a rollercoaster / pregant pause, looking around / DIIIIVIvvvveee. Or, for coke/speed: line on the table / snort / jump-off-bridge / fall / bungee-cord-bounce.
Before the effects actually kicked in, the act of throwing these things into my mouth and swallowing was my way of saying (because I know enough about the risks of drugs) "FUCK this - let's go!" - two fingers to the world I live in and all the pain and nasty involved, risking the possibility of Bad Drugs (bad experience/death/awful reaction), throwing magic beans at the world, at me, gritting my teeth and opening my arms and saying "COME ON, THEN!"
I've done my share of drugs (and yours), but I remain (before I take them) scared of what might happen, and this makes the ritual so much more exquisite.
I'm throwing these two tiny white bombs at myself and my life, saying "I don't care if this kills me, ruins me, transfigures me, destroys me, so long as it obliterates what I am now, bring it on!"
And, sometimes, it did all of that. So I stopped doing it.
I realised that on a bad day, when I drink, I do the same thing with the first few shots of the night. I throw them at myself, down my throat, at great velocity, in anger.
I'm splashing this drink in the face of how I feel right now and the weight on my shoulders and the worries and anxiety of life.
And another, and another.
It's an act of violence, rebellion, abuse, an "I DON'T CARE" and a "FUCK YOU!"
So. I came to the conclusion that I no longer want to drop these bombs in my head because I've had too many experiences of coming back to the fallout and having to be the man groping in the debris from this Other Guy That Was Me Last Night, who declared Jihad on myself.
And yeah, I still drink, I'm still grappling with that. Badly, sometimes. Sometimes OK.
But I think I sussed out that I don't actually want to throw missiles at myself or my life anymore.
Maybe the odd slug to the back of the head, but no more ICBMs.
I'm going to bed now.
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