Independence Day

This week I’ve had a few similar conversations with friends who are, like me, a matter of days removed from extreme intoxication. We’ve fondly looked back at the time we put together earlier this year when we were working a program, we were clean, and we all chuckle in agreement with each other about how, funnily enough, those were damn good times.

“That was actually a really nice time, wasn’t it?” my friend said to me this afternoon.

“Fuck yeah it was. Even when I was exhausted and not sleeping well it was nice waking up to have a fresh cup of coffee with my bros, watchin’ the sunrise, shootin’ the shit.” My biggest problem for a while was a scheduling conflict that interrupted my afternoon nap. Those really were the days.

So when I was driving home earlier I found it so strange that I began to think about getting high, when all I’ve been talking about these past few days is how nice it is being clean. In a few moments, my thoughts turned to how I could get together some money to score. But it’s the fucking 4^th of July, where can I get rigs if the pharmacies are closed? Maybe I could cook up some crack instead, it’s been a while since I’ve had a nice smoke.

My mind salivates as if in anticipation of a perfectly grilled steak. I doubt my girlfriend will find out. I can wait a few extra days before I move into sober living where I will be tested and so they’ll be none the wiser.

The next thought that crossed my mind was unexpected.

Less than a week ago, I found my friend dead in his apartment. He had overdosed during the night. I called 911 etc., the cops said they would contact his parents. The next morning, I get a call from his mother, who evidently had not been contacted and told of her sons fate, so I proceeded to.

It was still early in the morning, and as I slurped my cup of coffee I simply did not anticipate that in a few moments I would be telling a mother that her 23 year old son was gone. I had not considered this conversation for even a second in my mind, autopilot kicked in and got me through it. I guess I recalled some etiquette from a movie I’d seen at some point, so I said, “I think you might want to sit down”.

Is that really something people say before delivering the worst imaginable news? I don’t know where I picked it up from, but I said it, as if it would somehow soften the blow.

As a struggling mother of an addict, this is the call I assume they fear, the call that keeps them up at night. A shiver down the spine when an unknown caller dials. As she happened to be calling me, I believe on some level she had been preparing herself, as much as one possibly can prepare themselves for this kind of thing, for this unfortunate inevitability.

And so this episode pops into my head when I’m about ready to push the button, and I recall what his Mom said to me at the end of that conversation. “I just don’t want his life to have meant nothing. Even if all it means is that you stay sober Alex, that will be good enough for me.”

And I remember right after I got off the phone with her, I sat there and let that sink in. I thought that moment was my enlightenment. I thought that from that moment on, I would be on a crusade to fulfill this wish and stay sober, thereby giving my friends life a meaning.

But as I thought about getting high, recounting this episode, I found myself thinking, “meh, whatever”.

Isn’t that sad?

Ninety Days

It has been 90 days since I last took a drink or a drug (a new record). I thought I would feel different than I do today. I am closer to using now than I have been in the past three months. The thought of using terrifies me, it excites me, it gives me butterflies in my stomach. Things have been going well. I’ve taken my foot off the gas, cruise control. Eyes off the road, so I can say I didn’t see it coming. But I do.

The seed was planted one week ago. I began experiencing some uncomfortable feelings. Perhaps, that’s an understatement, as I have dealt with many uncomfortable feelings since January 20^th, comes with the territory I suppose. This was stronger than uncomfortable. These feelings, I would describe, as an overwhelming, all-consuming hatred. My senses began to shut down, one by one, until all that was left was a burning fire inside my core. Rage. A volcano, ready to erupt.

My face turns red, hot. Small earthquakes course through my veins and my body tremors. Undying cigarettes pass between my lips and smoke begins to bellow out of my ears.

Just, breathe.

I express some of these feelings and get them out, but the majority I swallow, suppressing them deep inside of me for fear of an overreaction. I feel better, momentarily, but these feelings are simmering under the surface, they bubble away overnight and in the morning, begin to boil again, rising within me.

