Sunday 25 January
Renmark, South Australia
Day Two of my Adventures in Sobriety series,
in which i look around to find a bong where there shouldn’t be one.
Today is better, and i have this feeling it may only get easier from here—
that’s probably an addict’s delusion, and more likely so because although an addict might one day [find staying] clean a piece of cake (that’s how my draft reads, so i’m going to roll with it), and another day find sobriety [read: reality] a seemingly insurmountable trial.
But surely the first day is hardest—or the third … eek! That’s tomorrow.
Today i got up and did some work with my cousin, and i’m sure it helped that i had something to occupy myself with.
After a teary but helpful conversation with Mum last night, in which i confessed that i have been smoking a shit-tonne of weed and i suspect i have an addiction problem, i lay in my tent reading Wild and it dawned on me almost simultaneously that i would wake up without a stoneover for the first time in a month or more (yay!), and i would have something to do (yay!), but that i wouldn’t be smoking drugs (ugh!).
I guess that’s to be expected of someone quitting something that has been in their life regularly for some time—maybe like an amputee who thinks they feel their missing limb,
an addict in the early stages of recovery might not remember (in the fore of their consciousness—maybe it’s somewhere in the back) that they have quit, until they do remember. Maybe an amputee isn’t the best example, but it was like that for me last night, which i guess makes me a THC amputee, looking around to find a bong where there shouldn’t be one.
But the sense of sensing deprivation didn’t last all that long: i soon felt excited again about doing reality sober.
Later today i’m going to check out a place called Pelican Point Nudist Colony—called might be the operative word, because from what i can see online and from reports around here, it’s not really a fully functioning nudist colony, but apparently the expansive live-in caravan resort of one grumpy old man.
I heard about it at the Berri Visitor Centre, and as far as i know it’s the nearest i could hope to find an alternative community in this part of world.
This is post #002 in a series called Adventures in Sobriety—i will try to post once a day as i try, again, to kick some drug habits that have plagued me for some fifteen years … half of my short life.
As i embark on this adventure i have been reading Wild, the story of a 26-year-old woman who walked the Pacific Crest Trail after her mother suddenly died and her family imploded—she was hooked on heroin for a while, so i can relate with my experience of once trying to walk off addictions on the Lycian Way, the long-distance trekking trail on Turkey’s south coast.