#Addiction #SubstanceUseDisorders #recover
Look, I'm the last person you should be taking advice from so don't.
You'll just end up drunk.
But this isn't really advice in any form anyway. It's more of a cautionary tale with a ... if not a happy ending exactly, at least one that most days leaves me feeling pretty content.
For one thing, I’ve spent a good portion of my life completely lost—and not the romantic kind of lost that poets write about. I mean the real kind. The kind where you wake up one day and realize you’ve wandered so far away from the person you thought you were supposed to be that you’re not sure there’s a way back.
Being lost has always been my specialty. It’s an odd thing to be good at, but I’ve practiced it for years.
Quietly.
Thoroughly.
And with impressive commitment.
And the strange part is that, from the outside, it didn’t look that way at all. From the outside, my life had all the right pieces: a marriage, children, the things people point to when they talk about a well-built life.
But inside, something was wrong with me.
There was a dull, persistent emptiness—like a low-grade fever of dissatisfaction humming underneath everything. A background noise that never quite shut off. I felt like I was always waiting for the next big thing. Some imaginary moment when something exciting enough, loud enough, meaningful enough would happen to distract me from the quiet truth sitting underneath it all.
That I was bored with my own life.
Unbearably unhappy.
And deeply, painfully alone.
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