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gin-and-luce · 4 years

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You killed our dog! Adriana of The Sopranos gave me strength to navigate life after a breakup during a global pandemic lockdown

I’m going through a breakup. It’s come at the worst time but also the best time. He ended things with me (more on that later) after three years in the most Beta-Male way...but this is what happens when your type can be boiled down to softboi. I can’t see my friends in the conventional way, so I made some new ones on screen to help me navigate the end during quarantine.

Over ten weeks ago I started watching The Sopranos. It doesn’t need justifying, everyone knows it’s the best television series of all time, but I’d never seen it, and I knew a global pandemic induced lockdown would provide optimum viewing circumstances. My favourite thing to do is completely throw myself into the female narrative and experience I’m watching on screen. I prefer a long deep drama over a film. I like being able to see my girls every night.

People have said to me before “you should start a blog”, but I could never escape the feeling that doing so is massively narcissistic because it *is*, unless you have something actually relevant to write about. Alternatively, the image of Gretchen Weiners leaning in and going “you let it out honey, put it in the book” floats across my conscience, and everything embarrassing that I’ve ever done, plays in a montage in my mind.

Who gives a fuck what I have to say about anything…….. especially about a cultural phenomena that is quite literally regarded as the best TV show of all time?

I’d been wanting to write this after I watched Long Term Parking. I lay in the dark for 45 minutes after the episode ended. I’d never felt like that watching a television show or film before. My throat had seized up but I didn’t cry, even though I felt like it. I knew it was coming from the moment Adriana met the agent. I wasn’t surprised, but I was heartbroken and absolutely fuming. I still am.

I’m not angry with Christopher, Tony, or Silvio, but just the general unbalance I’ve felt when I’m in a relationship. The loss of self, relationships being a series of compromises. From what I have found from my own experiences and my girlfriends’, women are just much more willing to compromise, but don’t consider it to be a compromise. Men can only take into consideration their own reality, an evolutionary selfishness that just doesn’t translate.

Just as lockdown began I texted my boyfriend to say I loved him and I missed him. He responded with “Can’t say I feel the same”. Nearly 3 years were over just like that. We had the obligatory phone call, where I was hysterical and he was smarmy and smug. Yet when it was over, I felt nothing. It’s allllll a big nothing.

My personal Gospel is Sex and The City (shout out to HBO!). This was my Berger moment. He essentially scribbled “I’m sorry, I can’t. Don’t hate me” on a post-it. The irony of the whole thing is that when we watched it together, he himself said he was most like Berger. Thinking about it makes me wince.

My life opened up in front of me, I was exposed to his weakness regarding the situation in full when his sister-in-law messaged me on Instagram a few days ago. He hadn’t told his family, nor had he told his flatmates (another shout out to my sleuths at the back, you know who you are!).

The Sopranos is a show about life. The Mafia structure provides a vehicle for us to question morality and mortality. You take what you get from it. When I watch it again at a different stage of my life, I will get something else out of it.

For me now, while I stew in my own emotion during quarantine, Adriana represents emotional labour and the expectation for women to behave in a certain way in relationships.

At first when my ex’s family members were messaging me, I was confused. It is frankly humiliating to smile as if everything is normal, so as to protect someone that in the end would not do the same for me. I know he wouldn’t do the same because there was just no courtesy in what happened weeks ago. I am trying to move on but things like this stunt your personal growth.

The struggle with emotional labour hones a guilt that someday I’ll regret giving my early 20s to something that didn’t work out. I felt like I was on borrowed time.

These are obviously my own insecurities spurred on by the fact that I’ve read enough “10 things I wish I knew in my 20s” blogs to know that these are my selfish years. Still, it is ultimately devastating to see the last 3 years of your life conclude via a text that displays a failure to realise that there is no real clean cut for a long-term relationship.

I respect him for the blunt statement because it means I get to reference the Berger SATC breakup and say “casually cruel in the name of being honest” (Taylor Swift, 2012) a LOT, which softens the pity in the social scenarios that I invent in my head in the shower.