An hour passes. Two. I try the “just breathe” trick. Nada. The sensation grows and I begin to feel like I am losing control. Not that I had any control to begin with, but it was beginning to feel like I did. Back to reality Alex, this was just an illusion.

I consult my bag of tricks and decide it’s time to turn to a tried and tested favourite, distraction. I try to eat, not hungry. Couldn’t even get candy down. I think about exercising, this one sounds like a brilliant idea. My body is more than capable, but my mind refuses to give me the strength to get up and go, it wants me here, trapped. I so desperately want to talk to someone about this, ask for help and some sense of comfort, but shame prevents me. I am alone but surrounded by people. My last resort, sleep. Shutting down my mind, even if only a temporary solution I saw at this point as my only escape.

Sleep doesn’t come, clearly that was too good to be true. I toss, I turn, and in a few brief moments I surrender, unable to take a minute more of this existence. Where can I get the drugs I need to turn this off?

In previous attempts to get clean, I have always wanted to continue using. This sounds pretty basic, but during those times I felt I was trying to force myself to do something unnatural, that I did not want to do. This time around, I don’t want to use. Using feels somewhat foreign, strange, and unnatural, however, I sense a supernatural force driving me towards this oh-so-familiar unknown.

I think of the consequences and feel sick to my stomach. I think of rebuilding, again, and shudder. 

The shame I don’t think I could take. I feel lonely today and I still have people around me I call friends. What is it going to feel like when they, like shallow rivers streaming down my volcanic peaks evaporate into steam as lava begins to ooze from the surface?

It’s probably going to feel worse than in this present moment. I will try to keep reminding myself of that.

Contradictions I've Been Sold

A multi-faceted disease of conflict. At first there are the obvious internal dialogues, a never-ending stream of contradictory consciousness. I know something to be true, but I know this same thing to be false. I say one thing but do another.

Quite rightly this gives me a bad rep. I’m branded a liar, cheater, manipulative. It’s hard for me to argue I’ve been mislabelled when faced with such accusations, these things are true, I do them shamelessly and without second thought.

Fact: your addict, or you the addict, will have uttered the words “I want to get better, I want to stop, I am done, I never want to take a drink or a drug ever again”. Something to that effect is said or heard frequently. I mean, most normal people who’ve had one to many the night before wake up and say things like “shit I feel rough, I’m not drinking ever again”.

Swearing off alcohol the morning after can be taken with a pinch of salt, most people would admit they have no intention of going teetotal on such a whim. You might be seriously considering it though when you open your eyes, splitting headache, a trembling mess with no recollection of the previous night. So you come downstairs at midday announcing to your significant other that you’re getting too old for these hangovers. Last night will not happen again.

There is no such thing as too much Morpheus.

You chug some water, get an IV, greasy spoon brekkie, whatever your personal preference, and depending which, you start feeling better in a matter of hours to days. What’s certain is you do recover, you feel fit as a fiddle come Wednesday and despite remembering how awful you felt just a few days prior, you’re on the good side of hump day and decide you will attend your oh-so-important-social-or-work-related function of superficial surface encounters and you decide to drink to take the edge off how fucking terrible this party is. You’re not an alcoholic, you’re sensible, you drink less than the weekend before, still waking up with a hangover, just not quite of biblical standards like last time.

Liar. You broke my trust. You promised you wouldn’t do that again. Fair? Unfair? For me, somewhere in between.

We suffer from a disease from which there is no known cure. Clearly, there has been a paradigm shift in recent decades away from the idea of substance dependence as a moral failing towards its acceptance as a disease. It seems many people today generally accept addiction as a disease and addicts get better treatment and support than in days gone by, but I’m not sure how many people really believe this. Tons of addicts themselves refuse to accept addiction as a disease, so it’s understandable that normies might be skeptical too.

