Cole Carrington (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
burninginside) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2014-01-24 01:58 pm
burninginside) wrote in muserevival2014-01-24 01:58 pm
052.2. Private Diary
"Because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me." - Wonderwall, Oasis
I'm glad my hands are shaking too much as I write this to the point it will probably be illegible. It's not something I plan on re-reading. Contemplated letting Emilio read it later if he wants to. I'm not exactly skilled in knowing how to get people to understand me when I don't understand myself anymore. I have no idea why he wants to take this on... take me on. But I'm glad he's fighting for me. It's thinking about him that is keeping me propped up through this hell.
I'm sick as dog, but somehow... I'm welcoming that. I've spent so many years thinking the worst of everything that I was braced for what would come with detox. It was too hard at home. I needed to be somewhere I couldn't get my hands on any shit. No drugs, no booze, not even Tylenol. If I was home, I know I would never have stayed on the straight and narrow. Trying wasn't doing, and I only ever made it to the trying because people were telling me I should. I might have PTSD, but most of my misery is self-inflicted. That wasn't something I was deluded to. I'm not an idiot. It's just easy to let yourself get sucked into a vortex of shit when you're the only one you are really damaging in the long run.
The upside to being this sick is that I'm useless as fuck to helping myself. Tried that bit, and I ended up face-planting the bathroom tiles with blood pressure apparently high enough to warrant fear of stroke. Stroke. I'm barely in my 30s and someone is telling me I could have had a stroke. Fuck. I mean, seriously... fuck. You can handle being told your temp was up so much you might have had a seizure, but a stroke? That's something you think of in later age. I've been destroying myself, and right now, I have no idea how I'm still alive. Why aren't I dead? My fucked up mind has been wasting the rest of my body and I didn't want to see it. I didn't care. I really just did not fucking care. I didn't care if I died... now I'm terrified I could.
They told me that Em has been calling up to check how I'm doing, and a note arrived by fax for me earlier today. He hadn't posted it. He hadn't let the mail suspend it's delivery for too long. Fax, and it was in my hand the same day. It came when I was throwing up so bad, my throat was literally raw enough to bleed. And as TMI as it is, it's not just barfing, it's the whole gastro nightmare. Even that made me think of Emilio. I wasn't used to taking care of anyone when he got food poisoning right before I checked into rehab. But he was feeling so shitty and it was right after we spent an amazing night together. The first time in a very long time I had sex with someone when I wasn't high. Something inside me just cracked then... it opened up, and let something in I swore I never wanted to face again in case it was all ripped so terrifyingly away from me again.
I was falling in love with this guy. It wasn't the sex, it was seeing how poorly he was, knelt on the bathroom floor driving the porcelain bus. I wanted to take care of him, and not just because his takeout food the night before was rebelling on him. I wanted to do it for a very long time coming. And that scared me. I didn't verbalise it to him, of course I didn't. He was ill and I was already too guilty of being self-centred and self-focused, forgetting other people in the world had pain and heartache too. It wasn't all about me, even if I only had me to think about because I shoved everyone else away so I wouldn't risk losing them. I did tell him, though. I sent him an email right before I got in the car to come to Massachusetts. I told him it scared me, but that I wanted it to because scaring me meant I wasn't cockblocking the feelings, trying to drown them with drugs, booze, anything I could get my hands on.
Feeling is what scares me the most. That and letting people close when I might lose them. This detoxing has really fucked with my brain. I'm having continuous flashbacks, waking up drenched in sweat, finding that I had clawed at my own skin in my sleep. Then the exhaustion hits, and I can barely move. I'm glad they're letting me through the detox before they try throwing the counselling at me. My case manager told me blatantly that there is no way my mind is functioning well enough for therapy to be beneficial yet. It would come. It was why this rehab thing wasn't just a week, walk-in, walk-out. It didn't work like that. It took time. I have to keep going, no matter how sick and in pain I am. No matter how much my craving mind, desperate for a hit, is driving me crazy.
I like these moments where I'm too sick and drained to even move. Being tormented inside and out is like fighting a war single-handedly. You would think I would be used to fighting, being ex-military. But then, I had a squadron, I had people fighting at my side. This time, I'm fighting demons that feel bigger than the whole opposition in the Middle East ever did. But I know I'm not truly alone. He might be hundreds of miles away, but Emilio was with me in this. He believed in me, and that's something I don't have for myself yet.
I stuck his note to the end of my bed so I can see it most of the time, reminding me of the reason I'm here and doing this. It's not for Emilio, it's for me. But he's the one who grabbed me and pulled my head above the water and showed me that if I didn't stop, I was going to drown. My life was being wasted. I didn't like me, I didn't like being sober, and I was just as much a casualty as Brendan who was shot to death out there with no hope of survival. If I get through this, I can live again. And if I can live again, maybe Emilio can be the one who reminds me what happiness is.
