Abstinence

Nearly two weeks into the great abstinence project of 2006 and now heavily into paranoia country. Strange fears emerging and questioning every little twist of a person’s face. Every casually dropped remark. What was that noise? Who said that? What are these strange pains in my feet?

The whole thing reached crisis point today. No sleep bar a few hours for a couple of days and even the dreams are taking a break. Was a great novelty amusement to know that when my head hit the pillow I would be transported into a land where I entertained parties full of Japanese Okuda, and managed to achieve smart dress at a black-tie event by simply pulling my hands up into the sleeves of my jacket. Just lying in bed today and yesterday thinking about stuff, repeatedly needing the toilet and rolling from side to side – cruel irony when I’ve been working day and night to get a website finished at home and a report at work. Eyeballs itching from being open too much and nerves frayed like hessian.

So then when I got hit with a cruel twist of fate – one of those cascades of events that defy reason. First I smashed my knee into the a door running for the phone. Had just about got the frozen peas on the injured ligament, when the Greek called and irated me intensely by attempting to analyse the nature of my addiction and whether I was missing the sensation or the smoking. “You are just missing the cigarettes” he said. “Goddammit”, I cried “I am missing the leanness! I am missing years of non-stop blazing!” He was prevaricating over his long overdue dissertation and whether the chance of dodging two more days from work would solve all his problems. This generated a tirade from me. “Just do your fucking work”. “You are not writing the history of the high seas. Stop cutting and pasting quotes into your word file” (the modern electronic version of his old scissor and pritt stick trick it seemed to me). “Just write your essay and stop titting around.”

To be fair, the good chap took it well, but coming off the phone I felt bad. I felt like one of those people I had spent years trying not to be. I could almost hear the low diesel rumble of the Ford Mondeo on my driveway and the sound of the wife rifling through ‘Woman’s Own’, but I didn’t have a chance to regain myself. Next thing those incompetent cackwits from the estate agents were round rapping on the front door, bearing unwelcome guests. “Quick” cried the Rompost, “extinguish your maroot Crimp” and all parties apart from me quickly sparked cigarettes to mask the reek of herbage (which obviously I had not been partaking in). They were round again with people to view the flat and despite my repeated protestations over the last couple of weeks that they must phone before dropping by, here they were flouting the contract for the hundredth time and the rules of Friday afternoon decency, demanding entrance and the right to review this poxhole’s sordid décor.

That was it. The last vestage of civility snapped in my head. I was on my feet and at the front door. Their “can we come in and look around” was barely out of their mouth before I launched. Something along the lines of “Why can’t you manage to phone despite me repeatedly asking you?” An immediate refusal to accept their responded rationale that they only know they are coming ten minutes before the arrive. “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you people? Why when I came back from work on Wednesday did I find my front drive a morass of cement porridge, my porch gone and no way to access my own home without a Krypton Factor like climb over fences, half built walls and broken glass? Why can’t you have the decency to leave me in peace? Why can’t you behave with even the simplest shred of professionalism? Why do you think that I will tolerate this behaviour?” All this shouted at high volume, utilising long words, bloodshot eyes and fortunately, for once, no swearing.

This was clearly not what the young agent and her two clients were expecting. Alarmed and slightly fearful of this young man gesticulating wildly at the half built porch in front of him. “What is this rubbish you are building?” I cried. The clients’ eyes were drawn towards the shoddy brickwork, crudely caked over with cement. The trees in the front garden lopped by some kind of psychotic gardener. Barren stumps, caked in brick dust. Then just as suddenly, with a quickfire change of heart, I waved them in. “Come in, but be quick.”

Needless to say, they did not stay long. My house is small, but no one can get round it that quick. I think they made it half way up the stairs before thinking better of it and beating a hasty retreat. It seems likely that they may not be clients any more. It also seems likely that the already strained relations with the estate agents are now fractured beyond repair.

I slumped back onto the sofa, unimpressed by my housemate’s and visitors slightly concerned laughter. That was it, it was time for bed.

I hope that this is the worst of what is to come. Just been hit by the revelation that actually this isn’t that easy. It isn’t simple to take the road to sobriety. It does not solve all your problems and it does not happen automatically. I knew this before I started of course, but then it all seemed to be going so well. The first week was a novelty. This week is penury.

Spent this morning talking to people with learning disabilities about my website and came out feeling like I’d just had one of the most profound experiences of my life. The urge to make them happy and the glee they seemed to take from mine and my friend’s questions about their somewhat simpler lives, felt like something beautiful. Felt like their was a reason why I had been staying up late, living off microwave meals and overstaying my welcome in the house of my business partner and his good lady friend.

Now, just eight hours later feel like a dishevelled gutter cloaked wretch. Switching from euphoria into anxiety like an overwound metronome and hoping my friends will tolerate my increasingly erratic behaviour. Mind firing off thoughts like machine gun fire, which almost makes me think, maybe that’s why I blaze – just to slow things down. Like a ticker tape reader on fast forward, moving forward, absolutely and most stubbornly determined nonetheless, not to relent.

Actually, this week was not all bad. Some great things happened and maybe they will keep happening, but I don’t want to talk about that yet. Glimmers of brilliance on the horizon and new emotions in a head clear of external influences. Believe me, tempting fate is even worse than overthinking. I can’t control the latter, but I can the former, and that, for now, is certainly all there is to be said.