here's a post that shows the true depths of my confusion.

when someone is overtaken by any kind of addiction, they become false. They might phrase that state differently. "my demon." "my worst side." "my evil twin." whatever you wanna call it, it's a false self, a false life, driven by something so removed from who we truly are. that's the definition of fake- living a life where i didn't hold the reins. repeatedly letting people do horrible things to me, and lying about all of it, so i could keep up a facade. when the justifications and rationalizations and suppressed feelings were exposed, the pain of the truth nearly killed me, a couple times over. but i chose that path, because i wanted to be honest. i wanted to be real.

and recovery is about being real. being honest, getting to the heart of the matter, being yourself. no more lies, no more stories to have to keep track of. no more incongruence between words and actions. there are many beautiful things about this process, but a lot of shitty parts too. . . and sometimes i think it's too awful to be worth it. alternately too painful, too boring, too neutered. . . it doesn't feel right. when i think of being "real", i remember moments of feeling electrified by life and my existence. listening to music, a first kiss or touch, certain textures, bright colors, rebellion, the beauty of nature, the shock of a beautiful voice. i guess i think life should be a rock and roll ride through the countryside that makes tears pop into your eyes every so often because you're fucking happy. and yeah bad shit happens, but you can navigate through. you will be ok because you're "really living." you're dealing with shit as it happens, and not hiding from it. and it becomes part of the journey.

true reality and life feels stifled and trapped, afraid and lost. but on the other hand, i don't think i've had a moment of true peace in my entire life without the aid of drugs and/or alcohol and/or sex. so how the hell would i know what is real? it is all perception? is it about appreciating the fucking "little things" in life, or is that just a distraction from how miserable i am?

my recovery from a lifetime of abuse, mental illness, and trauma is exhausting, even all these years later. i'm tearing apart the meaning of words like "real" in a fucking blog. i'm trying to live the best i can, but i feel so fragmented. i think it's because i did everything i was supposed to. i got a good job, a good man, a nice home. all things i wanted and still want. but i think i was so committed to leaving behind the old life that i lost some pieces of myself that were still pure and still me. thus why i feel so fucking fragmented. the battle in my brain is endless and makes me laugh sometimes.
leave/stay.

there's so much to live for/off yourself.

run away/work harder.

think about the difference you are making in the world/think about your fucking self and have fun.

don't go to work today/be reliable.

and my heart screams, be who you are. such a fucking useless cacophony that consumes me.
the truth is, one of the only times i know who i really am is at a punk show. i feel free, i feel excited, i feel happy. i feel appreciative of my life. i feel motivated, connected, and whole. and when the show is over, i ride that high for a while. and then comes the crash down to earth. yet in the past shows were a huge part of my life, so i wouldn't have to wait too long till the next high kicked in. now, i don't get much exposure to punk shows. albuquerque isn't really all that for shows. losing my music feels like an empty hole in my life.
i went to the punk rock bowling festival in las vegas this past weekend. i had such a good time, i felt everything i just described to you. afterwards, i didn't keep it going with any of those vices i used to. i just got tired and went to sleep. i almost felt robbed of the richness of my experience because i didn't annihilate myself (there's that lovely nihilistic brain talking again!). there was drinking, yes, but i kept it in check. i didn't want to get sick and ruin the whole weekend. i played the tape all the way through. i have been waiting for that weekend for so long- a little island of hope in my otherwise responsible and dutiful life. it was wonderful. it was so fun living so much sound again.

i saw rancid, one of my all time favorite bands. i remember hanging posters of tim and lars in my room in high school. they inspired me, they spoke to me and they made me feel like i would escape one day. they made me want to pursue a strange and exciting existence. every time i see them live it's a revelation, and i feel as passionate as i did 15 years ago listening to them in my bedroom all night, clinging to their voices for comfort when the walls would close in on me. in vegas, they looked exactly the same, their music was as beautiful as ever. i screamed and danced and jumped up and down. i felt the rush. and now i've crashed down to earth. physically i have a sore throat from a weekend of smoking, and i still haven't caught up on my sleep. mentally i feel alone and disconnected from everyone.
i kinda feel like my life has been a series of crashes. i don't feel like i belong on this earth, but i'm stuck here. i want to live, but i can't figure out how to live in this world. i still have that pit in my stomach that probably should have dissolved when i first hit the ground and popped outta my spaceship. maybe that feeling is always going to be present if i choose to live real. so do i accept it, or do i fight it? i'll let you know when i decide.