Ghosts in the Cave
There are ghosts in my machine. They roam around the cave I live in, moaning and crying and rattling their chains in my face.
I’m afraid of them. They scare me because they get pleasure from bringing my soul displeasure. They are quick to remind me at any moment of the crappy circumstances of my past, of the demeaning view of my present, and the dismal outlook of my future.
It doesn’t matter to them what is really happening inside and outside of my cave. Outside it could be sunshine and roses, but the ghosts paint me a picture that is hopelessly dark and tears me down to my core. The ghosts celebrate as their heavy chains burden and bind me with thoughts of how poor of a creature I am. Their incantations veil the love and joy I have felt. They won’t let me overcome the mistakes I’ve made and the hurt I feel or have caused.
A song of lamentations casts clouds over my psyche because of these ghoul-fools. I try to order them from my cave, pointing at the entryways with firm vigor. But my determination to be free of them is overcome by their fear of what is outside of the cave. Because they fear the outside, I find myself fearing it too.
If only there were a way to quiet them down and give me relief.
The ghosts are fond of the bottle. They have discovered that it will pacify my anguish enough that they can continue their hauntings unabated. When under the influence of alcohol, the voices inside as well as the voices outside of my cave cease to have effect. The feelings and numbness of the drug put me in an insulated room inside my cave. I can barely hear the noises outside of this room. What happens out there comes of little consequence. The consequences of my actions are secondary to the escape this room gives.
I am lonely here. There is little to do but keep the façade of my protective structure upright. It’s foundation, flimsy structure and sketchy lock are all built of empty, discarded bottles. The integrity of it all decays quickly, so I must keep adding the necessary materials in 80 proof doses. If I stop caring for the enclosure then the voices return, and a calamity that I don’t want to see or hear becomes evident outside the cave. Time for more liquid construction as my means of destruction.
I can and do carry on this way for days, then months, then years. What happens outside of the cave during all of this is inconsequential. My existence becomes keeping the walls up around me and the threats of what is inside and outside away.
The distance of time is only interrupted by a knock. It’s not the ghosts; they always laugh hysterically when crashing their chains against the door. It’s something else. It’s someone else.
The door flies open and a light that’s been absent for so long envelops the silhouette of a figure. My eyes are pained by the brightness. Squinting, I try to make out who or what it is. As I move closer I get a sense of familiarity. A face appears as my eyes adjust to the light. It’s young, and vibrant. I recognize it as my face. A smile moves across the lips of this mysterious doppelganger, but the eyes belie his emotions as I see them well up with tears of sorrow. Hands reach forward to me, beckoning me, but I am hesitant. Perhaps it’s the ghosts or some other rogue playing me for a fool. I attempt to retreat into my hovel, and the vision’s hands lower and then it fades away. I’m left with a hazy view, outside of the cave, of another image of me that’s larger than life. It’s tired and haggard. It’s me sure enough, but I look sick, almost as if this were my death’s mask. The eyes are sunken and red, and the skin is a pale yellowing paper. The lips are cracked with neglect, and the hair is a shambles. Ashamed, I cower in fear at what I’ve become.
I yearn for the sanctuary of alcohol. The building blocks of my hiding place are strewn about in a collapsed mess. Strange voices echo into and throughout the cave, and the sounds amplify the pain of my laid-bare existence. The ghosts dance about in a jubilee, and more come to celebrate my agony. My cave is littered with cobwebs and debris. Everywhere I turn is evidence of my neglect. The memories of things that used to bring me joy and satisfaction are shoved into corners and piled over with waste.
Wasted time. Wasted opportunity. Wasted health. Wasted life.
New voices come to me and what’s outside the cave becomes clearer to me. I’m reminded that what I am is not what I was, or what I could be. The main condition of it all is that I must be determined to live a life without drinking. The ghosts revolt at this, and pain me with their fearful machinations. I feel helpless and woefully exposed to them, and they revel in this. My reprieve is only a drink away.
Again the voices from outside come to me. They offer relief from my haunting voices inside. I hesitantly decide to trust those voices, and the advice they offer. One by one I find the courage to force a ghost outside, into the light, to be exposed for what it is and how it is affecting me. Inevitably a part of each remains, but now it is weaker, quieter, and frail. The power it had over me as a secret specter has been rendered impotent. As more and more are put out of the cave, my strength begins to return. My craving for the shelter of the alcoholics sanctuary lessens with exposure of the sins that have haunted me. Many of those sins are against me. Many more are caused by me.
The cleanup of the cave is a long and arduous process. I have been an incredible hoarder of misery and uselessness. Forgiveness, repentance and amends are the tools of my trade. Little by little the cobwebs fade and the spiders that made them take up residence elsewhere. Behind piles of rubbish I find small gems of joy and substance that I had long forgotten. I recall the relationships I had cherished on the far side of bridges I had burned. I remember a life that was so livable before I chose to make it unlivable.
As the space gets cleaner and more organized, hope fills the voids. There is space there for hope now. It’s brighter, and things seem closer to where they belong. There are connections with the outside. They help me to remember where I am and where I have come from. Day by day I move forward and not back. I control the cave, and I control me.
As for the ghosts, their lesser spirits still reside here. The difference now is that they are locked in a room inside the cave. It’s a room I have created with my spirit and the greater spirit that created me. New ghosts will attempt to live here, but I have the authority and each will be dealt with using whatever means necessary, and placed in the room with their fellow despondents.
Now it’s up to me to keep this space clean and free of clutter. It needs to be maintained and cherished like the blessed possession it is. Each day I devote myself to the task. A key realization is that the space here requires my constant attention. It’s called recovery, and it’s here to stay.