Tag: addiction

CALLED OUT

I’m going to re-engage on this endeavor.

I was pawing my pink cloud like a cat toy upon the first couple of entries (now deleted) sometime in early 2022. Let’s see, I was prepping to spend a couple days in Minerva County for a (comparatively) gentle bottoming-out, I was figuring out how to prove I could go do things alone, I was scrambling to utilize a then-and-now-defunct degree.

I was holding onto outdated items that involved focus, like journalistic pursuits — doused in harsh language, loads of edge! — and the impressive feats I yanked out of myself in the past life.

I fell in love with the glamor of drink, and it ate me up. Then I found that cocaine would make me harder to ingest. Until it, too, unhinged its jaw upon me.

When I returned from my introduction to ‘getting right,’ I wanted all my stuff back.

Surface priority one was material. And I don’t know that that will ever stop; I don’t want to imagine yet another bottoming out to achieve that discovery. Stuff, in that sense, makes me happy. I like pants, and shirts, rings and chains and music and tattoos and vanity so help me God. And I wasn’t afflicted by brothers and sisters so I really enjoyed those fruits. I leaned into Only Child Syndrome just to beat anyone slightly observant to the punch.

I put in enough time to start to realize that wasn’t the stuff I was actually concerned about. That my soul was recoiled for a thousand reasons beyond being a mid-bottom addict. Most of it was because I let natural gifts, ones which I was told and reinforced and celebrated all of my life, drown in arrogance and disregard.

I was the self-proclaimed writer — nay, I still am the self-proclaimed ‘talented’ writer who never writes! My elegant, professional paradox. How would all these potential employers ever know what they were missing without having a word to overlook.

I was a musician! I composer, a collaborator and — I now realize– a catalyst in the projects I was a part of… until I was apart from. At a point I became so infatuated with ‘landing the plane’ (as we lovingly referred to it), I caught myself stammering when I told anyone what band I was in.

We ain’t playin’ no shows. We’re doing coke in our party house, missing the trashcans and arguing over how this sloppy 30 minute riff should go. GB of space being eaten up by leaving record on for nothing of note.

The stuff I lost was effort, and curiosity, and inspiration, and motivation. Drive! I took all the built-in gear for granted, and I took it fiercely. The output I was capable of as fun turned into maintenance is uncanny.

My late father said to me, fresh out of rehab, that I was just real late to the race. And that’s just that. In no way or form am I speeding up to catch you rule-followers. I love the rules now too… It doesn’t stress me anymore that I’m gonna also be late to the finish line. Mostly because we’re all galloping to the same one.

Dad did a ton for me, and now I work on passing down that fortune to anyone else who’s anxious for it. It’s the only way to be spoiled.

And in building new relationships that have to do with giving time and energy and developing patience, recovery-based or out in the world, I had the same discovery as everyone else: life is bright, and vivid, and reciprocal. Here in this section I was about to get sarcastic; consider that fear of vulnerability redacted.

My life is easy. And it’s loaded with the advise of so many powerful, brilliant people. They were always all around me; I had made it a point to stay the hell away from the help for the better part of a decade. IYKYK.

This advisory board grows. It began with my uncle and psuedo-namesake ‘Louis,’ someone who I hadn’t realized was looking out for me quite some time, they’ll be ‘Frank,’ MA and Dad. My Band of Boys. My House of Decided Brothers and Sisters.

Frank‘s word in my ear and on my eyes sounds like its a triple-dog-dare right off the bad. This is fortunate and frustrating. The stunted, lonely child in me must compete to impress against this newfound sibling.

They said, “why don’t you write. it’s easy, just do it like songs” I don’t know if that deserves quotes but that’s what I retained.

Some god voice tells me I can’t say no.

So I recalled an initial conversation with Uncle ‘Louis’ about doing something like this under a fake name and letting it rip. However, my ravenous EGO slid in and suddenly there’s my name, my image, my identity all over this thing; hilariously to be then shared on social media. Narcissist!

