I wouldn’t call this my first craving, since it’s not a craving. It’s the first crippling anxiety attack that puts me to sleep because I can’t move that I wake up from less than an hour later still having, trying to relax — not wanting nor having to resist any urge, but having a memory, a visualization, a transportation back into a place I was before. I cannot identify what is so terrifying. I can only feel it. And with the collection of these words, I can only now feel it beginning to slowly pass.
So, when I started this (and probably still now), I didn’t want this to become a place where allowed I myself to be overly personal. I wanted to write informational entertainment and anecdotal histories. But what I am about to write is trashy journal writing. I don’t care.
I’m not on drugs anymore, but I’m still a Dadaist. Although, I probably never would have found Dadaism without drugs. And I’m very grateful for the philosophy, so that’s strange. Because I’m also very grateful that I am not on drugs, and that the things that drove me to a Dadaist view are no longer upon me directly. But, as a result of that, I am stronger. I am wiser than I would have been if I hadn’t faced as awful of things as I have.
One of the things that comes back after you’ve been on hard drugs for a while is… “feelings.” I know that’s not the technical term. But, for instance,feeling about people. The feelings that make you really like someone, really want someone, really love someone.
I’ve always had this thing for falling in love with girls I can’t have, especially those who are on the Internet and a great deal of our friendship starts off to do in writing, texts, etc. I don’t know what it is (or maybe I have some ideas), but… at a certain point in my life, both with and without the use of drugs to make it so, I have not felt actual feelings for anyone. The most I have felt in a long time is the amphetaminergic thirst to fuck hard, followed by the amphetaminergic necessity that is being alone.
I’ve never been promiscuous with anyone really, and if I ever have, I was young, and it was occasional. See, on dope, I had the sense to know that sex is negative and harmful on speed. It’s dangerous. If you’re having sex with other drugs users, you may be having sex with people who have used needles, sold their bodies, or something like that. It’s not everyone (the same way it wasn’t me), but there is that there and it’s very dangerous. It’s also destructive and it’s not healthy.
A stimulants effect on a person’s sex drive is fucked up. I have always known that. And for the most part, with small exception, I have acknowledged that not only can a user of this drug not be in a relationship with someone (“and why would they need to be anyway”), but they also can’t be having gross sex with them either (“and besides, it’s better without them”).
You become very detached the longer you do it. While high, you really don’t need anyone. You don’t stop to think about others terribly often either. Your mind just isn’t capable of it.
So… I have this friend… from the Internet. I’ve been friends with her off and on for coming up on 10 years at some point soonish. We used to not be busy adults and we talked all the time.
I try to keep in touch with her. I miss our affections from the past, which when we do talk, we talk about wishing we could see one another. But, we don’t have time to talk nearly as much. Or, at least she doesn’t text me back often anymore. I know life is more than our texting, and I try not take it personally. But this leads to me not texting her, which leads to her not texting me, which leads to me feeling this way.
These are feelings that originated when I started first using drugs, and I started first documenting my feelings. Somewhere I have a journal where I’m fifteen and writing about a girl that broke up with me. I’m miserable. I’m a wreck. Shortly after, I start trying pills that kids with “ADD” pass out to us, because they hate taking them (because they can’t sleep at night). And pretty soon… I don’t write about her ever again.
So that’s a thing that I can’t allow to drive me back one day.
Right now, I’m not at all worried.
Thank you for indulging this garbage.
I don’t really smoke blunts. They’re common around here these days and pretty much everywhere, but I still roll my marijuana cigarettes with a paper, and no tobacco; although I do give them European styled cardboard filter tips, just because it’s frankly the most sophisticated way to smoke it from my perspective (and not to diminish anyone else’s…)
This is because I break glass pipes too often to go buy another one while I’m spending a lot of the money I was spending on dope (and more, as a matter of fact) on computer parts.
This is basically just part one, as I still have a lot of parts to buy.
I haven’t really been in the mood to write lately, you guys. Maybe it does have a lot to do with losing my habit and having other ways to occupy my mind than graphomania … like learning how to do stuff like this.
And I just wanted to say that… I will try to write when I can, but if I don’t, it’s because I’m not doing dope anymore… still. And I will come back to make sure you still know eventually, and to show you pictures of my growing baby.
