There’s a benefit to staying awake. The laundry is going. The trash is removed from the can and directly outside the backdoor. That’s like, a third of the way to the giant bin in the alley way. 7:33 AM. Mostly, I pity myself because — on this sudden, uncommon bout of insomnia — I am also sick! Why me? I prayed to you God!… Why Me? I need sleep!
I reach the conclusion directly after the drama: I obviously I don’t ‘need this’, since I am not currently sleeping. I get it. But am I supposed to be doing something right now? I hope to God I am, ’cause my partner sleeping soundly next to me is provoking me as her ambient drone music laughs in the background.
Times like these, I realize I am even more alcoholic than when I was drinking. Historically, I could knock myself out, or hit one of those early bars. Or stare at a wall contentedly. Now I’m just sober and agitated. I already prayed again. Let me have this.
The core batch of my amends has been prepped — with a very select few of them being completed directly! — as of December 28, this 2023rd. That’s just over two years of sobriety it took to get to that beautiful personal discovery I was dodging for the previous two laps. I’m not sure what I thought I was going to find, but I do know that I did not understand what the concept: Defects of Character was until I was pushed to do Step 8 & 9 the way I did it.
Sort of leads to a ‘Hello, you,’ dynamic with my conscience and my dark ego throughout every day.
In between those detrimental thought spirals, I make a point to entertain the theory that a hair cream containing caffeine would have the ability to sink into your skin and keep you up like I am right now. I used to sleep so easily under the many circumstances trying to undermine my rest. I used to do cocaine to be here, now I just have to accept that tonight was not meant for rest.
So here’s to sharing experience.
This tiny little experience. Often, I demean my time as an addict. Dark Lou lurks about in the backroom of my head, whispering that people find me to be phony. I still think I oughta relapse to carry any credibility in The Rooms. Another drunk told me, “Now there’s an alcoholic thought!”
I kinda know what he means — though, I’m not bargaining. I don’t feel compelled to drink ever again. Dad died and I don’t drink. Lost a good job and I don’t drink. Mom is sad sometimes, I don’t drink. There’s just no point. I’m so much worse on it than off it. I write from one of the two places I get to call my home; each cozy, heated, with all the windows in the panes. To think: we used to not bother with windows in the panes! Throw a comforter over it, where a jacket to bed — you’re good for the winter!
Sleep isn’t coming. One night out of maybe 90% of two years. Feels like the world is burning. My day is ruined. Two nights ago, my partner and I tried to replicate a dip we had at a family gathering and failed miserably. That also was also comparable to an entire world burning. I complain internally about being ill and wide awake at the precipice of 8:30 AM on a Saturday.
Comical, since I know damn well my worlds were always on fire, when I was Out There. They didn’t matter to me though. I’d get bailed out somehow. I’d manage to charm money from somebody. I’d get away with it. Consequences weren’t very loud. And even though I clearly wasn’t to the rest of the lucid world: I was the Golden Boy in my mind. Tell the Golden Boy otherwise. Many tried, but:
“YOU CANNOT PETITION THE [GOLDEN BOY]”
– Slightly adjusted quote by Jim Morrison, ‘Soft Parade’ from eponymous LP
I dunno what he means by that, but it’s of the essence I like about this man. And I figure he has some clue cause he managed to actually die from it. I never had the moxy to disappear from the material plane, nor did my genetic makeup ever want to power down. Praise be.
Towards the end of my career, EMT’s were nice enough to return me to my house, since they knew the address after one or two visits. I guess that’s God. They thought I OD’d in my car on one occasion, but all I had to show for it was delirium and a measly 0.08 BAC. How embarrassing for a self-proclaimed lush. Like many of my falls from grace: I simply ran out of up to counteract the down! I was always up all hours. But, a perfect record in this department was so easy to maintain when I couldn’t remember the times I was not awake. I presume God was out there flippin’ my ‘off’ switch before I went and killed somebody, over and over again.
Is that blase? There’s nothing to do here but reflect. I am thankful for life, and for never taking one. I am far too weak to persevere imprisonment. Maybe not. Regardless of toughness, I do not want to be in prison. Cozy with windows is plenty to keep me clean, Your Honor. Thank you.
