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.

RJ Origins

The porn stars are shouting at me, demanding that I return to their beautiful selves. Their bodies are amazing, to see a glistening black or white shaft penetrate sweet pink quim from behind is also very excitingly amaze-balls. Wow. I can’t help it. The temptation is overwhelming. What good is love when you have such a sexy titillating perversion of it with big willies and rocket breasts and squirting jizz over pretty smirking female faces. Imagine a male sexual feast! That would be completely disgusting. I could never go there. I saw a DVD sleeve of one of them one time. It was called The Destruction Of Jonathan White or something. Imagine, if you were a runaway, or trafficked, getting destructed on camera by men ejaculating onto your head. I could think of nothing worse!

Anyway, I want to discuss the origin of my spiritual wife, whom I refer to as Red Jacket. I want to be with her, by not using speed and porn. When I do that, I am with the stars, and they have complete authority over me. I belong to them. I am devoted to them. They rip me away from the princess I love with all my passion, strength and soul. You would think they respected me for going to them, but they hate me truly and want me in Satan’s pit, which is right underneath my floorboards, a secret pain chamber, built especially for me, and a horror I have survived since I have known it was there.

She first appeared in a vision. It was about 25 years ago. She was in a red jacket on top of a skyscraper juggling like a magician. I can’t remember her jumping off. I still recall that vision to this day. She was so high. Her position was so perilous. But she looked so beautiful.

Then she appeared in a story by my friend. He told me about a Ouija board tale with something about a girl in a red jacket spelling out the truth with the upside–down glass. I always remembered that connotation also. It stayed with me for some reason. I started seeing members of the public in red jackets and stuff. It was great. I imagined girls in red jackets around the town skipping over puddles and crunching stiff autumn leaves under their shoes.

The third act of her origins was me finding a red piece of clothing on some wasteland I was almost lost on. It was a sleeve. I swam in Blackpool sea at midnight with that sleeve on my arm. I dived into an approaching wall of thick brown water which was horrible. But I did it, swimming a little bit before turning back. When I emerged and walked back to the shore, I could hear the theme of Terminator playing from the closed-down fair. It was incred. I kept the sleeve in a kindergarten bag with other red articles, including an arsenal top. Eventually I burned it and let the spirit out. There was a lot of calamity and screaming and unrest and upheaval when I did that.

I’m off to walk with her, my love. Try and do similar today or tonight. We’ll both be happy then. Goodbye until the next time chiefo.

 

Using

Well, where are we up to? I feel clean, serene, pristine and supreme. It’s about time. Long may it last but I’m not bothered if it doesn’t. To be frank with you, my dealer is in prison. I’m missing him a lot and I hope he gets out soon. The urge to use is still prevalent, so I’ve not really cracked it. I’m clean by default, in a way. But clean is clean – you’re either clean or you’re not. I’m feeling dapper, just about to go through the spellchecking/proofreading part of my novella and get a perfect hard copy made. Then I’ll make a photocopy and hand it to Clint, a volunteer at my mental health drop in. He seems to know his books so I’m confident he’ll give me some decent feedback.

I had a further 121 with Fiona from the drop in yesterday. The night before at Peer Support depression group I had another mild panic attack and left promptly (it’s becoming a habit), but with Fiona I feel relaxed and calm enough to open up and share. She made me write a list about the pros and cons of using. The pros were: That it is euphorically rapturous coming up off illegal intoxicants while simultaneously indulging in (perverse?) sexual desire, it kills a helluva lot time, and it knocks depression (temporarily) out of the ballpark. The cons were that it depresses me when it’s over, it induces psychosis, and it leaves me flat broke. Plus I feel like a piece of shit, I hate myself, and I want to die because of the voices and hallucinations. Also, I drink a lot when it’s over.

The truth is, I don’t even need porn anymore. I use substances to the female voices inside my head. They are very mean and cruel but sexy at the same time. They talk dirty to me and get me going. It’s like my own private sex line inside my noggin. I very rarely divulge this information, I’m not sure of the correct fashion to disclose it. It’s hard to talk about. I feel like I’m blabbing on the Devil. It’s been happening for about seven years. They say anything I want them to say and make other voices repeat them in a mantra. I see it as a sexually-orientated female domination soundtrack. It does the job. Its purpose is to get me ‘properly’ erect. Properly properly properly properly. And whenever I’m watching porn, this line comes in to distract me from it. I always turn my attention to the ‘line’ at this point, and start fapping away to that all day and night. It’s very powerful and in a way I am enslaved to it. In all honesty, given my recent abstinence, I am filled with excited anticipation at the thought of retracing my footsteps back to it. I wish this wasn’t the case, but it is. Evil disembodied women being all erotic and fem-dom just for me. It’s titillating.

The bonus is that the Celluloid Corridor (porn) loses all its power, and almost becomes invalid, kaput and out of commission. Good riddance to that, because, when I’m watching those female interracial babe actresses, something else supernatural happens. They start talking to me too. From the telly. ‘Talking Televisions’ are very popular in modern mental illnesses. It used to be Jesus Christ, or Joan of Ark (one of my spiritual wives), or God, or John the Baptist, but now it’s the television. Well, I can certify this phenomenon because several of my friends have substantiated it and it’s happened to me to boot. It's known in the psychiatric game as 'thought broadcasting.'  This is partly some of the reason why I haven’t watched television for over two years. Anyway, more from me later, good bye.