Post-modernism & the Art of Addiction

 

Behemoth - Despotic glutton or helpless addict?
Answers on a postcard in less than 25 words.

The addict tells himself "One more. Just one more hit, man. One more high then I'll go straight. Swear to God, man…I'm gonna get myself clean after this one."

I tell myself the same thing each time.

The stark truth that I live with on a daily basis, the repugnant scar that threatens what last remaining shreds of self-respect & dignity that I have; the painful, cringe-inducing reminder when I look in the mirror each morning & as these eyes chance upon the image on random reflective surfaces through the day - that I too, am an addict.

The first step to solving a problem is to acknowledge that there is a problem to begin with. That part is easy-peasy lemon squeezy.

The next step & this is where it gets rather complicated, is to do something to ADDRESS the problem.

I can't afford to check myself into a rehabilitation facility. I just can't.

Last Saturday night I made the decision to stop this addiction once & for all. And like the model addict that I've always been, I wanted to mark that monumental decision with one last bender, one final throw of the dice, one glorious free-for-all that if it didn't make me want to stop for good, would kill me.

Now that I think about it, I'd rather that it would render me dead because to act on something that you've depended on for so long is akin to dismembering a vital part of your anatomy. In my time of need, it has always been there for me; when I'm happy, when I'm depressed, when things go right, when things go tragically wrong (especially). I turn to this addiction for comfort & tellingly so, end up feeling dirty, hating myself & promising time and again - THIS IS THE LAST TIME.

All this while, very much like an Ingmar Bergman classic movie - God remains silent. 

So just like Antonius Block tempts Death repeatedly with the proverbial game of chess while yearning for the voice of his Creator to tell him something; anything, if this was all worth it…I tempted fate by pushing it a little further each time. The high gets higher, I wanted desperately for the high to go on a little bit longer but the reality is when you get that high & keep on getting higher, the distance to where the ground is gets bigger and with that so too does the impact of the crash.

I seek neither sympathy nor understanding, neither tolerance nor acceptance. True to character as the hardened addict I've grown to become, the staring eyes of those around me mean nothing as I indulge, publicly. No shame, no remorse; just am empty gaze from lifeless eyes as I scratch the proverbial itch even as the flesh turns red and then raw, blood-letting a foregone conclusion by then.

Getting back to where I mentioned about last Saturday night: It finally happened. The camel's back broke. It had to end before it spelt my end. And this was what the last hurrah looked like:

The Last Hurrah - minus the cockles & prawns (obviously).

Compared to the artery-blocking, gut-busting smorgasbord of swine-like proportions one would normally associate with "the final meal", this simple bowl of laksa is akin to ending with a whimper. Well, a whimper it might have been but most importantly, it was the end.


The end of a 4-year binge that threatened to destroy the vessel before the spirit within could come into full bloom.

What is consumed, becomes.

Drink from poisoned chalices and spew forth venom.

Slake your thirst with all that is good and worthy

And never will your throat be parched for another waking hour.

Think about what I have not said.

- Zachariah Elias, August 2007                                                                                                   

The long hard road to recovery has begun for The True Zachariah Elias.