Synthetic Weed

You know when everything's going all right and you think you are a little invincible and you sort of just go "Aww fuck it" and you risk all your hard work and everything for a little high?

Yeah, well, as we all know with the chilling clarity of sobriety, there is no 'win situation' from pushing our luck - or even tempting fate, or riding the plateau, or (and I don't even know what this means) chasing the dragon.

What happens is before you even have time to absorb the insidious mind cram of the high, you are transported instantly back to that time you were strung out - crawling around the house on a weekday looking for butt ends or a skerrick of a joint.  Even just a bit of a butt, or the teensiest scrap of smokeable grit you could transform into a high and the escape from the doldrums of sobering up.

Sure, the headache of the hangover can be sweetened by lying back and just well lying there, but nothing beats a hangover like doing it again before the hangover has time to fully deaden into what you think is the grim tooth-grind of reality.

Yeah, since this blog is my church, and I certainly can't say my body had been my temple lately (unless you count the offerings of chocolate and ice cream and other assorted sweet crap) - I have a confession to make and it is embarrassing and frankly fucking ridiculous.

For the past eight days I have been smoking this synthetic weed that I honestly can't tell you what it is made of - someone likened it to flyspray on paper - and I have just stopped yesterday.  Today is my second day without it.  Fucking crazy - but I was virtually (really? virtually - like as in Tron?) no, was basically hooked on this shit and my world was caving in again.

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Mmmm.  It's a fucking joke that I am so reckless and foolhardy acting as though I can walk into an impossibly high threshold addiction situation and just flirt on the edges without being sucked into the volcano.

So, yeah, I had a joint of it.  And I just squatted there, looking at my tree ferns, and I smoked a cigarette (yeah, they appeared just a few weeks ago too) and my mind skipped away into that deep stoned trance where the garden and the plants are almost more than three dimensional and somehow the garden design and layout becomes a whole body experience.

When I am stoned I work hard.  I planted dozens of native grasses and re-built all the compost around the existing ferns and palms.  I dug drainage trenches and made space for a sandstone bench.  I re-potted all the pot plants in the courtyard with fresh compost, and trickled fertilizer onto all of my tress and plants too.  All this over the last seven or eight days.

Waking up, getting dressed, going to buy more plant shit, and then curling a joint and smoking it whilst I garden with the headphones on playing classical music.  Me, lost in concentration moving plants and thinking, acting out the best sites for them to grow.  I moved my tahitian lime tree from the pot it was in since 1999, and planted it in the ground, and then went and bought two more so I would have a little orchard.

Everything was so twee and nice and stoned and calm out there by myself, doing the gardening thing.

But I don't live in a vacuum, and sure enough, it all came to a shuddering halt.  I was basically addicted again.

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Cannibal Serial Killers

Serial killers have always intrigued me - how a man can kill and then go back to normality - dispose of the body, have a shower, get groceries.

And I have read dozens of books on the topic, so I know that alcoholism is intrinsically tied to serial killers - whether they kill when they are drunk or whether they are on the drinking roller coaster.

You've all heard of Jeffery Dahmer, the Milwaukee Serial Killer who started eating his kills and was finally caught with skulls and body pieces in his fridge. Dahmer was a heavy drinker since his mid teens, like Dennis Nilsen and countless others.

What I can identify with is the level of cool detachment required in the act of returning to normal. As an alcoholic it is this same detachment that allows us to veer perilously close the edge, and then somehow think we are entitled to feel able to "return to normal" the next day. In our work, with our families, at the local shop - as though the devastating act of drunkeness and self-neglect never happened.

As an alcoholic, my last 100 days have been great - no drinking, working hard on my garden and spending time with my daughters. It is simply invigorating to be out and about getting on with life without the cloud of alcohol looming over me.

And I appreciate in the afternoon and on Fridays when the drums start to beat in my ears and what seems like the rest of the world is destined for a drink, that I don't have to worry about this anymore. That drinking is a foe I have stared down and won a reprieve from, so long as I maintain my discipline and awareness.

Spencer Johnson call this period a peak, where you are in a good place but sometimes, somehow, you manage to stuff it up and go back into a valley in his book Peaks and Valleys.

"Be humble and grateful. Do more of what got you there. Keep making things better. Do more for others. Save resources for your upcoming Valleys"

Very simple stuff eh? By keeping an awareness of where we are and actively working to make sure we sustain what got us there, we can stay up on a peak for longer - indefinitely even.

Which is where the serial killers come back into it. Time and time again, the serial killer is brought undone by a trifling oversight - like driving without lights on (Peter Sutcliffe) or using stolen software (BTK Killer) - which is so incredibly minor in the scale of what they have been doing.

But the serial killer has gone past the point where small details can be processed and managed, as the big picture of killing and body disposal takes up most of their cognitive ability and thought processes. So if they screw up on a minor thing like an out of date license or vehicle number plates - who cares? At least it's not being busted for the murders.

But this same line of thought leads them to make more and more lazy, brazen risks and inevitably draws attention from the authorities. And the authorities just as likely stumble upon another oversight, like a blocked drain (Dennis Nilsen) and on investigation, find it is clogged with chunks of rotting flesh.

So it was with my drinking. In a breathtakingly naive attempt to remain "slightly almost but not quite" drunk from after breakfast until I collapsed at night, I would drink little bits here and there and try to maintain a drunken plateau. But I would forget things, or overlook obvious signs I was drunk, and to everyone else, I was slurring on a Wednesday before lunch. That's why I can't drink anymore.