Wednesday, 4 November 2015 (GMT+11).
I am disappointed.
Ashtray full. Third glass of cheap Shiraz in hand. A moderate-strength, controlled substance coursing through my veins.
Temptation. Addiction. Dependance.
This is me.
This is who i have become.
A narcissist, perhaps.
A cliche, most definitely.
Disappointed is not the adjective that properly attests my impression.
Melancholic. Destroyed. Defeated.
A natural progression, that eventuated in my present catatonia. Stripped bare; my current surroundings are testimony to the reign of my vices. The master versus the muse. The master devoured by the muse. My muse mistress in her galactic glory, consumes me in multiple facets.
I was born on a Thursday, March 7 1985.
Pisces, mutable. Element, water.
Ruled by Neptune, planet of addiction and creativity.
Attempting to transcend weakness, thus endeavouring to escape said flaws, an odyssey that by far exceeds the suffering that brought you here in the first place is precisely the grounds upon which a true addict will attribute onus. It is easier to remain stagnant and consciously accept your plight as an excerpt of your human condition then it is to weather the battle of sobriety. I know this cellularly, in cyclic gradients.
After all, my longest relationship is in its seventeenth orbit and my most constant vice. I am referring to my romance with nicotine and what i consider to be the definition of love.
Reef 43’s are $27.49 today. By my calculation it is the cheapest cigarette in current consumer rotation among the general population of Melbourne. This is just by my calculation, that being said, I am extremely calculating. Expressly concerning love and unfortunately, money as well.
Reef 0.639 cents apiece 2015, Holiday 0.216 cents apiece 1998.
In hindsight, part of me wishes i’d signed a prenuptial agreement before embarking on my marriage to nicotine.
I am dependant. It is total surrender.
By my own, and all accounts I am held firmly by the nature of this cosmic grip. I have difficulty envisioning the possibility of estrangement. The feelings that envelope me go far beyond fear, perchance beyond petrification.
I am not your average smoker. I don’t favour a brand.
My choice is based on two things only.
1: nicotine levels, relative to colour.
2: quantity of cigarettes, relative to price.
Red having the highest level of nicotine is my preferred colour-level. I will reluctantly take the milder, blue colour-level in desperate moments.
Salute, self affliction.
It is the return of indisposition. The desire for divorce is illusive. It is plausible that nicotine will endure the remaining days of my human incarnation, as my eternal counterpart.
I often verbalise an ode to my first liaison with real love.
If nicotine was the primary downfall of my personal battle with enslavement, hope might prevail. Alas, nicotine is merely one of the many exploits of self-destruction I subscribe to. Addiction is a tempestuous mistress, the tremors of her engulfing lust are compulsive.
The first lady of habit is a vivacious allure.
It is to her I concede my control.
My expedition of alcoholism was gradual but somewhat ordained. Lurking in the bloodlines of my past.
Initial rank – Social-drinker, age 14.
Highest rank – Guru of the dark trajectory of alcoholism, age 24.
Current rank – Occasional drinker, age 30.
Vodka, my initial drink of choice continues to be the first point of contact when reuniting with my old friend.
Grey Goose, lime and soda please.
No Grey Goose? No thank you.
I will partake in the cheapest version of every other drink, with a finesse possessed exclusively by my fellow occultists of alcoholism. I pay my respects to Vodka similar to any other follower of a chosen deity.
I am currently drinking from a 2 litre cask of shiraz.
The rostered start of my next shift at work is scheduled in 8 hours and 27 minutes and random drug testing is a common occurrence. So common, that, of the three times I have been tested, I have failed twice. The substance indulged in, that ultimately resulted in the temporary suspension of my position is readily available over the counter, to the general public. This is a fact of moderate importance, it is however, my 66% fail-rate that truly depicts my stance on reliance.
If my name is generated and I am required to undergo such testing within the first 4 hours of my 8 hour shift today the likelihood that I will return ill-favoured results is probable.
My results would read.
And upon further analysis, the outcome would conclude my employment.
Rock bottom is a destination, I have visited twice. Vodka, my mentor led me astray, into the web of whiskey, Johnny Walker Black specifically, thus hurling me in the direction of brutal descent. Both times the momentum stunned me. The second time would be my first encounter with the threat of intervention. I liken rock bottom to regaining consciousness, without retaining the awareness of self.
While alcohol is a devastating crutch, the wicked elixir that truly conveys the depths of my ongoing internal war on dependence, is my fondness for Methamphetamine.
The omega of my addictive heart.
My relationship with Meth has been volatile, tumultuous.
At times, rendering me devoid of sentiment.
It is falsely fervent and all encumbering.
To remain gainfully employed while engaged in a Meth habit is a triumph in itself.
Hi my name is Jamie and I am addicted to all of life’s temptations. I am here today to acknowledge my addiction in the hope that by gaining insight to my personal patterns I will be enticed by the concept of change. Her name was Jamie and she never pursued the capacity to change.
Her battle was lost on Friday, 6 November (GMT +11)
11.38 AM. She was 30 years old.
Discovered three days later in the bath-tub of her suburban residence. The autopsy performed on her lifeless body revealed high levels of alcohol and narcotics in her bloodstream. Her death was reported accidental, though there were whispers of suicide.
She left behind two months in rent arrears and a cat named Cosmos.