Drug Problems

I feel trapped. A self-made prison cell, stuck in hell. An inferno composed of doubts and hopelessness.
A place of misery where all I know is my addiction. All I know is the itch is present and I have to scratch it. I can’t help myself, I can’t control myself. No one can pull me out of this place.
It’s torture. It feels like losing sanity. Losing logic and reason.
The people around me are slowly pushed away by my selfish behavior. I’m too weak to fight this desire, but I need my fix, I need it so bad. I can’t think without it, I can’t exist without it.
My hands are red, tired, beaten up. My fingers hurt. It’s killing me. My mind is breaking apart and I struggle to so much as define what’s real from what’s not.
But nothing else matters, no one matters, all I see, all I think of is this fix.
Desperation fuels me, gives me energy to search and fill the emptiness, kill off what’s left of me. The desperation fuels me to leave who I am written in stone. To bleed me onto solid rock, to draw the hieroglyphs of my psyche on any canvas for all eyes to see.
The ache that I’ll end up alone, lonely, and discarded from thought exists deep in my chest. But the pain in my heart comes from how little I care. The pain comes from how little I feel, how nothing other than the fix matters.
Blinking cursors haunt my insomnia riddled nights while I think of my next dose, my next moment of pure ecstasy and misery weaved and warped into a surreal visual experience.
The madness becomes unbearable as I speak to myself in character, no longer aware of who I really am. The very questions I asked I also answer. The shift between one person and another leaves me removed from general reality, detached and disassociated from the physical world. The manifestation of fictional universes consumes my every thought. The image of blank pages exists in the back of my mind, shuffling through different variations of tales and lies to spread.
It’s crazy, it’s making me crazy. The vocal cords in my throat hurt when I scream in anger that I can’t stop, that I can’t get out of this. I’m enslaved by it, unable to turn away, unable to understand its power over me.
I seek it wherever I go. A word syringe to inject into my veins in my desperate pursuit for understanding. It’s not a mental block.
The short phrases on my arms, written in black ink, are visible for anyone to see and judge the madness.
The scramble to find the right things to say and right times to say them gives me profound confusion. I wish only for someone to understand, to share this misery with, but I’m alone in my mind with people from a fantasy land, a construct of my own imagination, built through persistent addiction and bad habits.
My dazed states feed the anxiety and collapse all rational decisions under the weight of excitement.
I fight to see the divide between the adult and the child in a battle for control over me, fighting for the right to get the last word, to fix the last word, to create the last word.
The cursor doesn’t stop blinking through all my doubt, ever.
The lesson learned is that in all possibility I will find myself by myself, alone, lonely, misunderstood and buried beneath the things I write. I’ll find my voice and it’ll swallow me whole along with its message.
I’m no more than a vessel, a host for something greater, something beyond me, something transcendent and unreachable by my undeveloped mind, from the growing mind of a hopeful writer. An addict to the art of words and thoughts and imagination.
The writer’s block of a confused writer unable to quit and move onto the next project. Unable to start new, no will to stop and move forward, but all the motivation to understand and find the solution to the problem.