Abuse

The nice thing about substance abuse is the sympathy. It's the hugs, the flowers I get in the treatment center, the greeting cards. It's why I drink, really, and shoot heroin. If you must know, it's why I smoke weed excessively and imbibe in pain killers. It's the compassion and the familiarity. It's quite breathtaking, actually. When I think of the care and militant empathy that showers me following a week-long brain-mangling gasoline huffing binge, my heart cannot deny its necessity. It reminds me why I was placed on this Earth. My calling: to experience the incredible love and support that comes from abusing my body with dangerous and addictive chemicals. Little brings me more joy than those soothing smiles on their faces, looking down with purity and innocence upon my anemic, emaciated body covered with IVs and wires. These are moments to live for.

As far as my preference, I judge narcotics mostly by their ability to incapacitate. I have found the degree of pity is somewhat proportional to my degree of helplessness, so the most addictive substances are preferred. There are exceptions. For example, most folks believed my cigarette smoking addiction was my own fault, which made it useless. This was unfortunate because they were very accessible. I discovered the perception of the drug's omnipotent power is absolutely critical. So, instead, I turned to large amounts of booze, contracting the disease of alcoholism. The difference was shocking, and completely incomparable to smokes. My deliberate destructive drinking had the uncanny ability to convince almost everyone that my infantile helplessness was complete, and my behavior, completely unintentional. It seemed to be working.

Yet, this was not enough by itself. I also had to demonstrate futility - that I was not accomplishing anything at all, lest I have purpose, and therefore, something to live for. This psychological game requires determination. But, futility, as it turned out, was not much of a problem. In fact, I really outdid myself, being scarcely able to navigate my apartment without cuts and bruises in my incoherent stupor. At least, I assume this was the case judging from my subsequent condition, and that of my apartment. I was surprisingly capable of unintentionally damaging both beyond repair. How, exactly, did I do it? Well, these were not memorable times, but I remember choking on my own vomit and flashes of the ambulance ride. Then, of course, the violent convulsions of withdrawal. But, what really sticks in my consciousness - what I cannot displace from my most vivid and irresistible fantasies, are the divine visitors tenderly stroking my forehead and wishing me well. With the memory of every caring word I feel like Pavlov's dog salivating for that precious burning sensation destined to scorch the full length of my throat.

There are important nuances to all this. Always the innocent victim, I must be overwhelmed by more than just the treachery of my own impulses, and gain unquestioned sympathy by being encouraged by a tyrannical enabler. Acquiring one of these is as easy as chatting him up at the bar; maybe buying him a double. This enabler is there to ensnare me in his pernicious tines of drunken camaraderie, as such an influence is essential to my innocence. Without his insistence I cannot have a clean case. I choose him carefully, knowing he must be naive and completely oblivious. In fact, I drink with him only a token number of times; just enough to ensure I am seen accepting his poison. Although I will be downing liters of brandy moments after last call, I must be noticed subtly rejecting the last round. While the enabler ambles home and falls comatose on the tile floor my evening of self-destruction begins. To start I like to pour a martini dryer than surface of the Mars. Done correctly, the enabler will assume the majority of the responsibility, maybe 80%. The booze takes the other 20. I, my friends, take none and urge you to spare my innocent enabler as I strain to uncurl corners of my mouth watching you berate him for his unconscionable behavior - driving me to engage in horrific activities I could never have done otherwise. The shower of scorn that falls upon this individual is almost as delightful as your gentle warmth, nursing me back to health. The combination is my little piece of heaven.

Call me a joker, a masochist, a psychopath. Call me whatever the hell you want. Recovery or gurgling up blood from my corroded stomach lining. That's the life for me. It's how I roll, and you suckers just can't help but love me for it, can you?

Cheers!