transition from the Greenland
By: Cecilia Lazuli Phoenix
Tags: Domestic Violence, Candy, Abuse Survivors, 18, Cannabis

Now, let’s be honest. Weed becomes a ‘hobby’. A passion for some. But do you ever control IT, or does it control you? We all hate a person who is a grumpy cunt without their coffee, tea, what have you. Don’t be that person. Let that sink in for a while… And with that becoming a major part of your life, comes the erosion of the original self, your authentic personality and hobbies. I have broken off several friendships and relationships with people who have changed majorly due to drugs. I have been living where I am, by myself, for 4–5 months now. And honestly, I was a very different Cecilia back then. Where I am now; the mindset I’m in, and the sanctuary I have created — I could only dream of then. I, at eighteen, managed to get myself out of an abusive relationship to a hopeless stoner in his late twenties. Don’t even bother asking me how I got there, because I hardly even know. My only explanation for my attraction to him is that I was craving the independence and freedom to do whatever I wanted, and, living with him and his stoner-friendly parents in Mandurah, an hour’s train ride to Perth, was the biggest fantasy to me, back then. Of course, it meant I was away from my family. I loved this. All the pressure and attempts to mould me into someone I was not, was eliminated now.

I moved into this place around mid-December promptly following a conversation with my Nonna that resulted in tears when I revealed to her that my boyfriend at the time had been violent towards me on several occasions over that past month or so. I was relieved to hear I was able to rent privately through an old family home. There was also a sense of familiarity to this house as my father lived here for 5 years after my parents divorced, meaning my sister and I used to spend weekends here in my childhood, and I hold quite a lot of good memories in this house. I remember my father used to take us to the Galleria on Saturdays, and the city on Sundays, because back then the shops were shut on Sundays. I loved that ritual. And Saturday night movie nights! And we would play Sing-star in the afternoon. I was really into music, especially Delta Goodrem when I was younger, and there are videos of me as a child dressed as a fairy in a tutu and all, singing to my Dad. He welcomed and encouraged that passion, beautifully. He took me to the Delta Goodrem concert. Got me singing lessons later in life, when I was 12… The end in end of this all is that moving into this house has shifted the way I view my parents. I hold on to the good memories and I try to acknowledge the good parts of them. Despite their flaws, mistakes, whatever. When I first moved in, I was fragile, timid, squeamish around bugs. No boyfriend or father there at hand to kill the cockroaches for me in this big old retro house. I was technically still with Keiran, because I was apprehensive about breaking up with Christmas just around the corner, as silly as that sounds in retrospect. I had spent quite a lot on gifts for him and I wanted to see his reaction to them, and I don’t know, out of naivety I hoped he would just bloody change with the turn of a new year and decade. It got to the point where he was belligerently refusing my proposition to attend any of my family meal gatherings for Christmas, because ‘’you’ve told them all I’m a beater and now they’re all going to hate and judge me’’. This was soon, quite conveniently backed by the argument that my great grandfather (who owns this house) would be enraged to see Keiran anywhere soon. Anyway, whenever I was too scared by a cockroach or paranoid about someone breaking into the house (not likely in my neighbourhood), I had Keiran on speed dial and I would take the train to his, nearly helplessly I felt.

But the situation at Keiran’s still wasn’t getting better, even though I had moved out. A subtle reminder that I was never a ‘problem’ or a drama to begin with; all the toxicity was in that house. Whenever I went there, I came back to my house with more of my stuff. One time, I ‘borrowed’ Candy from his family’s hoarded DVD collection, one of the many treasures I managed to find among the dozens of cardboard boxes and plastic tubs in their storage room. I watched this film at my place one night and was stunned by the similarities I shared with the muse of the film, Candice (or ‘Candy’) White. This movie was adapted from Luke Davies’s novel, Candy: A Novel of Love and Addiction, and follows a free-spirited art student and a poet as they find their addiction to each other taking a back seat to their taste for heroin in director Neil Armfield’s intensely personal tale of recreational drug use gone bad. When Candy (Abbie Cornish) and Dan (Heath Ledger) first fall in love, they both think they have found all they ever needed in life. Despite financial hardships, the pair sustain themselves on the vibrant life force they have created; their intoxicating romance a blissful altered state of which heroin played only a minor role in the beginning. Their manufactured ‘Eden’ gradually becomes an uncontrollable inferno. Obviously, we were not on heroin, we were smoking marijuana — a very stark comparison. But the unplaying of the story, divided into a trinity of Heaven, Earth, and Hell, told touchingly true of our own partnership and descent into addiction. I also picked up on the insinuation that Candy was a metaphor or prototype for the classic quiet or gifted ‘’Borderline’’ whose childhood issues don’t really come to the surface before using drugs; the type that has an addictive personality to the ‘candy’ by which is a means of euphoria and escape. When the character, Candy, suffers withdrawals and a mental breakdown in the ‘Hell’ segment, you can’t help but wake up to what her past must have been like to cause the existing resentment she has towards her mother: ‘’I have been clenching my fucking fists since I was fucking 6 years old’’. She seems to have the obvious ‘boomer’, helicopter parents… especially her mother, who presents as quite opinionated and overbearingly trigger-happy throughout the film. It is in the last part of the film you realise that the protagonist, Candy, is not just an ‘addict’, but traumatised in some way.