When Tony calls Adriana to tell her Christopher has tried to kill himself, that was like my final phone call too. This is the end. Her youthfulness was why I related to her most in the show, but at the same time having nothing to lose made her easily expendable. Youth makes you put 100% into something knowing it is a gamble.

I’m not comparing my ‘borrowed time’ to Adriana because she ends up dead, but there was a disregard for her life that was so harrowing because she did nothing but try and do the right thing. I watched Adriana put Christopher first willingly for 5 series. He supported her music management dreams but ultimately ended up making it all about him. He gave her the Crazy Horse but this ultimately was just another mob hangout. He sat on her dog, he continued to use heroin, shag other people, and so on.

“You could start writing again,” she tells him in her last episode, to which he responds “I could do my memoirs, finally,”. Here is Adriana still!! STILL!! catering to Christopher’s ego to give herself some confidence. Very me.

All the way through she was just too good for him. Her ties to the Famiglia aren’t as tight as Carmela and Co. No children, still young, there’s chance for Adriana to get out if she wanted to. Of course this makes her prime FBl bait, but shows she sticks by Christopher through everything purely out of love. In the end she dies on her knees, subservient, with Heart’s Barracuda the last song she hears. I know Adriana had to go. That’s the way it is in the Famiglia because Christopher took an oath. But in a way she also had the carpet ripped from underneath her, just like me.

There are lots of men writing on the internet about how Adriana is greedy and hypocritical. I just don’t understand where this reading is coming from other than obvious misogyny. I’ve read others that say if she was really that strong she would have simply left the relationship years ago. I believe that she believed things would improve for both of them, and that most people are just slut shaming her for her past.

Still, Drea DeMatteo won a Best Supporting Actress Emmy for the episode. Fuckin’ A.

I rooted for the woman. Before I was made redundant while working from home, I would spend half my life at my desk willing it to be 5:30pm, so I could slither back to the settee and spend the other half of my life in New Jersey. I’d phone my mum to discuss the episodes. She loves the show too, it’s always been a favourite in my household. We’d talk about the women like they were our friends and how we relate to them. The Sopranos is like a big mirror urging you to question everything. The answer to life is simply what are ya gonna do?

Men love making things black and white so it is easier for them, when really women are in the background sorting out the shades of grey.

Don’t get me wrong, Adriana’s significance is massive, albeit more so because of her death. You watch Christopher and Tony’s relationship start to crumble afterwards. It's shattering to see the disregard for Christopher’s sobriety and how despite his loyalty, he still sees him as a liability and weak.

On the other hand, for Adriana’s sake, I am still enraged that he couldn’t see the bigger picture at the time. She is collateral damage in his path to finding his precious arc - “Wives, girlfriends, they can complicate life in a major way” Tony expresses to Jennifer as he runs from his own guilt.

Christopher is desperate for Tony’s approval but is more than happy to use his blood connection as a protective leeway whenever he steps out of line. Again the irony is that he comes to tell Tony about Adriana first, just as the old Famiglia values say he should, but there is no real personal reward for doing so despite the personal sacrifice.

I think Christopher regretted it in the end, and rightly so. When he is faced with his potential alternate life at the gas station, we assume that this was what made him go to Tony. It’s a family with loads of kids. Adriana probably can’t even have kids??? What kind of male logic?! #justiceforadriana

I can’t help but feel for him when JT screams “Chris, you’re in the MAFIA!”. It’s the same kind of reality check that Chief Cubitoso gives Adriana, it’s an ultimatum and it’s the realisation that they are trapped in this life. Just ask Gene.

Carmela knew. I read her dreams as a testament to a woman’s intuition. She knows her friend isn’t what everyone is describing, she knows Adriana wouldn’t just disappear. She is all too aware of the emotional labour Mob women carry. When she sees Adriana with Cosette on the banks of the Seine, it is as sad as it is when we dream about people who have died.