I accept addiction as a disease. Most diseases target specific areas of the body, this one targets the part of the brain that controls decision making. These days, I try to make rational, sensible choices in my daily life. In the past, I would wake up and wish I hadn’t. I wanted to die. At this juncture, merely taking some drugs to numb this pain seems a reasonably sensible choice when compared with the alternative. Today I do not want to die, but there is sometimes so much going on in my head, it might even be good stuff, but when it becomes overwhelming and I feel like I can no longer cope, my instinct is to shut it down.  

'Di.' Jeffrey Schaler - During masturbation one may get carried away, forget to aim, and accidentally take a jizzload in the eye, thereby blinding oneself. Medical hoax? I think not. 

In the depth of my despair, I say things I do truly mean and these things are a product of my current state of mind, environment, what I’m feeling in the here and now. Right now, I don’t feel like heroin would offer me much. I think I’ve now been on this merry-go-round long enough to accept that heroin is not the solution, it is merely a solution. A last resort in the event the plane goes down, it’s my parachute. 

I used to say this thing all the time, it went something like “I want to want it”. I don’t think anyone gets long-term sobriety if they don’t want it. For so long, I witnessed destruction happening in my life and was unfazed. I was so emotionally disconnected, I could see what was happening as if I was a bird watching from above. As I watched events unfold below, I could tell things were nasty, but my little bird brain wasn’t able to compute the feelings associated with the actions, and so I shrugged my shoulders and carried on about my business, accepting these events as simply a part of everyday existence. Destruction was normalized. My rational mind knew that something going on was abnormal, but with an inability to actually feel what was happening I was unable to connect the dots. I knew that I wanted change, but the underlying emotions which would be the catalyst to change were non-existent. Hence the phrase, I want to want it.

Do I want it today? I'm not sure I even know what it is. It’s hard to make good decisions when the irrational becomes rational. 

The podcast about drugs, addiction and dumb shit. The highlight of my week, every week. Check it out if you haven't already, it's hilarious. 

Check out Dopey Podcast's exit music if you haven't heard it, Good So Bad, think it sums all this up. 

Part 3 - 'I'

This final letter I wrote earlier this week as I prepared to leave treatment after 30 days of inpatient. Time for the next phase of this journey, wish me luck.

Part 3 – ‘I’

I met you when I knew no better, walk out my life, yes I let her, you helped me then now I’m your debtor, with sadness I write you this letter.

My mind seems forever tainted by you, disease. I know not how to leave you. You are everything negative in my life. Will positive choices put distance between us? This ongoing duel, a chess match in my subconscious, seems a forgone conclusion. You possess control of what I think, intuitively knowing what lies ahead as I plan each attack. I try to make positive choices, but you cloud my judgement and pollute all moves forward with fear. Contradictions, like a cancer, multiply, confusing all reason.

I thought my decision to move away from where we met would help, with fewer reminders of you around the place. But you tell me we came here with other motives – cheap dope, warmer climes if homeless, freedom from isolation if we use.

I thought I wanted to be happy, I thought I despised this life of misery. But you tell me to hope for misfortune, loss and death in my life, as this will excuse my return to you.

I thought I wanted to love those in my life, as I would want to be loved back. But you tell me the only love I need is yours, fuck the lot of them, all they’ve done is interfered in our relationship and tried to control me.

You and them are one and the same, conspiring against me to determine the direction of my life. But they are the white blood cells attacking you, their intentions are good, but allowed to run riot they can be a disease of their own. As your presence subsides, these cells form growing resentments inside of me. These fuel your regeneration.

For the first time now things feel different. I’ve run away from both of you. That freedom I’ve sought since young is beginning to fill the gaping wound inside my chest. This feeling drives me forward seeking new opportunities, friendships with those who support me, those who pick me up when I feel down, those who bring me joy, things that take me out of myself.

I see now that you will haunt me forever, and to move forward we cannot be together. So from myself I must escape, alone with you we isolate. Your voice grows louder and louder until I can take no more. When in times gone by I might concede defeat, follow your instructions to bring relief, I will now choose a different path, I will suffer you whispers only so long before I seek distraction. Music, friendships, writing, laughing, even just talking silences you. All I need do is repeat your whispers out loud to weaken their grasp of me.

