Setting the bar for substance abuse

When does escapism become a substance abuse problem? Whoa, heavy shit at 8 am on a Saturday morning? It’s likely not what you think; but what I say and what I mean are usually ill presented for mass consumption.

I’m not talking about not being able to deal with emotional shit then chalking up rails to snort in the Jack in the Box bathroom on the corner of Main St. and 12^th Ave. off the back of the toilet. I’m talking about filing your day with mind numbing and substance-free fodder; or at least that’s what I was trying to do. I spend countless hours scrolling thru Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram feeds – reading and posting comments on shit that doesn’t really affect me and sometimes isn’t even relevant to anything in my life. Hell, sometimes the shit isn’t even that funny. Why do I do this? To feel ‘a part of’ is my guess. To waste time that could be better spent reading a self-help book on why I’m such an insecure piece of shit.

Seems pretty innocuous, doesn’t it? Sure, until you start looking at it as a bigger picture. That kind of behavior becomes the status quo for how my other relationships form and evolve. I can only speak for myself, but when I get disenchanted with a person, place, or situation, I “scroll”. When my attention is no longer held – when I am no longer captivated by the mundane; I bounce. What’s more is that when I am actively gazing into the screen of whatever the fuck I’m coveting, I am completely tuned out to what is happening around me. It should not be news to anyone that if someone with a pulse is sitting next to you trying to hold a conversation and you’re masturbating your mobile device – you are a fucking asshole.

Lately I’ve been trying to find my ‘place’ in certain social media playgrounds. I’m still the fat girl from elementary school that was always last to get picked for kickball teams. It’s caused me to become bitter and blame certain groups for being “clicky” and biased. You know what? All of that is fucking bullshit. I keep trying to fit a mold in one place that doesn’t end up working in other places, and when that doesn’t pan out I want to blame others and cry about shit. I am slow to accept responsibility. It’s like trying to use my gas card at the grocery store, being declined, and then never going grocery shopping at that store again because clearly they are the assholes in this circumstance. I only make shit more difficult for myself and cut myself off from experiences. Who knows, maybe that grocery store has a great sale on organic tampons and Goldfish crackers next week and I’d never know because I’m being a petty little bitch.

It’s the same with the friendships that I hold. When I use mediocrity as a marker, all things suffer. If the basis of our friendship is our interaction through a social media, or very limited exchanges - if it is based on an unstated but understood ‘what you can do for me’ mentality, then we have jack shit to work with and I will scroll quicker than you can say twat-waffle. Why? I have the attention span of a 2 yr. old and while it’s something I’m aware of and working on, our society has made it not only easy, but acceptable, to engage in this kind of behavior. Go to dinner or any social gathering – look around. How many people DON’T have their faces glued to their phones? It’s probably easier to count those individuals. Why am I socially awkward as fuck? I’ve learned how to have conversations with people through the social awareness programs like Tinder, Twitter, Facebook and the like where the natural progression is: follow, like, message, picture of genitals.

Yesterday I was weepy for a bit; like a little bitch really. I didn’t understand why I don’t have more friends – I’m a nice person. I give a shit about humanity. I feed the homeless. I would adopt all ALL the shelter animals if I could. I would give the pants off my ass [the shirt off my back is so cliché] to my friends, and still I feel like I’m rowing this boat by myself. SACK THE FUCK UP! If I’m alone, it’s because I’ve ignored the blessings around me. I’ve sent back the order of awesome that was brought to my table because it went cold while I was fucking around with my phone. I feel like I’ve been programmed to believe that if I don’t like the packaging, I can just swipe left or right and life will serve up something else for me, and that’s horseshit too. Sometimes you just eat a turkey sandwich or bowl or cereal for dinner. Sometimes it’s just ramen and you ought to be gracious because ramen is fucking delicious.

I’m not tailoring shit to fit in any longer. I don’t have too many true friends, but those that I have KNOW me through and through. Faceless and nameless people shouldn’t matter. I won’t call any of you when my life crumbles. When my pants don’t fit and I feel extra fat, when I think my kid has discovered masturbation, or when my boyfriend does some boyfriend shit I hate [sorry honey,] I won’t be online asking randoms for advice. I’ll be talking to those three or four friends that I have. When everything else seems so fucking trite and formulaic, I can count on these people to show me how shake the shit around in my head like an Etch-a-Sketch. Clean slate.

This has been a deviation from what you’re used to reading from me. Some of you will appreciate it; some of you will hate it. Some will be indifferent and some will scratch your heads. That’s cool. I don’t really get it either. I just know that by sitting here and writing this, I’ve spent less time engaging in activities that dull the senses, numb the soul, and drop the bar on my “substance meter.”