Every time, I do it. And every time, it pisses me off.
I know what will make me feel BETTER. I know the formula. No alcohol, no snow-white piles of dark-web Pregabalin down my gob, no calls to Marco, no last-minute takeaways. No avoidance, no not communicating, no not journalling. Instead: Fucking meditation, yoga, exercise. Call friends and family and be real with them, let them help me. Let them be there for me. Healthy, varied food. Good, Valium-free sleep. Maybe write a fucking song about it, achieve something constructive.
I know all this. And still I do it. Still I fill my body with poison, like I once brought a blade to my skin. It’s the same instant relief, the same inexplicable desire to self-destruct. Then, self-loathing comes crashing down like an avalanche of shit, and no barricades in the world could keep it at bay. I choke under its weight; I don’t even try to break free. I just let it come.
In this suffocated exhaustion, is it realistic that I will get on the fucking exercise bike and make a fucking smoothie? I don’t think so. There’s gin and pills and oblivion and that’s what I reach for.
So that’s my lockdown blues.