— The Great Way is not difficult for those without preferences. —
Except, I kind of do have some preferences about these computer parts, admittedly.
And with marijuana, I have shown how doable it is for some people to give up hard drugs and still keep it. And because of its value in this way,. I am not ashamed of it. It’s beautiful, unlike the twisted things I forsake.
Of course, I won’t be smoking it with the fans running on the rig…. if you were wondering.
So I’ve turned on my Facebook again so that I could reach out to people in my life who would care that I’m a dozen days drug-free, or at the very least, provide a post of stability with which I can be socially pressured to take talking openly about my addiction seriously and resist moments of weakness.
I would say so far, that this has provided me — in addition to how fed up with it all I’ve become — with the will to not really have too much difficulty so far. It boils down to, do you really want to not be using, like badly enough to do… or do you just wish that you were strong enough? …And, pride-less enough. Because you sort of have to be open about whether or not you are or not using. At least, I do.
So I’ve been posting small posts there.
I have been turning down social occasions that involve alcohol because I know at this early stage that could be all it takes to change my mind. I’ve been investing a lot of my money into a very expensive hobby that is basically leaving me broke, and forcing me to use my energy to do things… without stimulants… so that at least at this stage, even if I wanted to break my resolve, I don’t have the spare money to do it.
I bought a Ryzen 5 1600 processor and an MSI B350 motherboard. I’m going to be picking up a GPU and case with my next paychecks.
It’s funny because building a PC is a project I started on speed, one which usually doesn’t get finished because its too big for the scope of the mind of a tweaker.
The first thing I had to do was DRAG myself out of bed, after a week of sleeping, and be like, “Okay, I’m not going to get high, what am I going to do?” and this expensive computer part shows up at my door.
And I’m like… well… I guess I’m going to build a computer. So I’ve been forcing myself to learn how to do it and its been occupying my mind and I think….
The problem a tweaker has is the inability to get anything done without artificial stimulation. Its the problem I have anyway. And so, I’e just been doing it without, solely based on the fact that I manicly invested a lot of money into a computer part while high.
So ironically, the project I am continuing sober is helping to adjust my mind to being productive on my own… doing a thing that I never would have done if I hadn’t been using.
My, this fits into a lot of my categories. Learning to write and continue these things I started while using is going to take some time. But I’m doing it.
I do not want to complicate this thing too much because I’m afraid that I won’t say it if I do, so here are some quotes I’ve posted to social media in the last 36 hours.
“I’m done with amphetamine you guys, in the pills and the clear. I’m throwing out all my shit. It’s taken a lot to even say this openly, whether it’s been obvious or not. It’s been affecting me too hard again. So it’s time to get off again.”
This is probably a thing that is beyond obvious to people who know me well, and it’s something people who don’t know me too well probably have occasion to suspect.
I do this while pretending that it’s something that it isn’t in my brain so much that I don’t even admit it to myself when I am alone, or doing it. Awareness of what is going on is a thing that the drug steals from you, because it forces awareness to be stuck in little crevices.
So it’s hard to imagine how someone can be using, not aware they are using, and not talking about that they are using. Telling a great many lies about your destructive antisocial patterns becomes a survival skill. And I can’t even believe that I am saying this, but which is why it’s important…
I’ve been sober since October 2nd. This is the usual amount of time I go between binges. Around this time I start to get tired of being tired all the time. I will have slept enough to start doing it all over again. And I have definitely been thinking about it, but more often lately the aspects I’m so sick of are more apparent to me than my lethargy. It takes like a week to stop sleeping all the time, but it takes like a month for your mind to even start to be unaffected by the week of use. And it probably takes longer than that for it to ever really be, if you can even say that’s possible.
This is all I have to say.
The truth is, I don’t care about whatever I was writing before. That I didn’t finish it, or the mental state I was in at the time that disappoints me so, to see how alien and replacing of me it can be; I don’t care. I don’t care about this sentence, the last one, or the clause structure of anything.