Loneliness and boredom, I know you cling to these knowing that I cannot tolerate these feelings, thinking these will always find a way to reunite us. I have some news for you, milady, I laugh at your pathetic attempts steer me off course.

Boredeom, a bore no more. Lonely, not a feeling, but a choice. Check, mate.

....

Restore my life I’ve tried before, but this times different there are no more,

Things I value, you’ve taken all, I break your shackles and halt my fall.

Only in my dreams do we still meet, you drip-feed drama and deceit.

From scratch I now begin again, with freedom fueling fires within.

_________________________________________

Part 2 - 'Me & You'

A teeny tiny bit of hope appears after 3 weeks in my second letter to my addiction.

Part 2 – ‘Me & You’

You steal my laugh, you steal my smile.

Hijack my thoughts, insert denial.

I want you gone, depart my life.

But you won’t leave, without a fight.

Step to me, I challenge you, I’ll strangle you until your blue, breath deprived you will be slew.

But me alone I cannot snatch, a victory, or leave a scratch, each bout I lose I’m back, rematch.

We meet, we spar, you beat me down, you strip me bare, whip me around, no choice I have but run from town.

Notoriously difficult, I think I’m safe, surprise assault, each time I run, same result. 

I know I cannot run away, for you will always find a way, “come back to me” you softly say, with me you will forever stay.

Acceptance – something I must do, admit defeat, you win, I lose, and to myself I must be true.

Everything I’ve come to love, and even things I’m just fond of, I give you when push comes to shove, the emptiness fits like a glove. 

Left with nothing now I’m free, to forge my own eternity, misery, not my cuppa tea, blind to life, now I can see.

My tendencies towards introspection, hinder me like an infection, the cure I’ve found for this abjection, connection, affection, a new direction. 

Now I have revealed your truth, lies you tell I can construe, so whisper friend, do what you do, recovery will silence you.

 __________________________________________

Part 1 - 'You & Me'

I got asked to write these letters to my addiction over 3 weeks. Here's the first one, I had 2 weeks clean at this point. Yesterday I got 30 days.

Part 1 – ‘You & Me’

You took my life, my future wife, all day and night you cause me strife, I’m coming at you with a knife. 

Watch your back, surprise attack, cut through the light to curse the black, your shadow casts along the track.

I met you at the age of ten, you’ve always been a loyal friend, revealing lies beyond the bend, providing refuge now and then. 

Through the darkness and the light, you guide my spirit shining bright, gliding high up like a kite, we ride the breeze despite the height. 

Hold my hand, as we land, gently lying in the sand.

Here we are, finally, alone at last – eternity, I’ll let you have your way with me. 

But then one day, in early May, the sand gives way.

Down we go – gravity, force of nature, naturally, enmeshed we are, for all to see.

Your fire, once burning bright, now emits no warmth or light.

No longer do you help me out, you bring me pain, you make me shout. 

You never told me tar’s like glue, will always be a part of you.

You stick to me, you hold me down, you’re the king, curséd crown.

Hands reach down to assist, pull me up out from this ditch. 

Once escaped, I think I’m free.

But I hear your voice, constantly.

I want you gone, forever more.

I can’t escape your lurid lure. 

So one last question, I ask of thee. 

How can I kill you, if you’re me?

______________________________________________

Recovery clichés: is addiction an allergy?

Why is it, that the things we know we cannot have we desire above all else?

When you go to rehab you hear things like “you can no longer drink or use, you are allergic to drugs and alcohol”. Well that’s a nice analogy that someone dreamed up one day but it’s stupid as fuck because I do not have an allergic reaction when I have a drink or a drug. If I did, surely I wouldn’t drink or use?

Assume I’m allergic, I smoke a pipe of crack, feel great for 30 seconds then start feeling shitty. I’m going into anaphylactic shock? Nope, that’s just crack bro.

