"My God, why have you forsaken me?"
- Jesus
When that filthy Nazarene cried out to Heaven, he wasn’t inquiring after Yaweh Sabaoth (a war god), whether he’d been simply forgotten about, hanging up there on that Roman cross, for so many hours in the Judean heat—rather, as churchgoers and Stones fans know, he was calling into question the entirety of his own belief system.
"Have I been wrong about everything?" and "What was I thinking?" and "Holy shit! I really fucked things up!" J.C. was 33, after all, and he still had a good six or seven years ahead of him. And, what tattooed Juggalo or rabid Star Wars fanboy won’t have similar doubts, when their own golden years approach? Full disclosure—I once dropped about $2,000 on O/T Lego. Then, I gave the whole set to my grandkids, as soon as I’d "built" it all. They mostly busted it up, before choking on the small pieces, because they were many years shy of the age recommendation.
I seem to recall an early Simpsons episode, where Comic Book Guy lamented, "Oh, no—I’ve wasted my life!"
The alcoholics who arrive late to Bill W’s 12-step program wrestle with similar demons. They start off with, "Well, I’m only two steps from my grave, my spouse is dead and I’m dying with stage IV pancreatic cancer, so what’s the point of getting sober?" And, whether they’re 65, 75 or 85, they’re told, "It’s never too late to make a fresh start!" or, the meme-y update, "It’s never too late to become the person you were always meant to be!" Some of them even believe it (or, claim that they do).
I like alcohol. I like cigarettes and coffee, too. But, my preferred drug of choice is drugs.
I busted my L-5 vertebrae when I was 26, working deep underground as a jack-leg miner. Christ, we abused ourselves down there, trying to earn that sweet, sweet production bonus! And, I did earn it for a time, but then suddenly found myself sitting at home, drawing a (small) disability pension, learning about fledgling dial-up internet porn and developing a promising codeine addiction. This was not my fault—I merely needed relief from the discomfort of bone spurs, sciatica and an avulsed disc. But, also, codeine gave me a lingering daytime buzz that fucking rocked.
I moved westward, pursuing weird and artistic dreams, and quickly discovered that new cities meant new doctors—and, new doctors weren’t quick to write out prescriptions for opioids. My file had a black, stick-on dot affixed to it, which told the attending nurses and physicians that I was a "drug seeker." When I finally did land a doctor who was willing to see to my needs, I told him, "I’m not even offended by the label—I AM a drug-seeker, for fuck’s sake. I am seeking drugs. Let’s have ’em."
In the nebulous in-between time, I did not go to the streets—where so many of my peers have found themselves—but, to the "Cold & Flu" aisle of my local department store. I purchased copious amounts of Benalyn and Ny-Quil—those things are the best! Combined with the aforementioned cigarettes and coffee, and in time, codeine, these items transformed me into a creative tour-de-force. I would stay awake for three or five days at a time, illustrating comics, painting masterpieces and filling my hard drive with dozens of manuscripts.
In fact, my first three published novels (and, two graphic novels) were produced during week-long pharmaceutical binges (anyone remember NA-NO-WRI-MO? I churned out 50,000 words in the first thirty hours). I placed short stories in at least twenty small-press horror anthologies, between Halloween and Christmas, in one year. I was also directing art for two periodicals and producing a daily comic strip. I was a juggernaut of awesomeness! I was positioned to become the greatest living artist of all time!!!
Then, something terrible happened—I married my second wife.
I won’t disparage the woman (much), as she had plenty of excellent attributes—as well as a personality that meshed with mine—but, she simply did not dig the pleasures of pharmaceuticals the way I did. Therefore, my cough syrup consumption dropped through the floor and my artistic output went with it. By this time, too, I had graduated to 90mg of morphine per day (to get me off of codeine), so she petitioned my doctor to whittle that down to a fraction. All this, it should be noted, while she was gorging on SSRIs and mood stabilizers to make herself less psychotic during her bipolar swings (hint: they did not help).
"You should probably quit smoking, too," she told me eleven-hundred times.
Shit, I tried turning her onto T.H.C. edibles, just to chill her out. She took too much—on her first try—and spent the night "in hell," never to use them again. Of course, I caught shit for making sure all the leftovers got consumed. I don’t even like THC. But, fuck if I’m going to let stuff go to waste.
I did eight years like that, sleepwalking through a drugless marriage, punching a clock to earn a living at an ordinary day job, because God knows I wasn’t producing enough sale-able writing and art to keep the lights on. The wife went to school—extremely part-time—or, she just stayed in bed, feeling either manic or depressed, depending on the day.
We slowly killed each others’ spirits. I became uninteresting. She became unfuckable.
Then, we got divorced. Fuck her.
So, here’s me, on the cross, just like Jesus was. I find myself wondering if my life was a lie. Am I a happy person when I’m not carelessly using opioids? No, assuredly not. Am I reaching my full potential when I’m not drowning in cough syrup? Again, no. Am I a better human being when I’m straight? Fuck, no.
"My God, why have you forsaken me?" That’s me, hollering.
I recalled that ol’ A.A. mantra, "It’s never too late to become the person you were always meant to be." Like any hollow, lo-cal mantra, it can be adapted to any mindset. My life has not been wasted! I’m meant to be a person who gobbles morphine, and Tylenol-3, and ZzzQuil, and Gabapentin, and Reactin, and Zopiclone, and maybe a bit of Percocet, now and then...
That shit is the tits!
It must be working for me, too, because I knocked out this fucking article in twenty-two minutes.
Thanks for watching. I’m W. Bill Czolgosz.
