I'm not doing well at all.

Coming off the drugs... a year-and-a-half, i've geen binging. Marijuana, mostly, lots of pills, lots of drink, and anything else i've got my hands on too (but not to such a large extent -- anything else has been experimental). I've booked myself in for an appointment with a drug and alcohol clinic. Appointment's next Monday, 3:30.

I ran out of anti-depressant pills 2 days ago. I'm coping. I forgot how hard it is; i remembered why i finally had to admit that i needed something to help me get by. Mum gave me one of hers, and it really fucked me up. I was quivering and puking, crying, but it was ok once i'd emptied my stomach. Guess that's a warning: don't OD, it's a rotten feeling.

~~

Kneeling over the bowl, i pressed my fingers to the back of my throat. It was familiar, so i guess it wasn't as scary as i could have been. My hair was tied back. I knew that it had to be done; i couldn't sleep, my head was thumping, whatever was causing me pain was still in my stomach. It was like a trigger. A magic button at the back of my throat. I wretched, and a short flow of acidic gunk shot out of my mouth. It was thick but creamy, and absolutely revolting. But that wasn't it all. I still felt horrible. More had to come. I pulled my trigger again, and some more came out. Still not enough, so i had to endure it further. I groaned, my eyes welling up with tears, shaking, barely holding myself up. One more time, i pushed the button at the back of my throat, and it all shot out. I couldn't stop it if i tried. It just flowed out. No, it forced itself out. Like a huge liquid maggot emerging from my mouth. I was the host, giving birth to this toxic shit. As more of it came out, it became more solid, with the juice having been spewed out before all the solid had been propelled outwards. Eventually i was done with the puking, and dribbled out the stodgy mess that was left still in my mouth. I sat for a while, spitting into the bowl, then blew the puke out of my nose into tissue. Eugh.

~~

I told the doctor i'm still having doubts, suicidal thoughts, only occasionally. I've not told anybody this. I don't know if i want to write it here, but nobody reads this anymore, so it's ok. I told him that my new sobriety is terrifying me. I have to learn new coping strategies, and apart from anything else, i have to re-discover my own identity. I have bouts of not recognising the person in the mirror; i'm not "stoner chris" or "druggie chris" anymore. So who am i?

I'm a big brother, a friend, a son. Perhaps a lover. But i don't know about that last one. She's not contacted me. I wouldnt be so fucking paranoid if i wasn't coming down so hard.

I'd like to be read. Just once in a while. I remember, though, while the comments i'd get were nice, they weren't very fulfilling. I don't know if there are many other users who can relate. And nobody knew where i was coming from, at all.

Mum just reminded me of something the doctor said: i'm coming off the drugs, so coping with reality is going to make me somewhat irrational. Additionally, i'm coming off the anti-depressants, having not had any for a few days now, so it's even worse. Ellie, my best friend, can't support me, because she's still very much wrapped up in her own drug addiction, although i think she's improving. Matt needs to help her, though. He can get through it on his own, but he needs to be there for her. My family are being outstanding and incredibly understanding. But i just wish she would contact me, just to say, "hey, i'm ok, and how are you?". But no such thing. I won't pretend i'm not gutted.

I'm comfort eating, and i don't know what to say to people anymore. I feel ignored. God, i never expected it to be this difficult! And people say marijuana doesn't rot your brain.

Mood swings, too, i've been told. I'm unaware of them. I'm trying to do a lot of things at once, and i'm burning out. Constant headache. Comfort eating. I miss her. She could heal so much, i don't understand where she is.

But i'm still keeping fit. And, DAMN, i look good.