11/28/2016

The theme of the morning has been humility. Someone mentioned the idea of surrendering in relation to humility. The idea is that you need to be humble in order to surrender, and that it is unappealing to be the one waving the white flag and giving up the battle.

It was this analogy of a war, and battle that I found most troubling. A vision of two generals with each army behind them meeting. Or, a general riding to the front of his surrendering troops might be analogous, and of course the idea of being that general seems dishonorable — because that is what we are bred to believe, that surrendering is the most dishonorable action that someone could do.

However, I’m not quite sure that’s the whole story. Imagine all the lives saved, the lives of the generals soldiers that he didn’t send into a battle that he knew would be lost, and fighting any further was futile.

To me, I am a general on one side surrendering my flag to the other general — addiction. The soldiers he has behind him are opiates, stimulants, hallucinogens, a clone of myself sleeping alone in a subway tunnel. The soldiers that are behind me are my family, my friends, my sanity, my financials, and many many more. By surrendering and accepting this, I am actually take a step to winning the war, even though this battle may have been lost. My reinforcements are on their way, and I am in no way scared or alone.

The topic of humility has been on my mind lately. The wife took everything from my wallet, and in a way at first I thought that was the act of a demon. However, in retrospect it was the act of an angel freeing me to recover and not have the burden of desire, or deceit. Perspective is an interesting thing, freedom is a wonderful thing. Even though everything that I cherish has been taken from me, I have never felt more free — able to seek out the pleasures that really make me happy, like my wife and the family we are building.

Due to the lack of financials, I am at the generosity of others. When someone buys me a cup of coffee, the feeling of pure gratitude isn’t a fleeting superficial emotion, but a mark on my soul that I hope always will be remembered. Before, in my spoiled life it was I that always tried to purchase food, and drinks for everyone — a feeble attempt to buy appreciation that just fed an ego already out of control.

I always cherished everything that I thought was being shown, but in hindsight the realization of exactly how oblivious and blind my sight was now is extremely clear. The thoughts of working on the future, and not being able to control the past race through my mind.


Going through these old journals is painful. Ever more so, as the words are read does the comprehension of the pain that was experienced become so clear. It’s so true that you see what you want to see — if you want to see pain, you will see pain. The emotional damage that the drugs caused was so subtle that it was almost missed.

My wife was doing everything, and does everything to protect me. The decision to marry her was one of the best that could have been made. She is an amazing partner, a love that one could only hope to learn how to return with a gift so great that it could only be found at the end of an endless journey. She is my better half, a person that is to be admired, and adorned. The decisions made were awful, dreadful decisions that with my entirety hope to undo.

Shortly I will head off to another clubhouse, to see people that were there in my early recovery — when the days all blurred together in a haze of sobriety that I was unwilling to receive. There is a certain air of excitement that abounds, an adventure awaits.

The friends that have stayed with me throughout this ordeal are amazing. Everyone has shown me nothing but empathy, and reassurance. Every detail of the places that we find on this adventure are crystal clear now. The fire in my brain has subsided, and a child like sense of amazement has been bestowed up on me, generously.


Editors note: this is the part of the journal transcribed from the last journal entries, handwritten journals.

Day 23. Only a week until 30 days. Small steps, and small goals is what is making this more tolerable. Repairing relationships is no easy task, but neither is kicking a fucking terrible addiction. The withdrawal definitely doesn’t end when your body stops shaking — its like a massive earthquake and the aftershocks. There is a ton of emotional damage, legs, back, just problem after problem. It’s good to be happy without substances again, and now that I’m here it is much easier to think about the past three weeks. I’m still shaking my saying “what the fuck?!”.

In my mind, there is this man — a warrior in a room. The walls are a light brown, and there is one long rectangular window behind him. it’s always night outside of the window you can see the stars. The man is muscular, and has a low brow. His feet are locked into traps that make it impossible to walk off, he’s stationary in the middle of this room. During the most intense times while my addiction raged — he would bash the shackles, unable to free himself. During the most intense moments of withdrawal serpents would crawl on the ceiling, and through the cracks in the floor — but the warrior wielded a shield and sword, something never seen before. He beat the serpents back, and screamed for more. A loud “HIT ME AGAIN!” would rage forth from the warrior.

The withdrawal gets easier as time goes on. Time gets distorted when you’re going through the worst parts so it always seems like the pain will last forever. It has only been 23 days, and it seems like a year has passed. Two days ago I missed it so dearly, and today I couldn’t even describe the feeling of what getting high is like — but never will I forget the feeling of always needing more.

There isn’t some major turmoil, or sadness so my writing suffers.


Down and out.

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