Cole Carrington
( original character )
I'm glad my hands are shaking too much as I write this to the point it will probably be illegible. It's not something I plan on re-reading. Contemplated letting Emilio read it later if he wants to. I'm not exactly skilled in knowing how to get people to understand me when I don't understand myself anymore. I have no idea why he wants to take this on... take me on. But I'm glad he's fighting for me. It's thinking about him that is keeping me propped up through this hell.
I'm sick as dog, but somehow... I'm welcoming that. I've spent so many years thinking the worst of everything that I was braced for what would come with detox. It was too hard at home. I needed to be somewhere I couldn't get my hands on any shit. No drugs, no booze, not even Tylenol. If I was home, I know I would never have stayed on the straight and narrow. Trying wasn't doing, and I only ever made it to the trying because people were telling me I should. I might have PTSD, but most of my misery is self-inflicted. That wasn't something I was deluded to. I'm not an idiot. It's just easy to let yourself get sucked into a vortex of shit when you're the only one you are really damaging in the long run.
The upside to being this sick is that I'm useless as fuck to helping myself. Tried that bit, and I ended up face-planting the bathroom tiles with blood pressure apparently high enough to warrant fear of stroke. Stroke. I'm barely in my 30s and someone is telling me I could have had a stroke. Fuck. I mean, seriously... fuck. You can handle being told your temp was up so much you might have had a seizure, but a stroke? That's something you think of in later age. I've been destroying myself, and right now, I have no idea how I'm still alive. Why aren't I dead? My fucked up mind has been wasting the rest of my body and I didn't want to see it. I didn't care. I really just did not fucking care. I didn't care if I died... now I'm terrified I could.
They told me that Em has been calling up to check how I'm doing, and a note arrived by fax for me earlier today. He hadn't posted it. He hadn't let the mail suspend it's delivery for too long. Fax, and it was in my hand the same day. It came when I was throwing up so bad, my throat was literally raw enough to bleed. And as TMI as it is, it's not just barfing, it's the whole gastro nightmare. Even that made me think of Emilio. I wasn't used to taking care of anyone when he got food poisoning right before I checked into rehab. But he was feeling so shitty and it was right after we spent an amazing night together. The first time in a very long time I had sex with someone when I wasn't high. Something inside me just cracked then... it opened up, and let something in I swore I never wanted to face again in case it was all ripped so terrifyingly away from me again.
I was falling in love with this guy. It wasn't the sex, it was seeing how poorly he was, knelt on the bathroom floor driving the porcelain bus. I wanted to take care of him, and not just because his takeout food the night before was rebelling on him. I wanted to do it for a very long time coming. And that scared me. I didn't verbalise it to him, of course I didn't. He was ill and I was already too guilty of being self-centred and self-focused, forgetting other people in the world had pain and heartache too. It wasn't all about me, even if I only had me to think about because I shoved everyone else away so I wouldn't risk losing them. I did tell him, though. I sent him an email right before I got in the car to come to Massachusetts. I told him it scared me, but that I wanted it to because scaring me meant I wasn't cockblocking the feelings, trying to drown them with drugs, booze, anything I could get my hands on.
Feeling is what scares me the most. That and letting people close when I might lose them. This detoxing has really fucked with my brain. I'm having continuous flashbacks, waking up drenched in sweat, finding that I had clawed at my own skin in my sleep. Then the exhaustion hits, and I can barely move. I'm glad they're letting me through the detox before they try throwing the counselling at me. My case manager told me blatantly that there is no way my mind is functioning well enough for therapy to be beneficial yet. It would come. It was why this rehab thing wasn't just a week, walk-in, walk-out. It didn't work like that. It took time. I have to keep going, no matter how sick and in pain I am. No matter how much my craving mind, desperate for a hit, is driving me crazy.
I like these moments where I'm too sick and drained to even move. Being tormented inside and out is like fighting a war single-handedly. You would think I would be used to fighting, being ex-military. But then, I had a squadron, I had people fighting at my side. This time, I'm fighting demons that feel bigger than the whole opposition in the Middle East ever did. But I know I'm not truly alone. He might be hundreds of miles away, but Emilio was with me in this. He believed in me, and that's something I don't have for myself yet.
I stuck his note to the end of my bed so I can see it most of the time, reminding me of the reason I'm here and doing this. It's not for Emilio, it's for me. But he's the one who grabbed me and pulled my head above the water and showed me that if I didn't stop, I was going to drown. My life was being wasted. I didn't like me, I didn't like being sober, and I was just as much a casualty as Brendan who was shot to death out there with no hope of survival. If I get through this, I can live again. And if I can live again, maybe Emilio can be the one who reminds me what happiness is.
( original character )