Cole Carrington (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
burninginside) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dreamlikenewyork2014-02-17 09:10 pm
burninginside) wrote in dreamlikenewyork2014-02-17 09:10 pm
@ muserevival | Quote of the Day 048.
HERE @ muserevival
“Guilt is anger directed at ourselves - at what we did or did not do. Resentment is anger directed at others - at what they did or did not do.”
- Peter McWilliams
It's been around 62 hours since Flynn showed up at the rehab place and told me Emilio had been in a terrible car crash. I didn't handle it well, but who would? It's all a bit of a blur now, and it has been a lot of sitting in hospital waiting rooms on news, and knowing I'm not family, so I'm not allowed in to see him. He's in that bad of a condition. "Critical but stable" was the last update. I can't see him, but I'm still waiting anyway. It was hearing why the accident even happened that made it really feel like my world was crumbling underneath me... again.
One tool they encouraged in rehab was to write things down. The whole congested thoughts taking wrong turns in your mind and make it like rush hour traffic. Remove some of the congestion, though, then the lanes run more smoothly. They liked their analogies in there, and I'm glad they did, because a lot of the time, pitting my own experience to psychological theory was damn near impossible and especially when you were doubting the effectiveness of the assistance already.
It was a driver under the influence of drugs and alcohol that caused Emilio's crash. But not just caused it, the cunt centre-punched Emilio's car after running a red light on a post-rave joyride. I want to hate the bastard. I do hate him. I hate him with so much rage, I could hardly even see straight when I was told. There may have been ranting and demanding to know where the cunt was so I could run him over with a car to see how he liked it. Thank god Euan and Ben were there. Without them, I'd probably be in the slammer for assault right now. Thank god Euan's a cop and could negotiate my ranting emotional state down to get a more clear mindset. When the fury wore off, all there was left really was more bawling. Bawling and guilt. Hypocritical guilt. How could I be pissed at the guy for what he did when I spent the last few years of my life in exactly the same state he was? The fucking sharp slap of reality to stop in exhaustion and realise that it wasn't an impossibility that one day, I might have been so trashed that I nearly took an innocent person's life.
I slipped. Almost, anyway. I had my dealer meet me in the undercover parking lot. I stole cash from Des' handbag when she was talking with Emilio's doctor, and I bought shit that was the very reason her brother might not survive. She is going to want to smash my head into the nearest wall when I get the balls to admit to her. Because if I want to survive any of this, I guess falling back on the shit I learned in rehab is the best chance I have. I bought the shit, and I took it to the nearest hospital bathroom, and I was going to use it. I was. I wanted to. Fucking hell, did I want to. I wanted to so much, I broke out in a sweat and made myself dizzy just from the craving coursing through me. There was physical pain. You think I would be used to that after the detox, but suddenly it felt like the worse pain anyone in the whole world could feel. Worse than anything. Worse than... being in a car crash.
This is where I can't deny a pride in myself. I didn't do it. Instead of snorting the shit, I flushed it. Five times, and then another ten for good measure. I even lifted the lid of the cistern to make sure everything flushed properly. Next thing I knew, I was waking up on the floor of the toilet cubicle with a sore head and a bleeding nose. No, it wasn't a psychotic break, but instead I must have passed out and banged my head on the toilet. Maybe it was the reality check I needed, because the terror that Emilio might die, the guilt, the feeling that I was just a fucking bad blight on the world that magnetised death and destruction to anyone I loved... I brushed so dangerously close to falling off the wagon.
But I didn't. The guilt hasn't gone, nor has the regret that my crushing addictions could have been a danger to more than just myself. It's all still there, but I didn't fuck it all. And I won't. I'm not going to let this shit ruin me. I'm going to fight it, no matter how fucking hard it it, no matter how much fucking pain it drags me through. I'm going to wait it out. I'll go to fifty fucking therapists if need be. I'm going to wait it out, and when Emilio wakes up, I'm going to be clean and sober, and I'm going to tell him I love him.
Because no matter how much pain I'm going through, how much psychological shit my brain wants to keep trapping me in, it's all self-inflicted and can be helped if I just keep going and don't fucking give up like a spineless coward. Emilio's lying in there fighting for his life, a senseless battle he should never have been shoved into, an innocent casualty of the same shit that I've let rule my life for way too long.
I don't care how I feel anymore. I've wallowed and tried to make sense of it by telling myself I'm doing it for me. But I don't need that therapeutic rehab tactic that might work for some. I don't need it for me because I'm not the most important thing here. The people who have loved me unconditionally and care for me are, and they're the ones who make my life worth living. I'm better being the protector and taking care of others before me. That's been where I have failed from the start. I gave up.
No, I'm not doing this for me. I'm doing it so I'm not the reason that someone's loved one gets an horrific call and tells them they've lost someone who means the world to them, someone they have sunk mind, body and soul into protecting and taking care of. All along I've known how that feels, and finally - fucking finally - I can see how it might have been my downfall, but it is also what needs to be my saviour.
