Diary of a Drug Fiend

Cold Turkey 227 work to be done. I have become quite blind to the spiritual world. Keletiel never comes. I must wait, wait, wait for the Holy Spirit ; but that’s a memory so far, far off ! There are times when I almost doubt it, yet my faith is the only thing that prevents my going insane. I can't endure without H. The sympathy of suffering has brought Peter closer. We lie about and look at each other; but we can’t touch, the skin is too painful. We are both restless as it is impossible to describe. It irritates us to see each other like this, and we can’t do anything; we constantly get up with the idea of doing something, but we sit down again immediately. Then we can’t sit, we have to lie down. But lying down doesn’t rest us; it irritates us more, so we get up again, and so on for ever. One can’t smoke a cigarette; after two or three puffs it drops from one’s fingers. The only respite I have is this diary. It relieves me to write of my sufferings; and besides, it is important for the spiritual life. Basil must have the record to read. I can’t remember dates, though. I don’t even know what year it is. The leaves in the park tell me it is autumn, and the nights are getting longer. The night is better than the day; there is less to irritate. We don’t sleep, of course, we fall into a torpor. Basil told me about it once. He called it the dark night of the soul. One has to go through it on the way to the Great Light. The light of day is torture. Every sense is an in- strument of the most devilish pain. There is no flesh on our bones. This perpetual craving for H! Our minds are utterly empty of everything else. Rushing into the void come tumbling the words of that abominable poem :— ‘‘A bitten and burning snake Striking its venom within it, As if it might serve to slake The pain for the tithe of a minute.”