Stimulants

Saturday was a slow day. I wanted to wallow in the sense of calmness and safety I felt since securing my appointment with my NP, Jennifer in full knowledge of all Dr. Dorscheid gave me. Our morning walk was in the rain after a night of rain. It was as much wading as walking.

The rest of the day was rabbit holing on the Internet, reading and napping. I consciously skipped a party to which I was invited. I’ve done that twice lately. I’ve never been a party guy. In fact, me not wanting to be at a party Steve was enjoying, prompted a terse discussion and a beak-up the following morning.

I Zoomed with Beth. We had a good long chinwag. She is coming out to visit next Summer, so that will be lots of fun. When we met, a bazillion years ago, through theatre, we were wonderful companions to each other. We were both single, and we found wonderful value together.

At one point she moved to a place where the landlord was a drug dealer. He was our introduction to our cocaine period. I loved it because we’d have these thrilling conversations all night and then I’d see the dawn and race home to go to bed, only to toss and turn due to the coke. I could only stand doing it once every six months or so, though. It was an intense drug. I took it about six times.

I met a man whom I adored. He was tanned, bearded and gorgeous, and he was a total hippie right down to his Volkswagen van. He was confident, garrulous and a drug dealer. Through him, I met mescalin. I took it six times as well, with huge gaps of time in between. It remains one the greatest experiences of my life, taking that drug.

I had one beer, in Munich, in 1968. I had 3 beers in 1994. In my fifties, I developed a tolerance for champagne and prosecco. I didn’t like the taste of any of the brands, particularly, but I liked the effects. Half a glass of wine would have me feeling very relaxes and happy.

What I over did, was dope. In 1968, I rented an entire train car and a dormitory in Laval so that I could sell (at cost) return train fare and accommodation for a three-week visit to Montreal. My car accommodated 52 people. I, and everyone else, paid $89.20 for the train, and $3.50 a night in the dorm. One of the people on the train was Dave R. and he introduced me to marijuana.

I found my spirit plant. I became addicted and that lasted much of my adult life. I had a fantastic experience with a gestalt psychologist that was terribly moving and insightful. I felt guilty being addicted and asked for help. He had me have a conversation with myself out loud. One voice being the concerned questioner and listener, the ether being the explainer, the rationalizer. I was going back and forth for quite a while, trying to find out why I liked dope so much. I was verbalizing a debate, really, and suddenly I said that I loved dope because when I smoked it, I didn’t feel alone.

It made no sense to me, but it gave me shivers when I heard it. It just slipped out, seemingly not from my conscious mind. And it made sense. Those fucking distant Tyrells had isolated me. I know that now. When I first heard the term, “self-medicating,” I had a name for what I was doing.

Now, I take some infrequently at night to watch a movie and get a good, long, deep sleep. But there’s no addiction since my breakdown.

We had a storm yesterday. I huge section of the island lost power. The winds were scary and noisy, but the cyclone a while back must have blown everything weak because there is not much forest fall in the yard, considering the velocity of the wind.

Last night I wrote an essay for NP Jennifer. I’ll give it to her on Wednesday; it ends with several questions.