I’ve collected all these things to satisfy, distract, my inner demons. When I’m in one of these more intense battles of the mind, “a fight for my soul,” what helps me though is usually some new little distraction. My inner critic, so powerful that anything anyone says is but a whisper in comparison to its screams, enjoys these plastic distractions. Sometimes sleep helps as well. I hate not having control over my thoughts like this.
We’re arriving at my collecting root-ball.
My childhood was a good one inside. In my room, with my action figures and videogames, life was idyllic. I had extensive collections of both and they made me feel really good. When I hear other people talk about how they deal with their problems through burying themselves in nostalgia, I deeply understand it.
That’s a place that’s hard to convey.
Because everything else around that shining light can, especially for us, turn to darkness immediately. “Most days are better than some” is how I describe it. It used to be difficult for me to go outside. Even now, I still prefer my days off to be in complete seclusion. I don’t get lonely. How is that like? If I had a week without responsibilities, I’d stay inside the entire time and be completely content.
Is that a reaction to my childhood?
Kids insulted me constantly. I had trouble making friends and keeping them through more than just their manipulation to get some homework help or whatever. People aren’t like that as adults, usually. Most of us, me especially, are still petty children. We still carry that child around with us. That kid that was scared of going to meet kids from school is the same one deathly afraid of going to socials.
I hate it.
I hate this weakness that’s permeated into something I have to fight to control. Don’t think there isn’t a poetic irony in how much I know just having a drink with friends could enable me to heal so much of that psychological damage, because I know it, just as I know that my behavior does not bode well with moderation. I can tolerate it and I can be a good little dog, but once something is on the table, fuck the rest, fuck discipline, and fuck everyone.
I can’t stop this.
“This” as in stop this sobriety and this… inability to leave it at one drink. I experience it daily. I can never just have one of certain things, and when I do, that is all I think about. Reality is awash in white noise as I struggle to overcome the strongest pulls of the waves that will joyfully suffocate me without even a second glass. It might not be the next day, but once it’s back in the forefront, I’ll stop giving a shit about these childhood memories and simulacrums superimposing what that innocent me had always wanted.
I hate the inner darkness that constantly threatens to suffocate that sweet child’s room.
|Sources: My personal experiences.|
|Inspirations: I’ve always enjoyed intersecting two category/columns.|
|Related: Other Moving Zeal and Sober Living essays.|
|Photo: Originally, I had a photo of some TMNT toys in boxes in mind, but since I wrote this essay, I couldn’t find the image.|
|Written On: January 17th [30 minutes]|
|Last Edited: First draft; final draft for the Internet.|