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There is a perpetual war within my head between the part of me that aspires for better and the cancer of negativity which gestates nearby and in almost equal quantity. There are days when I feel joy, happiness, and contentment; other days I wish nothing more than to die screaming my grievances at the top of my lungs and just say “fuck it all” before blinking out of existence. I am – and have always been – adept at self-destruction. Sometimes, the only reason I think I’m still here is that I’m too damn stubborn and spiteful to die.

But now I have another reason to keep at it, and it’s a damn good one: my daughter.

For years, I’ve relied on spite, brute force and ignorance to get things done. “I’ll show those bastards” could have been my catchphrase, because nothing has ever motivated me more-so to succeed than to prove others wrong. To conquer and never yield. I can no longer allow this to be true. In June, I’m going to meet the most important person I’ll likely ever know, and it’s my responsibility to teach her to do better. I have been a spiteful, cruel man with a lot to prove. Now, I must adapt love and kindness, and above all else, patience. The last thing I want in this world is for my daughter to feel as hollow, miserable, and alone as I at many times in my life have. I can’t wait to meet her.

November 30^th2018 was an important date: one year clean to the day. The “miracle” had already happened; the cravings and nightmares had subsided, but the shame and guilt remained -and still do, but not exactly. The events which led up to and occurred during my period of addiction are hazy fragments at best. I choose not to recollect them, to forget and push on through, but there remains a lingering dysphoria: not all is well with me upstairs. I’m nervous, paranoid and angry. I did not want this. When I saw it coming, I cowered.

Then there are questions and regrets. Of course I regret doing what I did, and often wish I had just fucked off out of there, never tried it, but then I wouldn’t be where I’m at now, and that’s a tough thing to deal with. Where would I be? Would things have still turned out this way, or would I be living a different life altogether? Would I have learned as much about myself? Would I have learned humility? I’ve always valued wisdom as a thing which can only be acquired through experience. It’s a powerful trait, but I still wonder if the sleepless nights, sclerotic veins, the persistent feeling of despair, the self-loathing, all of this and so much more, if everything was worth it. At this point, the cards have been dealt. But maybe, if I play my hand right, I’ll keep up top. I’m not invincible. That was an important lesson.

Another thing I learned: I don’t trust anyone anymore. I thought I understood that man was a sick animal before, but I wasn’t ready, and I still think most humans and their secret faces areuglier than I know even now. Everybody wears a mask, sometimes a few. It’s the face beneath that bites hardest; it’s the real deal, teeth and all, the one not to fuck with. I suppose I’m like that, too.

But I’m trying.

The past seems like a bad dream only partially recollected: little fragments worm their way up from my subconscious and back into the daylight of the present from time to time, withering away almost as rapidly as they break the surface. The little pits and holes they carved are miniscule, yet multitudinous, and through this tangled labyrinth of tiny, meandering holes and pits I can almost see my inner self, the other me that was born of suffering and nurtured by addiction, festering inside of my mind.

He’s tired and sickly, dying of starvation in the depths of my head, but he’s vengeful, too, and so I must remain vigilant, so that bastard doesn’t steal the helm. Even though I beat him once, I doubt my ability to win another war of that magnitude.

I think every recovering addict has another person inside of them, like a warped reflection of their true self, as seen in a not-so-funhouse mirror. That inner nightmare-person is an entity entirely separate in most of us from our normal being. We say and do things we never thought we could sober, and not for the better. Recovery is simply the act of battling with oneself: light versus dark, man versus monstrous counterfeit. But we never really win. We just lock that bastard away and starve it out. Sure, it whispers to us, and sends its worms to probe for weakness in our hearts and minds, but we must endure We must mend the wormholes and snuff out these vermin at their first appearance.

It is through subconscious subterfuge that the addict enslaves the recovered, and often only through brute force and dumb luck that we seal the monster back into its crypt.

I used to be afraid of headlights. After dark, when another car is creeping up in the rear-view, its easy to imagine that every single car (apart from your own) belongs to a cop. I was like a cockroach: every flicker of any nearby light, and I was out of there like greased lightning. I imagined myself hunted, and there was no peace or respite when any light was about, as myriad nocturnal eyes followed me and my fiance` around every corner, in and throughout the darkest alleyways and parking lots of Daytona.

These eyes were mostly imaginary. I see that clearly now. We used to joke when we’d go shoot up or smoke in the park that the cops were in the trees. One of us would laugh and say this, and the other would respond, “no, the cops are the trees”. As I delved further and faster into the underworld of junkie life, this joke became less and less amusing. When you’re up for several days end-to-end on a bender, you tend to misconstrue reality. I’ve seen fifty-foot tall basket ball players swaggering and looming overhead where streetlights should have been, black mass demon worship in parking lots, elves in the road, and other bizarre apparitions, and I can tell you I believed every minute of it. Sleep deprivation, stimulants, and malnourishment can do that sort of thing.

I’m not sure how I never got arrested or killed for that matter, but I’m glad to be able to just cruise down the street at night without being afraid of cops or other phantasmal pursuers anymore. It’s a blessing, one of many simple things that most people take for granted. For those of you who are still lost between the worlds, find a light and go ever toward it. And for those of you teetering, don’t look back. -CM