Do I go get coffee now? Seems fiendish and squirmy, but that’s what people do right now. Sometimes people don’t sleep. Normal people also have bad days. Some bad enough that they just do nothing. N O T H I N G. How do they do that? Who do we go to about this restless, unfair, irritable state I am in — No. Besides God. I already told him what I think. I am tired and want the people I hate to have everything they need in life. God’s Will for all; I really mean it!
Now, is there a more fallible enemy we can bring to fruition? I beg of you!
It seems I always have to be doing something while awake thus far along in my journey. Maybe I’m being forced to shut it down for a day. Or I can drop a fat who cares? On it and do too much anyway… stay sick and tired. I’m trying to accept my wrongness, after all.
I deny this sickness in preparation for starting a new job on New Year’s Day, as God would have it, with that tiny boss lady I talked about months ago on this blog I have trouble keeping up with. I am in denial of being restless in general. No matter how present I insist I should be, I need to be even more present!
BE HERE NOW. NOW. RIGHT NOW. AGAIN. NOW. RIGHT NNNNOW! AGAIN! NOW.
See, I turned on Whiplash as I laid my head down. I shouldn’t have watched Whiplash to wind down. It wound me up. We do love being wound up. Is it really that psychotic to push someone on the brink of complete breakdown for the sake of art? I think I can honestly say: I wish I got pushed so hard I had an immediate breakdown that presented itself in a masterpiece.
I believe I got pushed the appropriate amount, which was something I liked to blame for my lanky, 15-year breakdown. I was pushed a millennial amount. I was easy breezy upper-middle class suburb. I was College, paid for. I was unconcerned with application of skill. I kept getting by. I was artful! I was fun, slow-turning to not fun. I was without grace or gratitude. But it happened so long and slowly I never noticed a turning point, like most of us.
Maybe the folks listed in my work can pinpoint it. Someday, someone might show me exactly where I could’ve avoided this; the exact moment I entered the point of no return. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I’m here.
This morning is different than back then. For instance: I only wish I were asleep, rather than dead. And that’s just visible iceberg, brother.
But more about me: I also agree with myself, as I often do: yes, that is a lot of hard work to even be able to push out a masterpiece. Would I do that work? I would do that work. I mean, I’m doing this kind of work. Self-work. Sober work. Work I didn’t plan on doing until quite recently.
You know something? I cried the other day, doing this work. I oughta cry more probably. I cried this week for the first time in two years. I would like to cry more. It might help if I allowed myself to be pushed to tears over things.
This might be my means to a masterpiece.
OR I can avoid tears forever, ya know? I have so many choices today! I would recall Unknown Mortal Orchestra’s Ruban Nielson citing sleep deprivation as a great source of creativity while I was doing cocaine, being dull and uninspired as the birds began to chirp. Josh Homme also brings up “Sleep deprivation will make you a million,” in ‘Interlude with Ludes’ by Them Crooked Vultures. I would continue to ‘meditate’ upon the idea of creating something worthwhile, and then do nothing.
So, as it turns out, I actually used to be good at ‘nothing….’ Literally all or nothing people, ya know?
It’s not hard work — the work that I do. I’m good at what I do. I people-please for a living. Pleasing-people improves my livelihood. I am great at this performance. It seeps into my personal life. So I have to watch out, since it’s becoming second nature to believe all people are always right. Namely because I am often wrong.
See: I may be wrong about using this insomniac time to do whatever it is that I’m doing. Maybe I am wrong about wasting time. The laundry is going, so I could probably bear to waste more time. I’m out of juice. I wish this was exhausting me at all, but like this alcoholic said: It’s not hard work.
It was just was really fucking hard to get started. Continuing becomes addictive. It makes me happy every time I think about what ails me today. An actual cold. Being awake all night for no reason. Thank you, God, for the new restlessness, for the different kind of irritability, and the rare discontent.
I never keep up on this. But have one for me, those of you who can.
Your Golden Boi,
L
O
U
xoxo
pseudo lou 