The thing I am trying to get at is that Candy was not a regular addict like Dan, she was more complex than that; more complicated. Yet she started out so innocent and talented as a bohemian artist, with a seemingly ‘perfect’ family and such fair skin and natural wavy blonde hair — a prodigy, almost. But she loved passionately and intensely and was hooked to her newly found reprieve in much the same way; much like a child with candy. The thing that made her different was that she wanted it to the point she NEEDED it. Needed it to cope with her mind. And with her art a thing of the past, this new lifestyle seemed comforting. But also, highly unconventional, not to mention unhealthy. I guess I found I had a similar aspect to this theme as I am young, artsy, bohemian, and a writer. And these traits and talents I have — they have all been a means of coping. But pot was my Kryptonite.

‘’I wanna try it your way this time.’’

I smoked more and more, to the point of complete oblivion. One cone for every sex position. The addiction started out like lust and the idea of being out of my mind FUCKED was some sort of a turn on for me. I was addicted to Keiran in very much the same way I was to pot. Up in Perth — the real world — I was afflicted by cold sober nights. I soon found myself spending more and more time at Keiran’s, telling my Aunty (with whom I was temporary living in respite at the time) I was sleeping over at my best friend’s house. What was I running away from? Life. How messed up it all was and oh how Mandurah was just the reprieve to get me out of my funk. A metaphor for escape. When reality hits you in the face, you just want to blur it all out for a bit. I was enthralled by some supposed stoner Nu metal guy (he was not), who said things like, ‘mull’, and ‘easy done’. He was a non-existant fantasy in my head. A complete lie but I was clouded by my own illusion to believe otherwise. He was warm and cuddly and he would serve me hot chocolates in bed while we binge-watched movies in a stoned oblivion — a gentleman, I thought. I was his cute little play thing. I was enchanted and when I risked losing my job I no longer even cared. Throw it all away. What’s better than getting paid by the government to do nothing but watch movies in bed all day? I had never just had *complete* spare time, and who knows, maybe I needed to hibernate for a little while? I learned how the whole game worked. Friends/ Meaningless unless they shout you bud. If they don’t, there’s clearly no point in going, right? I had too much time on my hands — I needed to be intellectually stimulated. Spent my days sitting on the couch in Daniel’s little unit, which he tried to transform into some sad pity party nightclub at night.

I wanted more. I wanted proper conversation, not the small talk bullshit. Being an addict in a constant waiting game. I’m the one that got you out of the house everyday. Went clubbing. Or a scenic walk before picking up. Grocery shopping and THEN some. I HATE having nothing to do. NO money to go do things. And a dickhead sloth on my trail. Complain complain, complain. No more. Just stop, Keiran. Baby fever. You always wanted me to pop one out for you — ‘in the next year or so’. Is that all you were raised to believe a girlfriend is good for? Being drug fucked makes a baby sound kind of cool. There’s nothing more comfortinh, though also very fragile, about a life growing inside you. Then the paranoia kicks in and you realise this would mean 9 months SOBER. That is a scary concept to an addict. The idea of an intrinsic sense of purpose gives more to live for. The idea of harming a child scares the absolute shit out of you. And you can either lie to yourself and say you will totally change, or you can do what I did. ‘’I am too addicted and unstable in my life to sustain a child’’. It’s similar to when, in ‘Candy’, all she can say is, ‘’but what if I want to keep using?’’ almost justifying it, or standing up for it. And that’s the same thing I did. By that time I knew I was ‘stuck’ and I wasn’t at all in control and I resented it. Resented Keiran quite a lot, too. Smelly, dirty, squishy blah blah fucking blah. I reseted myself, too, no doubt, for what I had become. And I felt myself going fucking crazy. Maybe I made his addiction worse, that’s a very possibility. Just like Candy, I had some unsatiable inner void. A bit like a needy child.

‘’Ask your mum for some more’’ ‘’surely we can tick’’ ‘’surely someone can shout us a sesh’’ … and so forth It was the only ‘meaning’ or comfort I had in my life. Our relationship was only really good when we had bud. I’ve had a glimpse of a dreary life. I’ve felt physically STARVING when withdrawing. I’ve been scared shitless of the health of my lungs. I don’t want to get stuck in the cycle. I need to get away. After all, you’re an addiction, too. I manifest a life whereby I live on my own terms and I can find my own happiness from within; where substance is used to enhance and not dull out. Where I can enjoy sober days. I know I will soon have the right intellectual stimulation and a feeling of inner drive and intrinsic purpose. I hope I can get employment and be more savvy with my money. I don’t want my highs to be my number one priority. I want to be how I was when I was sixteen. Content and care-free. I wish to be more comfortable and productive in my own company.