There is a scene in an early episode where Carmela says “Don’t we all?” in response to Meadow squealing “She’s MARRYING a BABY?” at a painting of The Marriage of Saint Catherine. I thought about this again when Christopher dies. Carmela passes her instinct off as hysteria, she isn’t to know. “So quick to blame, what is the attraction in that?” she cries during the aftermath of the car crash. There is a critique in her own femininity here that just makes you want to shout “NO CARM!!!!!!!”. As she believes she mothers Tony, there is the double-edged sword whereby he protects her through keeping her in the dark. “Heaven only ever sees my love making a fool of me” sings Emmylou Harris at the start of season 5. Carm’s power is taken away but she doesn’t even know.

Carmela dedicates her life to being a mother but it’s not enough to save Meadow from her surname. We get some sense that AJ ‘Break Stuff by Limp Bizkit’ Soprano might be on a new path when he feels like the burning of his car among the autumn leaves of death was cathartic. As a man, he just has more freedom anyway.

Miss Meadow gained her independence by getting her driving license, but in the end we see that she is still held back in the final scene by her inability to parallel park. She slots right in, eventually. As she does, she slots into the Soprano cycle after years of doing the most to get out and pave her own way. After every breakup with someone without links to the Famiglia, no scrubs, she returns and dates someone closer to home. Her career path is left tenuous to us, it would be all too easy for her to become a kept woman, which feels like it is the only real option should she settle down into the lifestyle with Patrick Parisi. It isn’t what she envisioned for herself, so part of me wants to hope that her story ends up a little bit more like Elle Woods. Legally Italian.

I probably wouldn’t even have remembered her saying anything about parallel parking if I wasn’t terrible at parallel parking myself. It’s the pepperings of these subtle callbacks that make the show so beautiful. As the guitar solo plays on during the frustration, you’re invited to reminisce over Meadow’s journey. I fully wept watching her struggle to get the damn car parked because I’m trying to get my car parked too. Don’t stop believing, Meadow.

I admire all the women in The Sopranos. The show is feminist, and that is a hill I am prepared to die on. It’s definitely up for debate as it is obviously littered with gratuitous nudity and women are commoditised. We have to allow this for cultural context for the show, but real life is basically exactly the same too?

I read a post on Reddit where a dude is asking whether he should watch the show with his girlfriend. He types ‘“It’s a masterpiece of film but she probably wouldn’t get into it as I am”, and you don’t have to look much further to find more comments about how women and their puny minds just won’t get it. It’s an odd perspective to take given that Tony’s psychiatrist is a woman, but of course women could never grasp something so complex. It’s bullshit if you ask me, the female narrative prevails throughout all scenarios.

The Pine Barrens seems to be everyone’s favourite episode. It’s not my favourite but there are two major elements that resonated with me. The first is Meadow looking down at the three letter words Jackie Aprile Jr had placed on the Scrabble board, and the second is when Gloria says to Tony:

“What you said was that you didn’t wanna piss me off..which implies that you’d have to deal with me, which is more about sparing YOU than my fucking feelings”. Don’t need to elaborate on that. Rest in power, Gloria. Legend.

Of course I could write pages and pages of hot feminist takes on all of the women - Jennifer, Janice, Livia, Angie, Svetlana, Charmaine. Lord knows I could probably write a book on Tracee.“ 20 years old, this girl”, I bashed Living on a Thin Line by The Kinks for about a week after that episode. It is the male gaze of the show made me love the women more. Carmela is my mother and I’ll probably name my first born Meadow.

Carmela is the powerhouse and backbone of The Soprano household even though Tony provides. She represents stability, emotional labour, and putting on a brave face regardless. In some ways, it is as if Carmela represents the human emotion side and the fragility of organised crime. She is secure, but not enough, and her lack of ability to stand on her own two feet plagues her conscience through time. She is totally complicit, but must be to ensure her future with Tony as he pays anything to roll the dice just one more time. At the end of Long Term Parking, she and Tony stand looking at where she will build her spec-house. The forest looks the same as where we lost Ade, it’s a grim reflection that Carmela wouldn’t have this life if it wasn’t for the quick disposal of those like Adriana.

