A Peanut Of Introspection

Another day here with Mr Piebald77. Welcome. Good to speak with you. I feel a certain sense of Otherness about me. Twelve days clean back during the rebuild. It’s a significant number. I can’t wait for 28 days again, and 84. I know I keep failing at this mission, but I am truly sorry and want to get back to succeeding again. I feel that the time is right in my life to keep the boat steady and prevent it from rocking from relapse to relapse. Now I can live without drugs and porn. You’ve been with me the whole time, so you know what I’m like. This most recent 90 day spree has really galvanised me, ushering in belief and purpose. I can do it. The best thing is, the compulsion has gone away. There’s no point being clean, however many days or weeks or months, if the urge is all over you like a XXXL cheap suit. I’d rather be at day one, with no desire to use. That’s the worse part of it, when it’s all over you, there feels like little else to do but submit to the temptation. Now, presently, there’s nothing to submit to. I never want to use again. I never want to swap the universal good nature of the Creator for something so snide and sinister as a flirtation with a porn star overnight, with my hands lugging my junk around in a stationery position like a circus monkey, biting my own lip in drug-induced nervousness.

I despise masturbation. It turns the lantern of the cosmos inwards into your psyche, when it could be radiating outwards into patterns of love and compassion for others. You learn an awful lot about yourself which was never meant to be known. I have become desensitised and pornolized. I see, or saw, women as objects of lust and desire. All I cared about was how they looked. I remember watching one X-rated video where the ages of the girls was debatable. Shouldn’t they all be 18? Some of these looked younger, but it far from stopped me from continuing to view the material. In fact, I hate to add, it got me going. I was even a voyeur to bestiality upon occasion, and violent pornography. Of this I am not proud of, and only share it with you because it is now buried in ancient history, never to be viewed again. You might be caught up in all manner of deviancy at the moment, or know someone who is, or are simply aware that it exists. My dark soul carried me to dodgy corners of the internet, but now I am firmly established with The Lord, if he would be so graceful as to entertain me, and have learned to forgive myself. I once watched a nun getting whipped, warped on legal highs from China, and the memory of it is appalling to my newfound self of worth. Porn made me gay. I have now overcome this spirit of homosexuality, and cannot now fathom watching a bloke onscreen again for the rest of my life. If I break, you’ll know about it, but that will be a sad and regretful blog post. Honesty rules around here, I won’t hide anything important spiritually. On the occasion I come to you and say I have relapsed on the pornography, feel free to shake your head in disgust or pity. I understand that you may watch it without a problem, just for ten minutes a day or something, and believe me I’m not judging. The masses take it as normal, just a habitual faction of modern society, but with me, a super-sensitive spirit, it always had a shrewd effect. I couldn’t turn it off, no matter how much angels screamed at me to do so. And I couldn’t stop poisoning myself with narcotics in the process, to maintain the pleasure. It got so messy, when the demons came in, that I almost lost myself to insanity. Fortunately I have managed to crawl back, and be restored by a higher power.

Now I don’t see it as pleasure. I see it as pain. It sucks all the goodness out of me like a carefully-planted syringe, and outlays it into a bucket next to me which the devil uses to legitimise his bloodthirsty claim over my life against me. I’m grateful today that I won’t be getting high whilst watching porno, as I have for so-so many other days of my monotonous existence. The evening might be boring, with no company, and an abundant excess of soul-searching solitude, but at least it won’t be riddled with psychotic shame.

I’m utterly alone, in my quarrel against addiction, and my darker half, with no friends or accomplices to support me. But I am not sad. Happiness comes from the victory. In saying that, I am not competitive. I believe that partaking is the important principle, not winning or losing. I’ve never cared about that. Maybe, I should say, that happiness arises from never giving up.