Seriously, let’s assume I do get anaphylaxis, “a life-threatening whole-body response to an allergen”. I nearly die, ambulance comes, quick trip to the hospital and Mr. Doctor tells me I’m allergic to cocaine and if I ever ingest one tiny little grain of the white powder again I’ll get the same result.

“Okay doc, thanks for the tip. Does that mean I get an epi pen? How many of them can I get and how often can I get that refilled?”

So now that I’m allergic, just like if I was allergic to peanuts, I’d go out of my way to avoid them, right? I’d let my waiter know at the restaurant… maybe I’ve got one of those hyper allergies where my worst nightmare isn’t Snakes on a Plane but rather a kid with a pack of peanuts. Logically, I let the airline know that I might die if they serve nuts on my next flight to rehab.

Before boarding check your plane for allergens, and snakes, both potentially fatal. 

I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I can’t figure it out. I do not think a physical allergy is the same as an addiction, but I've little confidence in my verdict. I don’t have any allergies that I know of so I can’t really speak about that. Do all my peeps out there with a nut allergy spend their days dreaming about peanut butter?  Do you wonder if you’d be a crunchy or a smooth person? Would it be more delicious if you smoked it or shot it? What about if you put it in a shot with some jelly? Bet that would be so fucking tasty.

A smart kid, I stick to shooting jelly. It’s a cheaper habit, its sweeter and much easier on my veins. Or do I?

People with allergies avoid allergens. But because you can’t have peanut butter, do you desire it? Or are you just curious about the taste? Do you even give a shit about nuts? Do they ever just… pop into your head? Do you actively try and not think about delicious, salty nuts in your mouth?

The clearest example of this that I think most people can relate to is cigarettes. We all know that smoking is hella cool. That’s why we do it. But we also know that it is highly likely to cause us a painful early death. And for the lads out there it turns our dicks into flaccid cigarette butts. But we smokers all think one of two things. We either think “it won’t happen to me” or “I’m planning on quitting”. Probably both.

Your penis may be smarter than it appears.

I can quite confidently say that if smoking one cigarette guaranteed terminal cancer and/or instant death, there would be no tobacco industry.  

Same with drugs. At the beginning, I thought, I can control this, I can quit. On jails, institutions and death, “it won’t happen to me”. Thankfully I’ve avoided jail but I do have multiple overdoses and institutions on my record now.

I also have the intellectual capacity to understand that I cannot use just once. I don’t really want to use just once. Sometimes, I fantasise about the good ol’ days when my using was recreational, but in reality I just want to be high all day, every day, minus all of the consequences. And if I’m being honest, my using was never really recreational. It was always some kind of escape. Be it from boredom, loneliness, anxiety, whatever. I know that when I start using it is going to end in one of those three ways. Jails, institutions, death. The top secret fourth option is to get clean. But that too, ends in death eventually, so to keep it simple let’s stick with three.

Generally, it is not that first drink/drug that gets someone into rehab, behind bars or dead. It’s highly unlikely, in fact. And that’s why I think denial can become so overpowering. It is so easy for me to live with a “I’ll deal with that problem tomorrow” philosophy. You know what they say, tomorrow never comes.

And without fail, tomorrow always comes (lately, all over my face, into my eyes, eww). I’m blind, but I can feel the warmth of the sunrise shining on me in the morning and the nip in the air as it sets each evening without fail. I continue to sit on my lazy ass moaning about how boring my sober life is or running around frantically using like a maniac. I’ll rebuild my sober life tomorrow. I’ll stop using tomorrow.

The other classic line you’ve probably heard if you’ve been to a rehab is the moniker for denial. Don’t Even No I Am Lying. And as tired as I am of hearing that crap, unlike the allergy analogy and unlike any gram I've ever purchased, this one is bang on point. I know facts yet still my mind can convince me to act against reason and defy logic. My final recovery cliché for today, the definition of insanity.

