DANCING WITH DIONYSUS

As confirmed addicts, we all know how this might end. One can feed the Beast and succumb, or deny the Beast and survive. There are those that flirt. And there are those that commit. We, the ardent followers of Dionysus, are the latter. So, tragically, for many of us, we are both worshippers of the forest god, and wretched fellow sacrifices at his altar. This is not a path for the fainthearted, but the reward offered by the drunken god is sublime: liberation.

Dionysus admonishes us to wake from the sleep of the proffered false reality by wallowing in excess and degradation; constantly assailing the senses to reveal the lyrical lost paradise. The acolytes of Dionysus have always understood that true reason is only afforded to those that are unbound, and revelling in the spiritual ecstasy of madness. But the wild god has a sense of theatre and macabre humour, and will only offer glimpses of this poetic land; thereby compelling further experiments, as the hunger for transcendence may only be satisfied with new experiences. The unfamiliar awakens our disused senses, and we dine on deliciously novel perceptions. But these tainted gifts both enlighten and corrupt, and the more we absorb, the more contaminated we feel. We don’t deliberately pursue this doomed spiral of addiction; it’s just that addiction tends to be the inescapable result if one aspires to know the unknown. As hooked adherents, we have sought to be liberated, but have been ensnared by the means of our liberation.

The trick is to end the ride before you are too far gone. Get off the bus before the front tyre blows out, the driver loses control, and the crippled machinery crashes through the railings, plummets over the bridge, and sinks into the dirty river water below. It is, ultimately, a choice. But it is a choice not always discerned by the addict. The highway we travel upon has exits, but they are only visible if you want them. And therein lies the essential problem: the addict is blind to such opportunities, or is convinced by the internal dialogue that they may be safely ignored for now, in this desperate moment.

In the early phases of addiction, the addict is consistently maintaining such inner conversations. There remains a core voice of preservation. This sense advocates for sobriety, or at least moderation. But the addict is greedy, and any thoughts of temperance are swiftly and easily abandoned. ‘More’: the catch cry of addiction. You know the buzz is already as tasty as it’s ever going to get, and there is no further salvation for the faulty soul. But, yeah, more. Eventually, the chorus of restraint diminishes to a faint echo, and you only go through the motions of weighing up choices, and maybe not even that. The many voices become one, and the others a disconcerting memory.

But it’s not only about satisfying the craving, it’s also about embracing the beckoning chasm, and abandoning your longing for false hopes. There is purity in addiction. We are only fooled by the one source; the other deceptions are beyond us. What despot currently reigns, what suburb or stock is all the rage for investors, what social influencer has the most subscribers – the addict is completely free of such concerns. In my addiction I am immune to them. I breathe in the sky, and exhale for the trees. That is enough. There are some that are deceived by the great lie: that you can determine your own destiny. But we are cosmic ants and have no say over lightning bolts or tornadoes, or when the hydraulic brakes fail on a heavily laden truck barrelling downhill towards you as you wait obliviously at the intersection, smoking what will be your last cigarette. The addict knows all this. There is no control, so why not relinquish this delusion and yield to Khaos.

As a consequence of such musings, the addict is often labelled as either a narcissist or a nihilist. The narcissist cares for nothing but themselves, and the nihilist cares for nothing. Either way the rest of us are of no consequence. That is understandably a threat to the delicate ego, as no one wants to know that they don’t matter. Hence the need for labels; they provide solace to the unimpaired, as they serve to conveniently compartmentalise the Other – the uncaring immoral addict – and thereby allow people to feel more comfortable in their chosen illusions of import. Some people seem content with this easy stupidity. But the committed nihilist would not countenance the unnecessary continued suffering of addiction, though it’s no easy deed to slit your wrists. And a narcissist? Give me a break, the addict knows he’s a piece of shit; there’s a reason we rarely seek our own reflection.

But you can leave anytime, until you can’t. Those fortunate enough not to be bound to this plunging, irresistible anchor, berate with trusted logic; just say no. But anchors don’t float, and some of us are carried into the depths. The possibilities that were once perched upon your shoulders in pre-flight glory and expectation have now deteriorated, if not perished. With winter in your blood shot eyes, you watch the doors slowly closing, dripping with promise lost. Addiction involves bearing hopeless witness to the ghosts of lives you will never lead.

And maybe that is as it should be if addiction is just the sad symptom of excessive hedonism. But some addicts are seekers - Dionysian explorers - rejecting that which others may value and strive for, and tracking alternative nourishment. At least that’s how it might begin. And there was a sweet spot; that summit of euphoria that makes existence brilliant; closing in on meaning; gyrating in ritual configurations like the Lizard King. The hitch is that this apex is ephemeral, the wisdom bestowed is imperfect, and the peak is impossible to predict. Any brief taste of clarity quickly fades from your palate, leaving you emptier than before; before you knew that reality was undefined. So, you try again. Then again. Chasing that elusive dragon. Dancing with Dionysus. But that climax may never come again. Doubtless not in the same way, because it wasn’t just the drugs; it was the moment; the canopy of estate; the intimacy; the isolation. It was the moon and the stars. They were all aligned for you.

In time, this vain and harrowing search bleeds you dry, and you just want the dance to end. You search for the last hit. Or the last snort. Or the last shot. Or whatever is your chosen last grasp at redemption. You convince yourself that it will finally satisfy your hunger, you will be complete, and the struggle will be over. But the Beast you are nurturing has an insatiable appetite. You are just throwing hope into the void. Inexorably, you are lost, floating in an ocean of pathetic misery, and constantly on the verge of inviting obliteration. You remember a valid reason once existed to embark upon this voyage of discovery, but that just seems a dream now as you feed the Beast.

You don’t feel enhanced when you partake anymore; you just don’t have to feel as much. Then, finally, you feel nothing at all. There is some awful peace in that, but it is not a state one should aspire to. The romance is over; you’re no longer transcending, only escaping. That is not what Dionysus would want. Balance is everything. It is not about evading reality; it is about discovering the malleability of reality. If your lived experience is no more than a shaking stumble from your soiled mattress towards your poisoned chalice, desolate imbibing of the substance that is both the cause of, and solution to, your pain, dread and self-loathing, and then a fractured sleep until the gnawing commences again, you have failed.

But, as Dionysus would point out: without risk, there is no reward. You were given a cup. Did you fill it? Did you even try?

Mark J Rankin is a published author of both fiction and non-fiction and works as an academic to pay the rent and buy cigarettes.