Yeah okay, what the hell is a show with a feminist underpinning trying to say about wider society about a woman who exercises her beauty, loyalty and ambition?? Is it that she is not to be trusted?? Adriana’s a rat, but before this she is already deemed “damaged goods” anyway. She dresses provocatively, but that’s because she just looks MINT always. You would dress like THAT if you looked like THAT. When you Google her, ‘Adriana Sopranos Tennis’ comes up. I roll my eyes. Fucking men, eh? To take it down to a basic Sixth-Form-Poet reading, Adriana is Curley’s Wife and Daisy Buchanan all in one. She loves a red manicure too, and it might have worked out better for her if she had played the complicit beautiful little fool.

This isn’t ‘Why The Sopranos is good!’, but a love letter to Adriana and her strength, because there is basically little or no content written on the women of the show when I have Googled. I needed there to be more things written about her that isn’t just “bitch had it coming” when in fact she is a martyr.

When Adriana was on screen, there was my mate. I knew her, she wanted what I wanted, but she sacrificed so much of herself for others and it was heartbreaking to watch. She barely gets a look-in in early episodes, but when she does she is usually wearing something animal print, which automatically made her the number one character on my radar. I am choosing to believe the theory that she is the cat in the final episode too.

Still, I have been struggling and questioning why an episode that aired 16 years ago, with no plot that links to my own circumstances, has had such a monumental impact on me.

I saw a tweet that said “have we ever sat down and thought about why relationships only work if the guy is more invested than the girl or is that just something we accept” (@anugov1). Adriana invested more in Christopher, even in the end, than she ever did herself.

As I navigate this transitional period in my life, I am Adriana driving in the vision we see when we think she is going to start her new chapter. We can’t leave the flat, I have no job. The Sopranos has provided the most cathartic escapism for me. As I enter into whatever new world follows this nightmare, I wanted my mate Adriana to find her new world too, turning the classic rock up to 11.

#the sopranos #adriana la cerva #christopher moltisanti #carmela soprano #feminism #cosette #breakup #woe is me #hbo #david chase #drea de matteo

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jackisfromthemoon-blog · 7 years

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Driftwood Tuesdays

There is a trailer park in my mind where a perpetual thunderstorm rages; the moms and dads howl and punch at each other as lightning flashes, each blow they land booms with the thunder, and the little children are tossed about like debris in the wind. When I close my eyes I can go there; I can feel my heart electric in the cool darkness as little feet pull me toward whatever trauma is taking place just beyond my bedroom door. I can still run my hand along the edges of the holes pockmarking the walls of the hallway between my bedroom and theirs, each about the size of my dad's fist or foot. I can hear her weeping as I approach one slight step at a time and feel the crisp thwack of leather piercing air and slapping hard on my mother's skin and reverberating forever in the tombs of my heart. I can see him above her, belt in hand. I can hear his tone, sarcastic, through slurred speech but can't make out the words. Mom lays fetal on the bed, her face caked in tears, her ribcage gyrating between gasping breaths, moaning in honest agony.

Are we all just scared children? Am I? I know he must have been scared. I know what it is to ride helpless in a body that is doing things I hate. I have tried to reconcile these kinds of scenes with everything that came later, the obsessions and compulsions, my self hatred and recklessness, all the selfish choices. Probably there is a line that can be drawn. What a terrible thought, that before we have any self determination at all, some shit that happens to us that punches a hole in the metaphorical boats of our lives so that we spend the years we should be learning to navigate the ocean of adulthood just trying to bail out water.

All my life I have wanted change. I wanted to become the kind of little boy who did his homework and who didn't make scenes in class. I've wanted to stop picking my nose, to stop getting in fights, to stop crying in public. I've wanted to stop my mom having to pick me up from school because I overturned a desk in Art class, or because I threw a stool at the music teacher. Always I've been trying to stop doing the wrong things and start doing the right ones. Unfortunately I've wanted this change to happen sort of generally, and life is not lived generally; life is lived on particular tuesday nights, and on a given particular tuesday night it was likely that my young self was recovering from some particular horror, and it was more important that I allow myself the most pleasure possible than to do the thing that needed doing. Then on Wednesday morning, when the shame comes, it's very difficult to have another epiphany of change. At some point another voice becomes louder. Embrace the truth it says. This is who you are. You are not someone who can do the things he says he's going to do. You are flawed. Just live there. And so you do. And so I did.

