“I did it for me… I liked it. I was good at it. And… I was really… I was alive.”
These were the words that rung loudest for me during last night’s series finale of Breaking Bad. The main character finally admits what we the viewer has known for quite some time – that he liked breaking the law and all the things came with it, even when the story comes to its inevitable conclusion. There is no rush greater than feeling as if you’re controlling your own destiny, no matter how destructive that destiny may be. To feel as though you’re in control in an out-of-control world, even as an illusion, is so powerful that it’s no wonder to me that lots of people chase it to their death.
There were a million moments in my drinking and drugging days where I felt alive, especially when I felt half-dead. That I could control how I felt, even when it was puking into a toilet or kicking dope beneath the sweaty sheets on my bed, is something that I’m really missing right now. At the moment I feel as though I’ve settled into some sort of comfortable middle where the peaks and valleys have been squished into a flattened terrain of a mediocre life. On the occasions where I’m happy, they’re genuine but that rush that came with being in the moment – no matter how terrible the moment – I’m just missing it right now.
How’s my sobriety? It could be better, I guess. Everywhere I’m turning right now I feel like a freak, whether it be among sober friends or less-than-sober company. I don’t feel much like I’m fitting in anywhere, and yeah, there’s a part of me that would love to take a pull off a bottle of scotch or a hit off of a piece of foil and just have that disintegrate into a feeling of contentment, even if that contentment is as short-lived as the buzz that comes with whatever I’ve just consumed. I feel envious of the people who seem to have their sobriety nailed down and envious of the people who use drugs and alcohol with impunity. I just don’t feel like I fit anywhere.
Wah, poor me. Everything is fine, but it doesn’t feel that way. Some people would say that it’s my “disease talking;” some people would call it a pity party. Others might just chalk it up to the existential human condition. Whatever it is, I just can’t shake the feeling that I can’t really do anything right and that makes everything feel pointless. I don’t really feel like engaging in sobriety and I don’t want to get high because I know where that’s likely to go in short fashion.
More than anything, I just want to stop feeling like I feel – anxious, outcast, depressed and afraid. And more than anything, I just want to will myself to not feeling like that instead of doing anything about it.
And now I’m that asshole just spewing his depression onto a blank page out onto the interwebs, so I’m gonna push my chair back and go eat some dinner before I punch myself.
It’ll all work out, or it won’t.
It doesn’t matter anyways.