Playing Reality

Rolling about the floor of my bedroom, I realized that I was too high. I couldn’t focus on any one thing in my vision for too long, and my eye lids were winning the fight to close and I allowed the overwhelming feeling to wash over me. I had not intended on getting this high today, but shit happens lately and I cannot seem to be bothered by it lately. The high school version of me would have been disappointed in myself for wasting an entire day away struggling to manage my high on my bedroom floor. The younger version of me would have never allowed me to be so careless with my body and mind and allow things to get so out of control. The younger version of me would have looked down on me for my drug use and pitied me for my obvious struggle with weakness. The younger version of me would have never allowed me to sink so low in expectations and would have seriously asked what I was doing with my life that had once held such promise. How did I get to be laying on this floor, too high on edibles to move? Why did I spend most of my summer perfecting my edibles recipes in for my own consumption? How did I have nothing better to do with my time? And why was I satisfied with such a low state of existence? I have been broken for years, but I did not realize how broken I truly became until I became glued to the floor and lost in a state of a wandering, tortured mind that I can never seem to escape, no matter how high I get. I haunt myself with my own thoughts and the person I want to escape most at this moment is myself. I knew exactly what I was doing when I ate half of the dangerously strong cake with my coffee this morning, and I the worst part was that I was alright with it. I saw nothing better coming along in my day, and getting high legitimately seemed like the best action plan for another day with no purpose. I could be spending time with my caring boyfriend, or hanging out with my best friends in the summer sun, but instead I chose to get high and spend hours glued to my floor, allowing the sounds of Led Zeppelin to overwhelm my thoughts until I passed out in an overwhelmingly stoned state.
Festivities will no longer hold the same value for me that they did as a child. I no longer find joy in simple celebrations and the gathering of good people. I use celebrations as an excuse to get fucked up and I have not spent a single holiday sober in years. Family occasions no longer involved board games and conversation, they involved blunts and TV. I ate food because I was high and I spent time with older siblings because they smoked with me. And despite being thankful for having such an open and honest family, there was a piece of me that was sad that holidays, something my father had loved most, have now turned into occasions to stumble through intoxicated. I no longer find joy in a meal shared with family and I no longer see value in sober conversation. I can not pretend that holidays will ever be what they used to be when my father was still alive, and I drift through them for the sake of my mother and little sister, doing them a disservice still by refusing to give them sober attention. I used to love the food and the conversation and the gathering of my family — but now all I seem to love are the blunts, walks around the block, and spiked drinks with dinner. I can not stand a board game without being stoned and I can not hold a civil conversation with my mother without being drunk. I can see the disappointment in her eyes at knowing that I am cross-faded for every family gathering, but I can not be bothered by it more than I am bothered by pretending that everything is as it used to be.
Spread across a new life of my own chaotic creation, I feel displaced and that no where is truly my home. I have items stored in three different states and pieces of me strewn along every path I have attempted to follow to happiness. I am broken and shattered and scattered and numb to the chaos of it all. I embrace the lack of control and boast about my unstable existence. I thrive on the chaos and irresponsibility, or at least I like to think I do. I was always such a perfectionist growing up that I have become addicted to letting go and seeing where the pieces of destruction land. I am a tornado moving through my own well crafted life, destroying everything that I used to know in order to abandon the painful memories of happiness. I want nothing more than to be void of feeling and I sought that when I laid down on the floor this morning, having the memory of my father and my presence in my childhood home crushing me. I could no longer see innocence in my teenage room, but instead I saw everything that I lost and everything I was still attempting to throw away. I saw a foolish girl who believed that life could never change and that I was free from tragedy. I saw a naive girl who once found joy in the colors of the rainbow and baking a perfect cake. I saw a stupid girl who had dedicated her time and life to obtaining achievement and success according to other people’s stupid standards. I saw everything I used to be, the shadow of the person I am today, and I felt like an intruder in someone else’s life. I have no idea who I am anymore, and I have no energy to think about it. I lack motivation and focus and find a day spent high, a day well spent. I don’t know what I am doing or who I am anymore, so I pretend that I am the type of person who gets high and spends all day listening to music from the comfort of the floor. I pretend that I am alright with my choices and lack of control. I pretend that this is what I want and I do not deserve any better. I pretend that I am not worth anything at all, and I do so well that in the end I might actually believe it.