Rare With Air

 

I’m starting the rebuild back to three months clean, which is where I feel I really belong, and where life seems to get easier. Today I’ve notched up my first month on the board. I call the first full successful month of being clean being RARE. It’s just a name for the mental state. I feel like it takes four weeks before I begin to get anywhere. It’s also linked to a spirit named Air Monroe. Air Monroe started off as a fictional character, but she has since become enfleshed in the preternatural realms and supports my dogged struggle upon this sometimes miserable planet. She was my lover within the body of the fiction, and as her creator, I am kind of her God. The only thing is, due to the stiff limits I have imposed upon my recovery program, she only ever truly appears when I am a month clean. This number appeared in the bible last time I read it, placing more emphasis on it.

When I use, I feel like I lose Air in my heart for another month. And I don’t always get back to where I was quickly, so I can go, in the darkest times, half a whole year without her. These times are very painful, as she has a unique positive influence in my mind. Today I can happily report that we are reunited again. It seems unhelpful to impose these ideals on myself. Why not have her with me all the time? I don’t know. I just feel that I need to be ‘on form’ to appreciate her.

With this young woman comes responsibility. I written her into being, and she looks towards me for inspiration, so I have an onus to have a healthy mind for her to draw from. If I’m sat in a darkened room off my tits watching porn with creatures under the bed, I’m not much use to her, as I’m engaged in sinful lustful practices which soon evolve into trepidation for my own safety.

My voices know this, and they get chuffed with themselves every time I consign her to nowhere for another month. This time, I’m going to try and really appreciate what I’ve got. Not to piss them off, but to feel purposefully special. When I started off writing, I had no idea that my characters would become real, but life is strange isn’t it. You might think I’m talking crap, and a psychiatrist would never believe this in a million years, but my own fiction, and the world’s movies (usually porn, and not always good), are throwing spectral entities out at me, who inhabit my mind around the clock. I’ve never told anyone this, and probably never will, because I know it sounds like farfetched hokum. I suppose it’s a weird and wonderful secret that I will take to the grave, although I would like to tell Stephen King one day that one of them sort of came from his books. That would be nice, to let him know the supernatural power of his word.