I hate to think that I, a man of 30, am still bailing out that same water and therefor am still playing out the same drama as that scared child. How can that be? Surely sometime in the last ten years or so I've had the chance to right the ship? I don't think that my personal trauma was all that much worse than what a lot of others, people who have done much better at navigating the sea off life than I have, went through.

Addiction is a real bitch. It mostly comes to those of us who are already living lives of stress and disappointment, who already feel out of control – the water bailers. We are needy people. We are tired. When relief offers itself to us, we'll take that relief. No, we'll take double. Scratch that. Just give us the whole case, please and thank you. If being drunk or high that makes us feel good then we will be drunk or high. If its comes along who possesses that magic touch that pierces our darkness we'll declare them our emotional Jesus Christ (and we'll crucify them too.) It can be religion. It can be video games. For most of us its a long list of things we indulge in to excess to get out of our terror filled heads for 10 minutes or so. And this is bad. This is a life out of control. But the things, the alcohol or the sex, aren't really the problem at first. They're just things. But then one day, these things come alive.

Pretty soon, if we drink every day, our brains will decide that they need to drink every day, need it like it's fucking water. The thing that was designed to make us clamber out of our caves each morning and join the other hominids in hunting food and safety and sex is redirected and convinced that was it really needs is Jim Beam. How are we supposed to argue with the deep rooted guidance of our mammalian brains? Oh. With abstract reasoning, right? Surely the frontal cortex will be our salvation? Because we can see that its the liquor or the erotic chat rooms that are killing us we can stop, right? Did I happen to mention that this stoping has to be done on a particular Tuesday when we're going to have to first go to work with a hangover, get shit on by the boss because we half assed yesterday's paperwork, and then go home to a wife who rightly doesn't trust us and has some acute remarks to make about our behavior of late (or worse to an empty apartment with nothing to focus on but our own addicted mind), all of this couched in an existence primarily marked by feelings of isolation and fear – fuck if we can remember why. No. I think I'll go ahead and have that drink that my mind and body are crying out for. Logic and abstract reasoning can go fuck themselves. Truly.

And now, my friends, this traumatized person, this scared child desperately trying to bail water from his emotional boat while the water rises higher and higher with adulthood, is trapped in a new cycle, and has a new problem; he is an addict. Worse, the old feelings of inadequacy and helplessness are reinforced by the trauma of realizing (and he does realize, the frontal cortex is good for that much) he is an addict, and he can't quit the addiction for the same reason he couldn't stop punching those kids in the face and couldn't do his homework. He has other problems. The water still must be bailed. Each problem reinforces the other. If he'd felt helpless before, well, now he just feels fucked.

We try to stop. And maybe we can stop – for a week or two, but on some particular tuesday we fail, just like we did when we were little kids trying to do our homework. We fail like we knew we would, like we always have and always will.

My addiction is sexual in nature. Can I tell you about it? I mean really tell you? Would you really care to know? So much of my life has been lived underground, in that dark place I don't talk about and no one else can see. More than half of myself, hidden. I'm afraid to do this. Is it reckless to reveal the darkest secrets to the world? Someone has to, I suppose. To paraphrase Yoni Wolf, sometimes you have to scream something out or you'll never tell nobody.

My addiction started when I was 15, so that's 15 years ago now, half my life. Somehow I'll figure out how to communicate the dark side of those fifteen years, but life, is lived on particular Tuesdays, so I think for now I'll just tell you about a recent one.

A few weeks ago was Taylor Acoustics's birthday. Taylor and I had been growing distant for years now, but the love was still there whenever we did happen to find ourselves together. We hadn't lived in the same area for many years and I viewed the night of birthday celebration in the city as a chance to reignite the playful fire of our friendship and to start a new chapter, this one older, more grizzled, set in Downtown Detroit and with higher stakes. I had masturbated every day that week; it wasn't out of control to the point where I wasn't leaving my bedroom unless I was alone in the house or so that I couldn't look people in their eyes, but it did mean that with a little alcohol in me I could become tired easily, or go hazy, or become depressed and in the worst case start spilling that depression in ways subtle or obvious. So I had called up Binge and procured 4 Adderall pills to ensure I would have the energy for a night of fun.

