Was listening to Voodoo Chile Blues by Jimi Hendrix. I thought to myself, and promptly bit it off at the pass, that, "Jimi was a genius!" No, piped up another part of my brain, Jimi On Acid was a genius. He was a known drug addict, and while his music was a revolution in and of itself, Jimi Hendrix didn't write or perform that amazing tune... Acid did.
This stems back to a very sore spot I have in my drug addicted past. There were pieces I created then that I was very proud of, but I created them on drugs. Who, then, made that artwork? Mandi Pope? Oxycontin? Mandi Pope On Oxycontin? Maybe that last one was the bastard child that the union of Mandi Pope and Oxycontin sired. Maybe she did that work, which I look at now, some over ten years after the fact, barely able to remember creating it. (That's something I don't often own up to; I see a favorite listed in my dA inbox from my drug addlepated artistic past, and some of them... I can't remember drawing or coloring or even coming up with. There is a very large portion of my artistic past that is trapped in the abyss of the fog of drug addiction that I have very little memory of, if any at all. If I see a fave on something from before about 2010 or 2011, I have to follow the link to find out what it was I'd drawn that was added to a favorites list, and feel very guilty that someone added it, not knowing the history of the piece. I think I feel guilty because I don't know the history of it, either. I feel as though I'm duping people into thinking I was this amazing artist, (FEH!), who came up with cute or clever ideas, when all I was was an intoxicated junkie flying high on her latest hit... or coming crashing down from it.)
So I thought, what if Voodoo Chile Blues was performed by Jimi On Acid? What if my Disney Bride Series was created by Mandi On Oxycontin? Maybe it wasn't me that made the art that I'm now ashamed of; it was the bastard child I made with each tryst I had with Oxycontin, the same as Jimi Hendrix and his Acid mistress. That takes some of the pressure off of Mandi, and Jimi, too; Mandi and Jimi are just people, good people, I dare go so far as to say, who were in love with an abusive partner we couldn't escape. Thank Christ, one day, Mandi got away from hers. Sadly, Jimi didn't.
But that child that came from our respective unions wasn't precisely "US," or even "US ON DRUGS." It's like when Mandi came together with Oxycontin, I became the bastard love child born of unspeakable self hatred and poison, but that entity was a completely separate one from Mandi Pope. Mandi Pope was the sober, non-drug addicted being before the Oxycontin took her. (Or, before she gave herself to it, whichever way you'd like to think of it). Mandi wasn't a bad person who hurt others and created artwork that wasn't hers, and neither was Jimi. The two that fit that bill were Mandi On Oxycontin and Jimi On Acid, the products of the abusive union of a human being and a poison.
Divorcing my current *going on Year Five* sober self and subsequent identity from the person who used to create artwork that she now doesn't remember kind of helps me look at what I did objectively. That's hard for me, stepping back from what I did and seeing it from the outside for what I was; I wasn't an evil person, Mandi On Oxycontin might have been, but that's a manufactured entity, that wasn't me, isn't me and never will be me, even in an unlikely event that I ever put Oxycontin into my system again. (I can't. I can't see myself reverting. I know too much now to be able to claim ignorance.) I am not the product I made, I am a component of it. Mandi On Oxycontin was the bastard voodoo child I made with my mistress; I warped into her when I took drugs. when I came down, I was Mandi Pope again, for however short of time that was until I took my next hit. I may have chosen to take Oxycontin, but it wasn't my express intentional doing that made me that bastard offspring.
Maybe that's right and maybe that's wrong... but it does help me to make sense of my past, of the mistakes I made and the lengths I was willing to go to correct them. I'm proud of who I am. I think, in a way, I always have been. The one I'm ashamed of is the product that came out of my abuse, or the drug's abuse of me...? Either way, thinking in this line of thought helps me to sleep at night, make sense of a senseless addiction, and remind me how crucial it is to never go back, to never allow myself to become that bastard voodoo child again.
God love you. I do.