This quotation from opioids.com that "long term opium use can cause physical and psychological dependence, creating in the user a craving for the drug and a feeling that life is not worth living without it." (You can say that again.)
"A writer named H.H. Kane (quoted by Jill Jones) reported that smoking opium would evoke 'a condition of dreamy wakefulness... a state in which the devotee feels himself on a stratum above his fellow men and their pursuits--at peace with himself and all mankind -- a pleasant listless calm and contentment steals over him... This waking dream, this silken garment of the imagination, will take its shape and coloring from the most cherished and brilliant strands... and puts out of sight the real and unpleasant crudities of life.' The mood, however, did not last long. 'Then the good spirit of the pipe disappears, giving place to a demon who binds his victim hand and foot.' (Hepcats, Narcs and Pipe Dreams by Jill Jones (Scribner, 1996)."
And I suppose that is my situation in a nutshell. The picture on the top right shows abscess blotches like mine, though I only have two ripe ones plus another three or four dead or dying or shrivelling out.
I have noticed a few times that opiate addiction seems to be more difficult to kick than addiction to anything else I've seen. Crack and stimulants might be far more intense, but I suspect that, like me, most people can rationalize how staying that "high" all the time just isn't possible. Opiate addiction is more profound, in that, like a Persian rug, it unlerlies all you are and do in life. It's only when you try to detox and stop that you realize the rug has been pulled from under you and you're freefalling like a raindrop in a universe of terror.
What on earth I was on about yesterday I have no idea. All those links to drug porn. Why? I certainly was not "high". Yes I had been trying to be clean and had fallen (yet again); that's all I seem to be good at, falling. (Boo-hoo!)
Last week, I had attempted some renunciation of my former ways, but was not successful, as per usual. I just found myself maudlin, miserable and so bleak that, as I said, I could barely be bothered with getting out of bed, so I did not bother.... blah blah... time has passed and now it's today...
My mind is focused on my book, a complicated, fictional, tale of human nature. My attempted "memoir" writing fell flat as no creativity is involved and I found writing page after page after page about nothing but me me me me me excruciatingly dull. Also I was forced to delve into possible reasons behind my old behaviour, plus certain alternative pathways for my old life showed up. I was none to happy to see these roadways spotlighted so long after I had inexorably passed them by.
Last night I got bored and played hamsters. They have a posh new plastic tube (very nibbleworthy) plus an up-ended miniature cheesecake container that has provided endless fascination for Itchy et al: poking her head into it, peering about in astonishment. They also now have a luxury piece of chalk taped to the side (well they seem to particularly love the taste and this stick is blue). Spherical now answers to the name "Mrs Tubbymouse". She doesn't glare at me when I use it.
I am listening (online) to the BBC Saturday Play: One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich ~ Alexander Solzhenitsin's sketch of life in a Siberian labour camp during Soviet times. For some reason my teenage reading of the book stalled (I used to love things like that. Orwell's 1984 was a particular favourite...) what I do recall is that temperatures of less than 40 below allowed the population to stay indoors and not work. How they must have hated those days that were not quite so cold!
The egotism of shyness - A few posts ago I wrote about feeling responsible for killing people. I realised today that I blame myself for many things. Most things. To be honest quite...
5 hours ago