The day of the party I dropped Prophesy off at work, came home, and realized that I had six good hours before I needed to head over to Taylor's. I think I held out for 10 minutes before my brain did the necessary math for the inevitable to occur. You see, one of the problems of the lifelong compulsive masturbator is that while the force of the compulsion only becomes a heavier freight train over time, the act its self holds less and less pleasure. Certain drugs and certain combinations of drugs can recruit novel parts of the brain to join in on the fun and generally make one feel like a teenager with his first high speed internet connection again. So when it occurred to me that I had the loving combination of amphetamine and marijuana readily at my disposal and six hours with nothing to do on my hands? Well – I didn't really feel like I had any choice in the matter.

The pill was a slow release 20, a lot for a guy with no tolerance built up, and I felt the sweet buzz of energy almost as soon as I gulped the water down after the pill. Soon after that I picked out a good sized nug of cannabis, broke it up with my fingers, and loaded the entire thing into my bong. I took hit after hit, rapidly taking as much smoke into my lungs in as little time as possible.

The internet connection at the house is such that I have to hold my computer up to the window, pay a few dollars for a 24 hour subscription to a local wifi service, and in this manner download all of the content I need before sitting or laying down to enjoy. In my current state of drug enabled efficiently and creatively, I collected pictures and stories with a sense of urgency and adherence to method akin to that of a speed chess player. For the first few hours my masturbation was ecstasy. Every model on my screen was a living goddess and testament to the divine nature of feminine sexuality. My fantasies as always undulated between the twin extremes of ultimate power and total humiliation. I'd always wanted to either own or submit, a perpetual teenager both worshiping what he couldn't have and wanting to control it. I was almost a god to my little psychic harem summoning submissive angels at will to fulfill my tiniest desires, and then at the next moment a slave, kissing the feet of a beautiful teenage queen with worthless lips while she casually scrolls her cell phone barely noticing me. Then I was the goddess herself and I imagined what life might have been with a different body, how powerful and beautiful and perfect I could have been, how I could have had slaves – slaves like me – and a life of erotic whimsy. Every so often when I felt the weed wearing off I would roll over and frantically grab my bong off the floor and take a hit before returning to my inclusive world of pleasure and shame. But as the hours rolled on, almost unnoticed, shame began to overrule pleasure, and logic threatened to intrude on my bliss.

You're going to be a piece of shit for Taylor's party.

I jerked off a little harder, even though my boner was becoming smaller in my hand and the pleasure less tangible.

They're going to be able to smell the shame on you.

I scrolled through stories looking for a darker fantasy to pull my consciousness back down into the pleasure cave and away from the voice. I didn't want to think of the other friends who would be there that night and how I would inevitably act like a ragged street dog around them – too aggressive and too needy all at once. I went back to the task at hand.

This is fucking sad.

Then my phone, a $20 flip phone I had bought specifically because of it's lack of internet access, started buzzing. I grabbed it and looked at the screen. A text message from Innocence, wanting to talk. Sorry, Innocence, not today. A minute later it buzzed again. My mom calling. I hit silence. I went back to stoking myself. Each time it buzzed a little shock of fear struck my heart. Once the mind gives itself to the fantasy world, reality becomes the ghost. A minute or an hour later it buzzed again. Mom again.

I stood up and propped my Macbook against my window sill for more downloading. In order to do this I had to move one leg off the bed and sort of shimmy my foot on the floor until it had penetrated the layer of crap – books, dirty clothes, papers, odd objects of which I do not know the origin, that cover the space of my bedroom floor while kneeling with the other leg on the bed so as not to have to attempt to make room for that foot as well. I felt like a child and like a rat. During this operation I did not lose focus on the task at hand for a moment. I stood this way, gathering pictures and stories, these ones more extreme in their fetish content, for I don't know how long; I only know that when the phone buzzed again my right leg was spasming in little bursts, my ankle on the floor had begun to ache from supporting my weight, as did my dick from being manhandled while at half mast. The phone kept buzzing, each pulse a screaming banshee of shame.