“Guilt is anger directed at ourselves - at what we did or did not do. Resentment is anger directed at others - at what they did or did not do.”
- Peter McWilliams
It's been around 62 hours since Flynn showed up at the rehab place and told me Emilio had been in a terrible car crash. I didn't handle it well, but who would? It's all a bit of a blur now, and it has been a lot of sitting in hospital waiting rooms on news, and knowing I'm not family, so I'm not allowed in to see him. He's in that bad of a condition. "Critical but stable" was the last update. I can't see him, but I'm still waiting anyway. It was hearing why the accident even happened that made it really feel like my world was crumbling underneath me... again.
One tool they encouraged in rehab was to write things down. The whole congested thoughts taking wrong turns in your mind and make it like rush hour traffic. Remove some of the congestion, though, then the lanes run more smoothly. They liked their analogies in there, and I'm glad they did, because a lot of the time, pitting my own experience to psychological theory was damn near impossible and especially when you were doubting the effectiveness of the assistance already.
It was a driver under the influence of drugs and alcohol that caused Emilio's crash. But not just caused it, the cunt centre-punched Emilio's car after running a red light on a post-rave joyride. I want to hate the bastard. I do hate him. I hate him with so much rage, I could hardly even see straight when I was told. There may have been ranting and demanding to know where the cunt was so I could run him over with a car to see how he liked it. Thank god Euan and Ben were there. Without them, I'd probably be in the slammer for assault right now. Thank god Euan's a cop and could negotiate my ranting emotional state down to get a more clear mindset. When the fury wore off, all there was left really was more bawling. Bawling and guilt. Hypocritical guilt. How could I be pissed at the guy for what he did when I spent the last few years of my life in exactly the same state he was? The fucking sharp slap of reality to stop in exhaustion and realise that it wasn't an impossibility that one day, I might have been so trashed that I nearly took an innocent person's life.
I slipped. Almost, anyway. I had my dealer meet me in the undercover parking lot. I stole cash from Des' handbag when she was talking with Emilio's doctor, and I bought shit that was the very reason her brother might not survive. She is going to want to smash my head into the nearest wall when I get the balls to admit to her. Because if I want to survive any of this, I guess falling back on the shit I learned in rehab is the best chance I have. I bought the shit, and I took it to the nearest hospital bathroom, and I was going to use it. I was. I wanted to. Fucking hell, did I want to. I wanted to so much, I broke out in a sweat and made myself dizzy just from the craving coursing through me. There was physical pain. You think I would be used to that after the detox, but suddenly it felt like the worse pain anyone in the whole world could feel. Worse than anything. Worse than... being in a car crash.
This is where I can't deny a pride in myself. I didn't do it. Instead of snorting the shit, I flushed it. Five times, and then another ten for good measure. I even lifted the lid of the cistern to make sure everything flushed properly. Next thing I knew, I was waking up on the floor of the toilet cubicle with a sore head and a bleeding nose. No, it wasn't a psychotic break, but instead I must have passed out and banged my head on the toilet. Maybe it was the reality check I needed, because the terror that Emilio might die, the guilt, the feeling that I was just a fucking bad blight on the world that magnetised death and destruction to anyone I loved... I brushed so dangerously close to falling off the wagon.
But I didn't. The guilt hasn't gone, nor has the regret that my crushing addictions could have been a danger to more than just myself. It's all still there, but I didn't fuck it all. And I won't. I'm not going to let this shit ruin me. I'm going to fight it, no matter how fucking hard it it, no matter how much fucking pain it drags me through. I'm going to wait it out. I'll go to fifty fucking therapists if need be. I'm going to wait it out, and when Emilio wakes up, I'm going to be clean and sober, and I'm going to tell him I love him.
Because no matter how much pain I'm going through, how much psychological shit my brain wants to keep trapping me in, it's all self-inflicted and can be helped if I just keep going and don't fucking give up like a spineless coward. Emilio's lying in there fighting for his life, a senseless battle he should never have been shoved into, an innocent casualty of the same shit that I've let rule my life for way too long.
I don't care how I feel anymore. I've wallowed and tried to make sense of it by telling myself I'm doing it for me. But I don't need that therapeutic rehab tactic that might work for some. I don't need it for me because I'm not the most important thing here. The people who have loved me unconditionally and care for me are, and they're the ones who make my life worth living. I'm better being the protector and taking care of others before me. That's been where I have failed from the start. I gave up.
No, I'm not doing this for me. I'm doing it so I'm not the reason that someone's loved one gets an horrific call and tells them they've lost someone who means the world to them, someone they have sunk mind, body and soul into protecting and taking care of. All along I've known how that feels, and finally - fucking finally - I can see how it might have been my downfall, but it is also what needs to be my saviour.