Miraculously one of the emergency rooms was able to get me into rehab on Feb 23rd, even more miraculously I decided to go. I began to recover from wounds and malnutrition, and started scratching away in a notebook.
The first few days I could only think about running away back to the streets and the chemicals. I had to just hold on for dear life, minute to minute. Once I spoke to my family for the first time in a month it got a little easier to stay put. My head started to put itself back together.
One of the hardest parts of my whole ordeal was the memory of when I could live a decent life, four consecutive years sober. I had an apartment, a full time job and even a girlfriend!
I could be present with my loved ones, and sit with myself. I could process my thoughts and emotions without the need to escape.
I was playing mini golf, seeing regular live music, collecting retro video games and maintaining meaningful relationships with other humans. Sure, there were challenges but I didn’t need to come undone over them.
It’s painful to know I was in a good place like that, I just can’t seem to get back there. It can’t be impossible, I can’t give up hope that I can climb back up there. Surely I survived all that carnage for a reason. I suspect I know what that reason is:
Writing.
The process of written self expression is so good for me.
When my thoughts, feelings and memories come out onto a page I am in touch with something that is way bigger than me, it moves the pen and taps the keys. I’ve been told that I need a power like that If I’m to survive addiction. So I’m gonna fucking write. To pass time, to practice, for the sake of writing and hopefully to save my life.
That moment in the ambulance was cathartic, I was sure I was dying, and I realized I’m far from done with this world and it isn’t yet done with me. I hope I can hold onto that moment and let it push me forward. I don’t want to forget (like I always do).
To be continued:
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