Journal: “tesst wghen wrirtinting witgot withou7t correctiongh he errorors”

Week One

June 15 ­ detox start

June 18 ­ conscious again

June 19 ­ dehydrated, fucked, no appetite, no stamina, bed­ridden

June 20 ­ 5 days after detox start

June 21 ­ the Battersea walk / lying in the power station dust

Week Two

“This is a tesst wghen wrirtinting on the keyboard witgot withou7t correctiongh he errorors”

Superego is too far above and id too far below to even see.

The brain chemistry rewriting itself back to some kind of normality is a slow process depending on the extend of the opiate habit. The ego screams in the harshlight.

The brain gets busy working on fixing itself and realigning its inner chemistry immediately but for a while (days) one remains thus raw and in complete disconnect. It’s the hardest part of the detox as one is bound to commentate every passing moment. There’s no escape save back to opiates. If one wants to be genuinely clean one has to go through this reestablishment of the inner mind trinity. It’s a horrible experience.

This process is supposed to be four week plus. There are key moments:

1. when the ego and superego reconnect in a noticeable way for the first time and one becomes able to be aware and countenance things external again.

2.  when  the  discomfort  that’s  causing  a  restlessness  within  ceases  to  be  so  ceaselessly uncomfortable though there will be many moments of relapse as the brain has to focus on healing and protests the raw state, the ego screams.

9 days after detox

Feel no id emotions, listless, fat, muscles atrophied

OTHERS full of love I can return in words devoid of feeling or real focused interest

yadda yadda yadda.

 

A Day In The New Life Of…

 

Taking a crap trying to remember how.

The horrible bed of nails bathing.

Clothing oneself.

Breathless, sweating, lurching to flatten in bed.

Think some, try to evoke the horrible recovery brain.

Up and out to the supermarket.

Stairs, heavy fucking door, staying close to the hedge.

Normal people v me. Elderly simpatico.

Inch by inch to the shops.

Every inch in London is used, polished, built up.

Climbing the speedbump. Crossing the road. Beep beep. Up the curb.

Past the Italians hanging out, brow streaming, pedestrian crossing, hobble over the main road.

Into the supermarket, the bright light, the roaring puking fridge cold, colours swimming.

Mindfulness mindfulness.

Pick out some food that’s nauseating.

Pick out some Rosé wine that’s heavy as fuck.

Thunk onto cashier belt. Jolly hello, croak hello back, bagged up, waking out as if normal. Outside slump, holding onto bin unit.

That Evening

Trudging back home, ten steps at a time, closing hood around face to not be seen. Tempted by the soft tar pavement concrete to lie down and let it all spill. Ten steps at a time. Speedbump. Up and over. Ten steps at a time. Polished inches. Final corner. Hedges, facades, distant pillarbox, ten steps, seeing front door, ten steps, portico, heavy door heavy luck shoulder push, thunk it shuts. Inside. Nobody can see me. Carpet and wood polish smells like at Repton. Memories. Breathing. Up the stairs, breathless, into home flat, dump bags clink bottles greeted groan back, bag taken from me grateful, wine glee. Tunnel vision, where’s my bed, flop into mattress covers, unpeel clothing, nestle, thump thump thump thump heartbeat. Slowly calming.

Thoughts from bed about being fucked, being old, that’s what’s coming, stream of consciousness, asked if I want some Rosé, NO. Tired restless fidgety disinterested, lights off, of the dark the lovely dark, make music bang bang bang, screaming lyrics into the pillow. Somehow convey the restless night no sleep dawn sunrise light bright here’s the day, another trek, when does it start to get better?

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