At the moment I find myself huddled in my bed, covered in blankets, with the air-conditioner going full blast--I can't tell if I am hot or cold. I dread going back to sleep, as I have slept most of the last three days. Fitful, nightmarish sleep broken only by a few minutes' reprieve so I can sit up and cry in pain, after which the fog and stupor returns and I go back to sleep, knowing full well the cycle will continue but not knowing when it will end.
I desperately need help and have no one to turn to. I made the mistake of being too honest here and having it backfire, and I don't feel so safe sharing my feelings here even under the guise of anonymity anymore. My rational mind--what's left of it--knows I'm simply detoxing and the physical pain and discomfort I'm feeling will pass. I do not feel the same assurance that I will regain some level of emotional peace or comfort as I am deeply depressed and hopeless. I do not know when or if I will feel better and though I am grateful to be alive at this moment I have no real idea how long I can live like this.
I surrender! I don't want a life like this, the endless repeating cycle of drug-induced false pleasure and the very real pain and suffering I endure when I must pay the piper. I have no desire to continue using--and it would be easy, I've still got half a gram left not five feet from me as I type--the thought repels me. As soon as I have enough strength to leave this house I will get rid of it somehow.
I went to my first outpatient treatment meeting right after having woken up for the first time in two weeks--I was out of it, couldn't understand what anyone was saying, certainly couldn't read when it was asked of me--but I went because I needed to go and for that moment, which somehow miraculously has remained with me--I wanted what she offered. I wanted a sense of freedom, of safety, of all those things drugs promised me but could never create. I desperately wanted to go to the second meeting today but couldn't get the strength to sit in a chair for five minutes. I feel like a failure for missing that meeting and I really wish I could have gone, if only to further cement my desire to let go.
So, here I am. My addicted mind tells me that I am only surrendering because I am in pain, that it's easy to surrender when I'm hurting, that my turning to God in despair is a false cry for help--after all, there are no atheists in the trenches--and I am afraid it's right. But just for the next five minutes it takes me to finish this blog post, I am willing to let it go. That is the least--and the greatest--thing I can do at the moment.
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