A lot of people saw my nihilism develop from a truly depressed state. Unlike the unaffiliated, doppelganger infested mind that I see traces of passing by like strangers today and in recent memory (what little there is, and how off and on it can be), there was a far more dissatisfaction with life and existence. It was an extremity of such. Suicide wouldn’t have been enough to solve the problems of the world and it’s suffering to me then. I thought, truly, that the only way to make it right would be if not just everyone and everything died simultaneously in an instant cataclysm, but if a certainty that life itself would not re-emerge somehow in its cycle on another speck of dust with the conditions; that would be the only way. I thought, feeling a deep disgust at the passing of birds overhead in the sky where the sun was gently coming down to a basking wet humidity of sweat and misery. Life itself and all its allergenic effects on me colored my view of how feasting upon itself and propelling itself ever forward, we all persist for the perpetuation of the suffering.
I wondered hypothetically, if I had the switch; if I had the nuclear armaments and in enough quantity, placed equidistant all over the world such that a detonation could eradicate existence even for just life on Earth if not for all eternity, would it not be truly the most noble and good thing if I took the responsibility to make it happen.
I said, “Only if every person dies at the same time, such that the suffering of life is not left on the ones remaining. If only then it would be for the best.”
But I would ask, “Even if it is for the best, and if it is what I want, is it okay that I might decide for everyone what is best for them; to give them my idea of what will be for them. Do the ends (a peaceful oblivion) not justify the means, if the only way to achieve it is to stand in opposition to people who would fight me to the exponential increase in the world’s suffering just to try to stop me. If I had such a power, there would be people who would choose to suffer just for the chance to live.
And for this reason I said, “I would not do it. But it would be for the best if others would accept this.” And in my mind, always with an ideation of suicide, I imagined the only way out I could be okay with. It only worked if everyone died. I couldn’t leave behind suffering like that, in my view of self interest. So I said, “This is a thing I cannot do,” as I often thought of how I should do it.a
My nihilism arose from this but it did not stop there. A lot of things changed, time passed, I became a different, wiser person, and I realized the folly of my feelings.
It was true that there was nothing of concrete value making it all worthwhile to endure, but it was this certainty that I began to define what I called, “the true nihilist;” that is, one who does not despair existentially at all, knowing that there is no reason to.
Yes, there is suffering. I suffer constantly I would say without even being aware of it a majority of the time. This is the thing that people should accept. There is no oblivion and this is a momentary glimmer, to be followed by another having no sense of the one before it some day. All will crumble an d everything will be forgotten, and because of this, there will always be a possibility for things that seem to always be the same, or too awful too endure; maybe changing too fast to keep up with — even the best of times that ever were — are subject to a stability brought about changes innately varied in alignment towards law and order. There is nothing that is so permanently constant that it’s reality diminishes anything otherwise, so there is nothing to despair. It doesn’t matter.
And this is where peace lies. In attachment to things, you are unable to move forward into what will be wrought with or without you. You become a helpless passenger. In fear, you lose sight of the power within you to build your life into what you would have it be, how no circumstance must shape the feelings inside of you, which are your own. There is nothing to blame but yourself if you cannot attain this.
I am no Nietzschean, but this is how I hold the will to power. There is power within you to make life anything you would have it be, and though there will always be suffering washed up in the sad and happy things, it cannot stop you if your will to power remains calmly in control of the most stressful madness that can possibly be endured; that most would crumble and be left to streets, prisons, psych wards… And when left to those things, with discipline, a will to power carries on with no reason to complain and a mind clear of despair.
Otherwise, it would be silly to say that you are a nihilist at all; perhaps, maybe, you are on the path to becoming one. But, this is a path facing madness, one that many likely cannot find their will to power knowing. And, given the nature of things, it is of course possible… that to madness, one day, it will be lost.
But I will never give up on being content in spite of all things. This is why nothing truly matters, and I let go.
It’s a good thing I don’t often write here, that you have likely forgotten this exists at all, similarly to how I do myself.
It’s possible I will relinquish any former design of what I wanted to write here, and it is possible I will occasionally make a return to them. But… right now, what I want to write is going to be more difficult to write than anything I wanted to write a week ago.
It isn’t that I can’t organize it. It is, can I be openly honest about it. And, if I tried to do that, would it be possible for me to know the truth about myself that I cannot understand now.
I write this the morning after publishing Making Sense of Skinhead Reggae, part 1; technically, according to the time stamp, 7 hours ago on the listed blog post that I would love to open up in the editor to fix it — or at the very least, rename it, “Making Sense of My Own Ridiculousness.” But I can’t do that without being a hypocrite, can I?