And addiction is insanity. It's so dumb, I do sometimes feel like I'm just being completely retarded. Today's JFT says "Addiction is not a simple disease, but it has a simple solution". This sums it up perfectly, and explains why I feel like such a jackass for being seemingly incapable of executing this ‘simple solution’.

To wrap this all up I want to go back to the original question which was looking at addiction as an allergy. And I specifically want to reference Antabuse. Firstly, if I was allergic to alcohol I would under no circumstances take a medicine that provokes an allergic reaction upon my consumption of alcohol, I would have no need. Secondly, I know several people who have drunk on Antabuse multiple times, with catastrophic results. The allergic reaction does not stop them repeating the behaviour. Finally, in the case of the chronic alcoholic whose liver would fail simply from using Listerine, we have an example whereby one drink is highly likely to lead to death. And that doesn’t stop some people drinking. 

What exactly are the symptoms of anaphylaxis? Impaired breathing, swelling in the throat, a sudden drop in blood pressure, pale skin or blue lips, fainting and dizziness.

Chuck in respiratory failure and it sounds a lot like a jelly overdose to me. Need an epi pen? Here, have naloxone. 

So is addiction an allergy? I guess so. But that analogy hasn’t done anything to help me stop using. I fucking hate recovery clichés. Thing is, they’re clichés for a reason, people say them over and over again because they are true. 

I want rid of you (warning - this is a poem)

For the record, I have thought poetry is the most super duper gay shit ever for the longest time. And I still kind of think that. But, I really enjoy writing it.

I am constantly being told - "you don't even know what you like Alex you've been high for half your life".

So maybe I do like poetry after all.

I want rid of you.

An endless denier, I only deny her,

happiness.

I am weak on my knees,

begging with bitter breath.

Forgiveness? For business.

She tires of my desire to be higher.

The liar extinguishes the fire.

Once roaring, she’s still warm.

Hooked on her feeling,

I grow hungry for her.

I hold onto her.

She no longer holds back.

Heroin holds my hand.

She haunts me.

Hope is my hell.

I wouldn’t even recognise her anymore.

I bury my desire, admire the high flyer.

I can’t do without you.

I don’t want for anything.

I want for everything.  

Journals

I first put pen to paper around the time Cruel Intentions came out. I guess that’s kind of where I first got the idea. I imagine my thought process was along the lines of:

•          Write explosive shit.
•          Die in tragic accident.
•          Have journal surface shortly after death.
•          ‘Explosive shit’ gets out - changes world.
•          Bittersweet Symphony plays at my funeral.
•          Be celebrated forever.
•          Have face on t-shirts a la Kurt Kobain.

Despite my efforts, my journal looks nothing like this. Never got round to adding the pictures. 

But that’s probably the most honest journal I kept. I write about video games, movies, and wait for it… girls. Girls, girls, girls. Because that’s all I had to worry about at the time. The occasional friendship drama, getting in trouble at school, all that found its way in at some point but the real meat in that journal was around my relationships with girls. Falling in love for the first time. Getting my heart broken for the first time. Breaking someone’s heart for the first time. It’s juicy shit, and it’s painful to re-read it. 

But it’s honest. And that is, for me, what a journal is about. It’s about reflecting on what’s been happening in your life and how that has made you feel. That’s the dilemma I’ve pondered over these past two days, how can I write honestly about some of the things I’ve done? Will people judge me? Will people understand?

More importantly, I ask myself, why do I care? Pride is a killer.

For me, I am finding out that it is simply therapeutic to write these ‘feelings’ down and ignore the consequences. That whole, “when you’re angry, count to 10” crap. But seriously, if you’re angry, write it down, or count to 10. Maybe you’ll be angrier afterwards, but I doubt it. Humans are animals and as such the way we instinctively react to certain events is completely uncontrollable.

