Every night I listen to the 5 o’clock news broadcast as I cook dinner and if I can, I sit down and give my attention to the short two-minute portion of the news called, State of Addiction.
For months, (for obvious reasons) this segment has been solely focused on Fentanyl and heroin-related stories, but yesterday the headline highlighted Xanax.
The headline was accompanied by a large photo of a pile of Xanax bars on the screen.
I froze, initially overwhelmed by my knee-jerk reaction.
Hmmm came to mind first, immediately followed by the automated Fuck that narrative floating through my mind.
It felt like accidentally running into an abusive ex that you barely escaped.
You are taken back by the surprise encounter.
And maybe, for just a second your mind floods with memories that aren’t so bad -before realizing that for the most part those memories are all fucking garbage and there is absolutely nothing reminiscent there to think about.
So you walk by them without batting an eye or giving any indication that there is interest in pleasantries from your direction. You see them and through gritted teeth, you think, I don’t wish you were dead, but fuck off. Also, praise Jesus we didn’t end up together, while also trying to keep your impulsive anger toward them under control.
That is what addiction feels like to me.
It’s an old, tired, abusive cycle that I once considered love. It was my best friend who, ultimately fucked me over; a divisive, selfish bastard; a masterfully adaptive manipulator that, for a time, had me duped into believing that I was stuck there, empty, barren, sad, in obligatory hopelessness- forever.
And after you realize you’ve been had, it is always too little, too late.
So you start the work that it takes to stand up and walk away but you feel stuck. You don’t know how to go on or move in a forward motion without it. But you are dying. Your life is in danger but you feel powerless and hopeless. People have walked away from you; distancing themselves for their own protection. You don’t even recognize yourself anymore.
This is usually how abuse operates in all its forms.
You enter the relationship voluntarily, but you weren’t anticipating the backlash and the fight that comes your way when it’s time for you to walk away, even after you finally see that no, it’s not actually ever going to work out someday.
You can’t wait it out because your gut tells you that you won’t make it that long.
Yes, it could get better for a few days but it will always send you right back into the cycle of shame, around to that familiar place of fear as you simply survive your day-to-day, usually feeling like you are on the brink of death. Each time you cycle through, the fights are worse; more dangerous and volatile.
After eleven years and eight months of freedom from the lovely and sour taste of Xanax dissolving on my tongue and into my bloodstream, seeing a big pile of them sent me through a wave of flashbacks.
Maybe I just needed a fresh reminder that I am living on borrowed time and that my recovery doesn’t get a day off.
What if I would have taken yesterday off? I really don’t know. Maybe working my recovery every day means that I am vigilant, doing my best not to ever allow myself to float around complacent, shaking hands with my ego.
And of course, I enjoy the perks of having more clear skin and a healthy glow because of sobriety.
I enjoy having more money because of sobriety. I like being respected and trusted because of my sobriety.
I appreciate the emotional, physical, and psychological benefits I am blessed and honored to delight in every day.
I am only as sober as I consciously choose to be and my sobriety is life and death. So while all of the perks are nice, I work every day to make sure that I remember that I am worthy and valuable of this new life. That I am capable of thinking about life in a new way. That my old definition of love and companionship were wrong. That my old view of my reflection was distorted. I strive every single day to lead a life of holistic health; one of abstinence, because there is a high probability that statistics show- I will die if I don’t.
That’s it.
Xanax is still my, One is too many and a handful will never ever be enough.
I choose sobriety first and foremost to stay alive, to live out the purpose that God has for my life. That is using my past to help the next in line.
The rest is gravy.
It’s all undeserved, and is the picture perfect example of real-life Grace in action.