I suppose it’s possible that there may be a difference in things you edit for different reasons, and that I could potentially maintain my rawness and still fix things that… that there was somehow a good reason to decide to hold back and fix. But, because I cannot distinguish often at times if not always when it is a good and bad time, and as a result have often felt in the end like many things I’ve written were a waste of time… to at least, be taken so seriously by me as a writer. I believe that… this is possibly why I stopped a decade of habitual writing all the time and slowly sank into feeling like it was not worth doing, until the habit was finally gone.
I’ve mentioned this before and how I’m not sure how much this has liberated me or set limits on me. The truth is, it has done both.
The things I have written since I gave up serious writing have been Dadaism in themselves, the sort of thing that I never hesitated to simply shovel on to a Facebook post after that where it can be scrolled over by the attention deficient people of this era who likely didn’t even notice it in the phantasmagoria of scrolling things.
It isn’t so much that it wouldn’t be read that is the issue. It’s the platforms that became suitable for me to write in. I didn’t keep a private journal that I hoped would prepare me for my “works,” which I imagined I was supposed to create to validate my self worth.
What was I if not a writer; the thing I had always been praised for, the thing I had spent so much of my life doing as if it was an important thing I needed to do.
The Dada philosophy I mentioned in Ideas Intersect has certainly taught me how to love myself and be a happy person, coming from the person I used to be who anything but that, and I’m grateful for those lessons. I use them now to be unashamed, bare, and and open about my failures without fixating so much on the importance of what it means to fail or succeed; which in Neon Dada, there is no such thing. I say again, this is a valuable “truth.”
But…I also enjoy writing, and I haven’t done it as often. I don’t think I consciously stopped with these thoughts in mind. In fact I know that I didn’t. But it makes sense to me a lot, especially as I try to write something half serious and discover again the flaws that make me inefficient at times — completely dysfunctional at others.
And there is an example right here in my last post. It doesn’t feel good to attempt to write something you know how to write but have your mental state come out more apparently than what you want to intend. It is very frustrating. It possibly makes me not want to continue things that I start, making it easy to unconsciously forget them maybe the way I do. I know that I am far less excited about what I wanted to write, overthought, and did not write.
The truth is, I feel thatI could have easily downsized what I wanted to do into something sensible if I hadn’t been imagining less what I wanted to talk about, and more how it needed to be so convincingly thorough that my argument would be complete. It’s as if in contradiction to my own values [the dual aspected deity], because there is no absolute correctness my argument could possibly achieve… Similarly to how there is no state of perfection that the pursuit of perfection will ever attain.
I don’t think the pursuit of improvements in how well you understand a thing and the work you do as a result of that understanding is necessarily a negative thing to think about. But it clearly can interfere with productivity and result in something out of control, or irrational. It can result in… the sense of failure that I’m sure many artists, thinkers, engineers, builders of things, scientists, etc; have often felt no matter what they did or how much they are thought to have achieved by others, or not.
It seems impossible for me to write anything without a personal story, psyche column involved in it, because it’s just too obvious what a nutter I am. I do want to be writing this personal confession diary shit. But the truth is that I have to suck it up and do it, because the only other option is to delete my post, pretend it did not happen, or maybe go back to fixing it and do the same thing all over again.
It’s quite embarrassing, really, that I couldn’t see at the time. This is supposed to be a zine where I can write about something easy and fun to write about, like music, if not among other things.
But especially after I’ve gone through all of these thoughts in the last two postswritten — and even some of the ones from before — I feel like I am no longer comfortable with the idea of not writing because of how I feel about what it reveals about what i can and cannot do.
In the spirit of Dada also, I feel like if I can’t make the thing I intended to make often times, then I have to continue to make the things that I did not intend to make.
…because, no… It’s not important that I write anything, and nothing that I write needs to feel intentionally important in some manner. But what is important is that I feel content with who I am and what I do, and have no need to hide as if there is ugliness or beauty at all anywhere.
I have taken many great steps to be happy and would say that in spite of these feelings I am still happy, but I think the next step is facing the few things left that I am still self conscious about. w
And maybe one day I will be half as precise as I wish I was, but maybe I will not wish that I was something I am not, too. And I think both options are okay.