For example: dude punches me, I fight back. Or maybe he’s one of those “how much can you bench” bros and being twice my size I decide to run. Either way, I am not making that decision consciously. That fight or flight decision is pure survival instinct. Hypothetically speaking, let’s say this guy punches me, and instead of fighting back, or running away, I ask politely if he will wait one moment while I produce my journal, quill and begin analysing the situation for a few moments before deciding how to react.

Now what are my options here? This guy is huge, (think Arnie in Pumping Iron, not Jersey Shore Guidos) and so if I decide to fight, I will probably get hurt. So, I guess my only option is to run, right? Or, as this guy is Arnie ‘The Governator’ and not Mike ‘The Situation’, perhaps he could be reasoned with?  How about a fourth option, now that I’ve had time to sit down and think about this, why did this guy punch me in the first place? Was this an unprovoked attacked? Some kind of macho man mating ritual to impress a girl? Or did I step on his broken toe by accident, not realise nor apologise and obtain a black eye as a result?

The nature of what happened prior to the punch is irrelevant, the point I’m making is, I find it valuable to give myself extra time to think before acting on instinct. As much as I hate to admit it, very occasionally, I might be in the wrong. Maybe I deserved to get sparked (way too classic slang -  had to throw that in there), and my best bet is to apologise and walk away.

Relate it to addiction. The punch, the trigger, the craving, that just happens. Sure, you can avoid people, places and things to keep triggers to a minimum, but you can never eliminate them entirely. How about a using dream? Love ‘em or hate ‘em, you can’t control ‘em. Unless you’re into lucid dreaming, in which case, restecp. 

Ali G speaks the troof

So why do people stay clean who follow the basic suggestions they hear in the rooms? Because those basic suggestions work. When I allow myself to go from trigger to reaction without any gap in between, I engage my auto-pilot. It typically takes me at least an hour to score, get needles and use. Longer even if I need to get money together first. Surely that’s enough time for the craving to pass and dis-engage the automatic process taking place whereby I find myself running around London looking for drugs? But for me it doesn’t work like that. Once auto-pilot has been switched on, there is no switching it off without a strong conscious effort to do so.

Phone a friend. Talk to someone about how your feeling. Get out your journal and write it down.

Three great suggestions, none of which I ever do. To me they’re a cop out. Once I pick up that phone, I’ve already made my decision not to use. Don’t get me wrong, every time I’ve called someone when I’ve been craving, every single time I have spoken to someone about what I’m planning to do, I have not used on the back of that craving.

60% of the time – it works every time. But seriously, it has worked every time.

But for me it’s not the ‘phone a friend’ that is getting me out of trouble. It is me who is getting me out of trouble. I put distance in between trigger and reaction. I think about the consequences - I mean really think about the consequences, no sugar coating it. No “oh well it’ll just be this one time” horse shit. And if I still want to use then I say fuck it and I use.

But if I decide to pick up the phone, or turn around and go to a meeting, I pat myself on the fucking back. I did that. I mindfucked the shit outa myself. And to me that’s all addiction is. It’s my mind, mindfucking the shit out of me, all day, every day.

Sergio knows where it's at.

When I get one day clean in London I am over the moon. I treat myself. It is such hard work just getting through one day that when I manage to do it I want everyone in the city to know about it. I call my sober friends, they’re genuinely as happy as I am to hear the good news. Of course, it never lasts, but we must all start from somewhere and build on our experiences.

I am proud of every single sober day I get. Quietly, I worked my ass off for those 24 hours. Life goes on, and typically we struggle in silence. Hard work deserves reward. In work, that might be financial. In the gym, that might be my six pack. In recovery, my reward is freedom. And freedom is a kick ass reward worth fighting for.

More often than not, I overlook the true value of my freedom, and need a little reminder of why I fight for sobriety. Yes I’m an addict and yes I want a reward for every goddamn thing I do against my will, sue me.

But if I’m having a down day, stayed clean or maybe just did something outside of my comfort zone that I didn’t want to do, I treat myself to an Oreo milkshake, or some Churros. Because damn do I deserve it. And you do too.

Just try not to be a dick, like me, and treat yourself to drugs.