I want pot brownies

If the world were to end tomorrow, I'd eat pot brownies today. I'm a recovering drug addict, if you use "recovering" loosely. Some might call me a "dry drunk" because I don't go to AA or NA meetings and I'm craving, and maybe that label fits a bit. Really, though, I'm an odd size and nothing fits very well. Regardless of labels, I'd like a pot brownie tonight. And tomorrow night. And especially Friday and Saturday night. In fact, I'd eat fucking pot brownies all weekend if I wasn't so scared of killing myself in the face of crushing apathy or going to jail or disappointing everyone in my life.

I told a friend today I wanted some of the sweet herb. He told me he'd give me some. He told me he'd bake it into a brownie, that I shouldn't have too much since I've been clean for 11 years, that the art of growing potent pot has been perfected since 2000, and if I started to get out of control (again) he would be a good friend and reel me in. So really, I don't have anything to worry about. Sans knowing if the world is ending tomorrow, I can go ahead and eat the fucking pot brownie because my friend has my back.

Why am I trying to escape? I don't feel particularly "bad." I am, however, quite conscious of some others in my head screaming a lot and wanting to punish myself. My therapist says this self-punishment thing is based in deep seated toxic shame. Many of us are working this idea much of the time. On the one hand, a shame-based me is a painfully obvious observation. My behaviors and feelings and repetitive thought processes clearly declare a deep well of shame. On the other hand, I don't know what I am ashamed about. I know what happened to me as a child, I know it wasn't my fault, I know the feelings (physical and emotional) were expected and can be explained reasonably. It's so fucking frustrating that I can't find the disconnect between the logic and the feelings and just simply connect them. Or maybe I can....and that's why I  seek a luscious pot brownie.

These red herrings I toss before my selves, red herrings like beating myself up over craving pot brownies, they would make a nice sandwich. Followed by dessert - and you know what I want for dessert.

Crucified

Not with nails, not to a cross, but I am crucified nonetheless. The little scratch I made with the utility knife is a tardis - much bigger on the inside than on the outside. Inside that little, pathetic cut is myself, stabbing at my arm repetitively, digging out chunks of flesh, screaming. I am treating myself "cruelly," causing pain and suffering. I am hurting myself. I engage in sadistic self-torture because I feel shame and the result is more shame. SHAME on me. Heaped upon me. Burying me with its heaviness. I wish I could dig out of this shame but it is a tardis - much bigger inside.

I wish I had not given the drugs to my therapist. I wish they were on the counter where they have been sitting for months, calling me seductively but quietly, with class and tact. "Eat me, and float for 12 hours, on a couch of soft nothing." Now they are miles away, on his counter, screaming at me with vehement, white trash rage "you fucking BITCH! You left us and now instead of floating with us we sit in the dark, unconsumed, while your FUCKING rage consumes you! SHAME!" Instead I take the psychiatrically condoned anti-psychotic tranquilizer that I won't float upon, rather I will be smothered with. It is oppressive, not fun, which is why I can take it. But FUCK the doctors, I took a non-sanctioned lovely pill I got from a pharmacy from India, fair and square right off the internet. Does that make me a drug addict? Is this a slip? Did I just stab my sobriety in the back? Is it so wrong for one of my selves to take one pill to calm me down, while another one of my selves takes a pill to keep me awake? 

Maybe "crucify" isn't the right word. Maybe "sabotage" is more fitting.

It's been a hard fucking day, people. I dare anyone who has never been sadistically tortured by another to attempt to understand (i.e. crawl into the head of) someone who has been sadistically tortured by another. 

The mind itself is a tardis, transporting its soul to the past to relive, relive, relive. 

Jesus was crucified. For my sins, apparently, and the sins of the bad people of the world, so that we wouldn't have to die. But I want to die. I am sick of crucification and I can't seem to stop the shame and the rage and triggering that gets me to this place. I am dangerous like this, so much more dangerous than when I am simply "depressed." I am alive when I am like this, so much more alive than when I am depressed. I am lethal when I am like this, alive and deadly. I could jump off the cross and save myself, I suppose, but my purpose is a tardis, so big inside that I cannot see it from my vantage point here on the precipice of shame. I crucify myself, so that the little one inside can live without the heaviness of the sins of the bad people of the world. I rage so that I can feel alive, and even if the rage ends in my suicide then at least for awhile I felt alive. I bet right before Jesus died he felt the most alive.