Your grandpa is dead or some such thing. She's desperate to reach you. She knows her fuck up son isn't picking up the phone because he's busy being a fuck up. She's disgusted. She's scared. She hates you.

I turned the phone off and threw it on the floor.

Time stood still for my hand and my dick, but my fantasies got darker with the sky. I contemplated finding a bad mistress, a real sadist who would make my life hell. I don't mean that I just fantasized about this; I mean that I considered actually doing it. I would find a woman like this somehow and give myself to her. I'd give her all of my money, my birth certificate, my social security card, my debit card. I'd help her to make a video of me in humiliating positions, and then I'd make a list of embarrassing people she could send it to me as blackmail if I ever misbehaved. I'd order a chastity device for myself and give her the key. I'd be her slave. That was what I deserved, to be a slave. With the adderall and weed still powering my brain I plunged into previously unexplored depths of specifics. I imagined myself seeking out bitchy women and then presenting this idea to them. I created a power point presentation in my mind which I would show them in order to convince them that having me as a slave would be beneficial to their lives. I even posted a craigslist ad with this premise. I wanted to feel insane. I was no longer masturbating about sex or women; I was jerking off to my own shame and I'd never felt more erotic.

Around seven the adderall started to wear off. I hadn't come and my body ached from being held stiff. My dick hurt and was probably bleeding. None of this felt good anymore. I found my phone, and with great effort decided that I'd better call my mom back incase someone really was dead. No one was. She wanted to have dinner with me that night. I told her I couldn't make it and my voice shook as I apologized a little too emphatically. But that was all it was.

I also had texts from Taylor Acoustic but I was in no condition to go out. Any plans had to be canceled. This night would be another trophy on the mantle of the addiction which had already stollen so much from my life. Anyway, this was no time for philosophical contemplation of my condition. I had work to do. I took another pill.

I jerked all through the night to more and more humiliating fantasies, trying to push the sense of erotic shame to its brink, but the magic was gone and now the models weren't quite pretty enough or else didn't fit with my fantasies. The stories I found were either poorly written or didn't echo properly with my fetishes. My brain demanded some deeper depth of perversion to re-ignite the intensity but, drugs or no, my body simply wasn't built to maintain sexual stimulation for this long. My dick was soft in my hand half the time though I never stopped pumping. I kept getting up to take another hit off the bong and download more pictures, but my leg was throbbed with pain when I stood on it and reality's encroachments became sadder and harder to ignore. On and on this went. The shame felt like real shame and I wanted to push it away. My right hand kept stroking. My left hand kept clicking. Story, picture, story, this model, that one. The birds chirping outside my window mocked my pain. My body ached. Each stoke hurt my dick. Finally, around 11 in the morning 22 hours after I'd casually swallowed that first pill, I found my release.

So that's what a specific tuesday can be like in the life of an addict. I've told you the details, but I don't know how to communicate the horror of being trapped in a body that does these kinds of things, that seemingly can't not do these kinds of things. In my best moments I love life, I love intimacy and connection and love. But then sometimes I go into a trance where I worship the idea of these ideas exact opposites. Such insane helplessness. And yet it always feels like its my fault. This is not something that happens to me, its something I do. Am I a freak? A pervert? There is a line of logic which says I should embrace these things, I mean, I'm not hurting anyone. I hear this line, but I can only say that whether I'm hurting anyone or not, I do not want to keep doing these things, from my innermost core I reject them. They are terror to me. They are hell. I do not want them. I will not embrace them.

I spent the next two days in bed. My nervous system was shocked to fuck so I couldn't sleep. Most parts of my body hurt and I could hardly touch my dick even to pee. I laid there in the darkness contemplating my condition and laughing at my brain's little fantasies of change. This would not be some rock bottom experience launching me into changed life. I masturbated again as soon as I could.

#addiction nofap depression trauma addict

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