Fiending

194 2 1

There it goes again... like a dark shadow hiding until the sun comes out. Peering at me from the distance, attempting to lure me back into the darkness. This disease with no cure only temporary remissions. Checking in on me periodically to make sure this is still the path I choose.

Calling to me, tempting me with its charm and empty promises. Reminding me of the past, yet somehow managing to block out the pain and despiar it holds. Shutting out the sheer horror of its destructive ways.

The knowledge of such a life remians thought the memories are vague and somehow replaced with exctasy, euphori and false pride. Great story telling material and in such detail. Why then do I still want to believe such lies? How can it be that I so easily forgive my disease for robbing me and ruining a once picture perfect life, enought to let it enter my thoughts, if only for a moment even? Infiltrating my memories and lingering in the air I breathe.

I cringe at the sight of a needle on the television and yet I can not look away. I am drawn to it with twisted admiration. Seducing me ever so convincing. This evil, manipulative disease. Kept repressed just long enough to gain more power.

Though I have made it out of the well of despair, the demons i met ther have become such a part of me that I dare not leave them behind. The barriers of my cell have all been broken and the walls of the well crumbled and in ruins. The sea of oppresion no longer flowing through my veins. Though I am not free. Only because i carry such jaded memories. I was tricked once again. Believing they would help me strenghten and aid me in the future when all the really do is keep me trapped. Here on this winding road mapped out only in the face of my addiction. Lost again, though I may never have really found my way.

My stomach turns, the urge is strong. I must force myself to believe my will is stronger. I try and turn it over to a higher power only to have it linger on... why am I holding on so tight? The demons try to trick me again. My mind is racing with such dillusions. My inner voice still small and weak fighting to reamin heard though so many times before has failed. Questions of what may be, what is real, what relief can be offered, how to numb, how to forget, how to live.

The spiritual warfare continues. i wish it would end. One voice saying pray, just as another interupts begging me to come back. Promising me it will end. I know the truth in that, as I will stop caring, stop feeling and end my life that way. Comforting because I know the outcome, sad and miserable and alone, wasted life. But where is this God? I see proof of his existence all around me yet this is not enough for me. For I do not know how it will end. I have real feelings now, but where is the relief I am seeking? I know I cant have it all so then I question why I bother trying knowing I am bound to fail. So many questions, dillusional thinking. I know and yet it continues. The words taunt me, they are proof. I have not written like this since the well. When I was but a mere puppet and meth my puppeteer. Constantly searching for the

way out when now I find myself looking for a way back in. I know there is no way for me, not without deadly sacrifice. There is no rationalizing this one. The comfort and security I once felt inside the prison I

alone had created is gone. Sick thinking but it is missed. I am more lonely now. Only because I know what I am missing. I cant stand to be in the same room as myself. To know I have been someone I hate and still yearn for her to return and take over from time to time torments my heart. Ripping me away from joy

and gratitude. Bleeding into the outside world, turning it upside down to allow me to see my own reflection whole. I have no clue where I am headed and have two sides to where I have been. So why do I aggravate myself so much as to write this all down. Am I weak? I just cant win. There is no real gain here only loss after loss to slowly pick up half of what I leave behind. Always taking two steps forward only to

fall back three each time. I refuse to give into this frustration. This is no longer a way to rid myself of such feelings, it has become a driving force. Calling me even louder now and proceeding to echo from the page as I write. A curse I would not wish upon my worst enemies, a burden I care not to bear. There is no escape only dreams on wich to live by.

Obsessions of an addictWhere stories live. Discover now