The pages in the journal I’ve been writing in are nearly complete. It’s hard to read the words back because it’s all so honest. Not necessarily direct, but honest in a roundabout way. I don’t know how to do that here. I don’t know how to do that anywhere except in my little spiral-bound notebook.

Lately, I’ve written about my dependency on smoking. I say dependency here but use addiction when writing the words in ink by hand. The internet says the words are synonymous so I guess using one over the other makes no difference.

I don’t know how to stop this.

Even as I type these words, I think about taking my bong out on my back porch and slowing it all down. It being my thoughts. Weed does that for me quicker than writing can. My brain has to slow down enough for my fingers to get the words out and while being present is probably for the best, I just don’t want to be.

Why can’t I sit with myself?

While on FaceTime with my siblings, my brother Rob was answering questions being tossed his way on how he could become so dedicated to running, which had recently become a great interest of his. “It’s mind over matter,” he says to me and I tell him he’s built of stronger stuff.

***

In the spirit of honesty, I just stepped back inside from smoking. If it’s a game of mind over matter, I often lose. Forfeit is the better word. Since I’m high, I’ll try to bring you deeper into where I’m at.

Mentally, I’m everywhere I shouldn’t be. Smoking helps my mind slow down, but it also helps me avoid feeling things in a real way. If I can anticipate the feelings to come, I somehow feel like I can sidestep them in a way. I’ve been doing that for years now. Side-stepping doesn’t mean completely missing them. It’s a passive-aggressive form of feeling. It isn’t actually feeling at all.

I don’t want to completely rip myself apart as I normally do in my journal, but I also want to understand why I do this. Why am I so afraid to feel? Am I afraid to feel? Do I hate myself? God, I need to stop spiraling. See, the weed only helps for a short amount of time. It’s because my tolerance is so high, no pun intended. It’s a very heady high for the first few minutes, making my brain feel everything. The mental effects settle into the physical ones, resting directly between my eyes. I could fall back to sleep. It’s just after 6 am and I don’t have work for a couple more hours.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll be better. I wish I could be better.