(I can say it, my best friend’s a narcissist)

If you subscribed to that spew early on, congrats it’s me as you remember! Our little barely kept secret. But to anyone who tags along here on out, I am a recovering alcoholic and drug addict named Lou Mercy.

LOU for my uncle’s alter-ego Louis; the demon that runs your house when you’re no longer home. Also the nickname for a someone with which things never quite lined up just right romantically.

Hi Lou, you probably don’t remember doing this: but thanks for being the voice that said “You gotta stop” at just the perfect time.

MERCY for what I been shown; and for any of you deserve at your worst.

Especially dickheads.

(I can say it, my best friend’s a dickhead)

I’ve removed all the photographs and mentions of who I am Out There. The voice is likely going to be a give away and the stories ensuing, pending on what comes out of me… It’s no matter.

I‘m a character as it is. But here, I’m going divulge my insanity and confusion via Lou Mercy. I’m just separate enough through the pseudonym to view two versions of myself. No more pictures and artful direction, besides my decided sister’s art, not-so-ironically chosen due to its alcoholic medium.

This oughta double as an about page. The colbrus are cleared, time to get spiritually fit. Life goes.

xx decadence,

Lou

LOVE LETTER

Hi, Sweets:

I caught myself picturing you nestled in the embrace of a friend I’m told not to worry about. I never do. I’m just glad you have someone to keep you company, since I’ll be away for the unforeseeable (that’s a lie) future. I feel no jealousy as he uncaps your fuzzy warmth and takes in your kiss.

This dismays and excites me and I miss you.

I miss fooling around in the dark, and eventually in the light… constantly fumbling all over each other. Shit would smash and scatter over that which was previously smashed and scattered from the night before.

We were half-filled cups of flagrant optimism that looked toward the over-flowing trash receptacles just to confirm we really were living abundantly. Together, you and I’d knock loose the plaster walls with my fists and other parts flailing. The next morning I’d dismiss it and massage my knuckles and remove the drying blood. Victimless crime, sweets.

We’d have another go or two at each other to prepare for that day, then step out into the boorish sun, cracking lighters in the headwind as if to applaud the mortally wounded cigarettes we were trying to light.

They’d function nicely once ablaze, just not as well as they’re supposed to.

Time soared, didn’t it? Every week we’d watch each other reload the cylinder, spin it, catch it and take aim clumsily. My buffering motor skills played God as they decided whether my drives would be feigned, maligned or simply shot for the day.

I’d shake with vulnerability in your absence. It sickened me those times when you’d depart in the grip of someone else. But those resentments for you never really lasted. No point in stressing when I knew you’d be around come morning time.

I’d to shake them jitters out before closing my porcelain crown and starting out the door to meet you for another one of our ceremonious breakfasts. Because meeting you before work, before play, before anything made life that much more doable to me.

Eventually, I told myself, I’d have the means to keep you in my home all the time — at least through an entire night. But I couldn’t keep up. Knowing I was never keen on finances, you’d always run out at some point while I was blissfully rapt in revelry.

Our mutual respect for the thrill of the chase — and danger, and risk, and spontaneity, and etc. — was understood just enough to maintain a ‘healthy’ relationship, as grown people do.

Anyway, that was a while ago… I know I’m rambling.

I also know that I swore —to you, and quite a few others honestly — I wasn’t going to be corresponding with you any more. I made sure to enunciate clearly that we were done-done mostly because we all know any silly little boy can go on a break.

But you and I both know me to be a ‘silly little boy.’. So in the gesture of radical honesty, I imagine we’re bound to run into each other sometime down the road, perhaps in an intimate way. It’s just not going to mean anything like it used to.

Writing this little note here is as treacherous a step toward you as I’m trying to make. That being said, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that you aren’t the first good thing I’ve ruined for myself.

So: not my first rodeo in some respects.

Lately, I can sense when you think about me. And it comes to me more and more as the days go on. As often as I wander through your alertness, I thought it might become exhausting on my end.

