This is work not play.

I went to my first therapist visit since Junior year of college, so about 2 years. The buildings all crowded together as I looked for the office, so I ended up having to call her to find the right door. Talking to her, I felt as I had pulled out some kind of photo album of my life and flipped through it for her. I lied about the PST and the speed, but told her about when I was younger and our current battles with cocaine. I figure I'll see what she does with that information before allowing anything else too risky to slip out. She asked me how much I was doing a day, but through her Italian accent I couldn't understand, and so she clairified: "a bump, a line, you know? how much a day?" Shoulders shrugging for emphasis as if the question wasn't already staring me in the face. "A gram...a gram and a half a day...." "When was the last time you used cocaine?" "-----------------------a week or two ago." The words 'this morning' spun in my mind as I felt around for the appropriate expression. Needless to say her original impression of me as "just a baby" because of my birthday became something a bit less wholesome by the end.

Of course, telling her that only doubles my nervousness about having dinner with my parents this weekend. I'm always convinced they're about to call me out and send me somewhere...even though it hasn't happened yet.

-----------

Now that the coke has been done for hours, R is asleep in bed, and I'm trying to get hours done for work, all I can think about is making more pst. Although my goal is to stay awake and do work (popped an addy to help get me through the night), I desperately want to get high.

-----------


The speed is pushing me along nicely, keeping me awake, keeping me from getting up and actually making tea. Also, better not to wake R... Somehow I'm supposed to go to have a physical tomorrow, which should be interesting at the least. All I want to do is make tea and write but I have to ignore those urges and press on (I'm not doing so hot stopping myself from writing)...'


-----------


I know I need to change what I'm doing, it's not that I'm stupid. I don't want to. There are lots of reasons why I feel that way, none of which will make any difference because what I'm doing is simply a fact. When I look in the mirror I can see it smeared across my face and my teeth, pin holes absorbing the face of a junky--not beautiful or intelligent or interesting or ugly or boring or fucked--only a junky. And with that mentality I've thrown my life into this hole as far as I could, but sometimes I wonder if I can still somehow reel it back and push myself on towards something different. Maybe this is not my only calling? But in my soul it still resonates true.

Howling through the window, the subway shoots people off to work and back home from the night shift a few blocks away, it cuts through the semi darkness of our living room. My eyes see trails coming off everything as I stare out, but they only catch glimpses of the roaches scurrying along the baseboards. I wish night never had to end, that the drugs and the pleasure and our hiding places never had to be undone; that the requirements of the day time never took effect.

-----------

Lucy