Close to home

My roommate relapsed last night and has been packed out of the house. I came home last night after a weekend at my parents, honestly kind of relieved he wasn’t here… I had a rough day and didn’t want to talk/deal… I got up this morning and he was still gone and yet I thought he was probably out working as he’s done before… 

I came home today and my room was a mess… and all his shit gone… and all of my clothes gone… my shoes and toiletries as well… WTF?  What the fuck? I thought… the motherfucker took my shit…

Turns out I assumed he was a prick who would steal my hanging clothes but not my folded in the drawer clothes…  no, he was packed out as they do here when you relapse… your shit is bagged up in a very no time for bullshit manner and stored. Well, my shit was bagged with his and I figured it out with the help of the staff and I have it all back hanging and sorted as before…

Why I’m writing this… comparing my writing of yesterday and the day before, I’m not even a tiny bit empathetic… I’m sympathetic but my emotional connection isn’t there like it is with those I’ve recently written about… it’s weird to me.

I’m pretty sure it’s due to resentments I have towards my roommate that are based upon my own fears of speaking up for myself… I’m mad at you because I’m mad at myself shit. Sadly, the resentments have worked themselves out now with him being gone… fuck that sounds bad…

My fears/resentments kept me from getting close to him… he’s been struggling with a relationship lately and I’ve tried to offer some help, but because the words I used were being carefully chosen as to not blurt out how much I was resentful towards him, I was ineffective and then more resentful when he didn’t change his behavior at my shitty suggestion.

What was my resentment?  He used my toilet paper and had my nightstand and has a girlfriend to hang out with… these affect my self-esteem and pride… my fear of confrontation or standing up for myself causes major ongoing resentments… why should I have to say what I want?  Please just read my body language as I beat around the bush and sigh and huff and stand over here while I set a precedent of you doing these things because I don’t say anything.

So I talked to someone about it a little and they said it made sense.  I packed up some food and some of his smaller stuff and write a note and put it with the rest of his things… I told him to call if he needs help.

I hope some compassion and empathy enters my consciousness… I don’t like this feeling… it’s like holding into a grudge… something I thought I never did but I clearly do.  

Dear veins, shut the fuck up.

As an IV drug user/abuser, one of the worst parts of early recovery for me is when my veins start coming back… coming back to life… appearing on the surface and protruding and announcing, “hey, poke me with a syringe of your favorite substance Craig… I know I disappeared for a while and made things difficult for you when you really needed me to be there, but I’m here now and look at me… fucking strong and ready… I won’t roll… I won’t collapse… I just needed a break… it wasn’t you, it was me.”

It was me.  And I wish you’d disappear again and stop taunting me… stop making that slurping sound…

I relapsed more than once when I saw my veins ready for me to destroy them again.  Time to roll down my sleeves and pray for them to shut the fuck up.