But it hasn’t. It charms me, if I may be so inclined to be a dick about it.

See: I like that it’s me running around on you for once. And while most romantic endeavors aren’t as half-full as you and I used to make it, I can still tell you’re aware something’s changed. Aware enough to be bothered . Maybe even perturbed, but I’m not sure you care about anything enough to become perturbed [I’ve been reading a lot lately].

Speaking of perturbed, I’ve befriended a few wounded soldiers left adrift in your wake. They’re quick to reminisce on the good times, choking and crying from belly laughs until one of them remembers you’re still dead to us.

I raise my pink and white paws to dry the corners of my eyes and show prove myself tothe gang: ‘Yeah. I don’t miss it. I don’t love her no more.’

Though I’m one of that pack, it’s hard to forget such a punishing caress, such a reckless joy. Your calming capability was finite, I’d discover. You aggressively presented the back of your hand, but to soothe. You generously presented open palms, but to slap.

You’re the nervously gripped pepper spray to my unassuming eyeballs, sugar-face.

But I digress; and ‘I don’t love her no more’ just isn’t ever going to be rigorously honest. It’s a mantra in infancy. Because you really do make such an impression on people, everywhere you go. Hell, even the friends that I’ve known for years are taking me aside to gauge whether or not it’s cool to ‘holler at’ you.

What kind of dickhead would I be to say any of you is mine and mine alone?

I don’t have a blessing to grant anyway. You almost broke up ‘the band’ on several occasions [redacted Yoko bit here followed by ‘sorry’ in parentheses]. It’s nothing I’m not used to; you throwing yourself all over my pals, night after night. And, don’t you dare be bothered by my newfound voyeurism. Because I’m just gonna say it.

Everybody looks. How can you not look after what we’ve done to each other?

See: without you, I can’t really be as selfish as I once was, not without reason.

Thanks to you, I flex my personality in areas that could use that type of excitement, that type of entertainment. However, without your incessant ego-boosting, I can read a room for what it actually is.

I practice couth, have tact and sometimes say “sorry” quickly after saying things like “fuck” [sorry].

To my surprise, plenty of things still remain the same. See: I’ve always been incredibly clever, quick-witted, resourceful, fun and the like.

But now —especially now — what I’m telling you now has the potential to be true(!) and is occasionally confirmed by outside sources. Plus, I don’t have to apologize anymore [eh, as much] for being so damn fun and clever like everybody says!

You’ve given me veracious, room-shaking laughs, vivacious conversations with strangers who’ve since become friends, unique moments of unexpected compassion, so much…

But then you stopped giving.

Once you realized I liked you as much as I did, you just stopped. You stood still. Then I started giving, and you took. You took until you eventually stole. You borrowed (and never returned) my ambitions, my fellowship, my emotions, my drives… It was impressive, really.

What type of being can be so selfish and ungrateful after being worshiped by so many? And by so many, you’ve brought me to a point where I’m inevitably referring to just Me and Me only! And there wasn’t anybody else any more. Just Me proper and the new things you granted Me; My torrential ego, My insatiable ungratefulness and deflated self-efficacy. You made Me into My very own God and yet it’s YOU that called every shot. I thought I was the show runner, baby, but it was actually YOU. Not Me!

And still it’s you that weighs heavily on my [is it mine?] mind…

Phew.

My mother never liked you for me, by the way.

So, yeah. I guess I was just thinking about you and wanted to drop you a line… that’s the end of this figurative breakup note. Perhaps this will be of the few remaining feats of silly shit [sorry] you inspire me to do. Just something a little fun and harmless — kind of like how our relationship began, eh?

I suppose I’ll wish you well — against my better judgment, and I apologize if the message became convoluted or, like, over the top missing-the-point; I’m simply jotting ideas as they come to me [he claimed, several drafts later].

Go easy on ‘em out there, decadence… I’ll see you around, I’m sure.

xx,

Louis