If the circumstances were different

I just finished reading the book "Tweak", which is a memoir by Nic Sheff about his addiction to drugs and his way to recovery.  I found it during a four hour shopping trip at Chapters, and it intrigued me immediately.

I've always had an interest in the human condition.  And usually the darker side, I guess. I love watching Intervention.  I'm not sure exactly why.  Maybe because it's an area I always fought against in myself, blocked out and believed was "wrong" or whatever.  Maybe it makes me feel I'm not as wrong as them.  Hearing about others experiences maybe make my problems seem less intense, maybe makes me feel better about myself, or I can identify, and not feel so alone.  Maybe all of those reasons, maybe none. Maybe the even sicker thought that I have this fucked up fantasy of experiencing it.

Anyway, back to the book.  I flew through it in a couple of days, a couple of days where I also worked and was job hunting.  There's no other word to describe it other than addictive and nearly impossible to put down or get out of my mind.  His writing is so honest and really gave insight into the mind of an addict, and the vicious cycles he ended up in.

All throughout that book, I kept seeing parallels between him and myself, in regards to his feelings and thoughts and mental state.  It's uncanny, and terrifying in some instances.  He's incredibly sensitive, probably considered "overly" sensitive by general society.  He has problems with depression and anxiety and fear, and a hard time feeling grown up and adjusting to the real world.  But the one thing that really struck me was when he said that he was always afraid to really let people in because he didn't want them to see the horrible, disgusting person on the inside, and reject him.  I don't remember the exact words he used right now, but it's dark, so I can't look back in the book.

Wow.  That's me.  That's me in those pages right there.  That's my first thought on reading it.  But then my second thought is, if circumstances were different, could that have been me?  Is the only reason I'm not a drug addict the fact that the opportunity to do drugs never presented itself to me?  I hung out with the "good crowd", the geeks and the kinds in the student council.  I went to a dry grad.  I had never smoked anything, not even a cigarette.  Until recently, I didn't even hardly know a person who had done anything other than drink alcohol.

But I've got the self-destructive, self-depreciating, addictive behavior.  I don't drink all that often; I don't like the taste of alcohol unless I plan to get drunk, and then I'm drinking enough so that I don't taste it anymore.  Once I start, I can't stop.  Not on my own.  And now that I've had the opportunity, I've smoked weed, and hash.  Just no one has offered me anything else.  And the scary thing is, I don't know I'd say know if someone did.  I'd like to say that I would, but I'm not so sure.

Instead, I eat, and overeat.  I don't leave the house unless I have to.  I spend way too much time on the internet; I know that I'm sure everyone can say that, but I lose days on the internet and have no idea how it happened.  I don't cut myself, because people can see the results of that; I bang my head against hard surfaces, cause myself pain that I can comprehend when I can't handle the pain I can't comprehend.

I suppose I should feel grateful that I never ended up on the streets, whoring myself out to get my fix.  But instead, I feel scared.  Were the opportunities and situations different, that could have been me.  Could it still be?

A little untitled poem

swept up into the breeze
off my pillowcase
my dead skin
my dead self
out the window it goes
so close to your cheek
can you feel
the fluttering ghost of me
once-upon-a-person?

The words just come flowing out.

A LOT.  Every time I write a post, a comment, anything, I say to myself, I'm gonna keep this short.

But it never happens.  Am I rambling, saying pointless things that don't need to be said?  Or do I just have a lot to say?

I was gonna write a post.  But then I commented on a friends blog.  And it was kinda long (as everything that I write is).  And I thought, this would make a good SHORT blog post.  So now, after rambling beforehand, here it is, and I promise I won't do any afterramblings.

It's weird being a different person around different people so that you get to where you wonder which one is the "real you", or if even any one of those is, that maybe you is just hidden down deep, afraid to come out for fear of what people will think of him/her. Then you think, maybe I'm all of those people, and then you feel schizophrenic or something. Is that just me? I guess that right now, I am trying to reconcile myself, and be the same one person around everyone. Don't know if that's the right thing to do, but hey.

I used to feel extra guilty for my depression. I would hide it, deny it to myself, try and get myself to cheer up, but then I would feel guilty for being happy, because how can I have the right to be happy when there are so many people who are sad?