I

Epigraph
“Let me not use today.
Let my words be honest.
Let me treat myself and others with compassion.”
— Daily Prayer-Intentions
Table of Contents

Summary of My Life Story ......................................................... 1

Before It All .................................................................................. 3
Who is the Addict? ...................................................................... 4
Powerless Devotion..................................................................... 5
30 Losses to Addiction................................................................ 6
Addiction Disease ........................................................................ 7
The Negative Path Before Drugs .............................................. 8
Scenario: If I Continue Using .................................................... 9
Letters from the Lockup ........................................................... 10
No Answer at the Door ....................................................... 13
Let Them Pass ....................................................................... 15
The Week Between Walls .................................................... 20
Hope With a New Face ........................................................ 22
Before the Next Step ............................................................ 25
Fading Faces........................................................................... 28
The Attempt ........................................................................... 30
Light Across the Room ........................................................ 32
Unpromised Warmth ............................................................ 34
Thresholds .............................................................................. 36
Thirty Consequences of Addiction ......................................... 38
What Addiction Did to My Mind? .......................................... 39

I
My Emotional Triggers ............................................................. 40
Recovery Principles ................................................................... 41
Group Participation ................................................................... 42
What I Did That No One Asked For ..................................... 43
Breaking the Rule ....................................................................... 44
Facing Moments of Crisis......................................................... 45
Weekly Moral Inventory ........................................................... 46
Recovery Principles in Action .................................................. 47
Helping Without Asking ........................................................... 48
Building a Daily Structure ......................................................... 49
Refusing to Walk Out................................................................ 50
Responding to Destructive Thoughts .................................... 51
Practicing Awareness ................................................................. 52
Sharing in Daily Meetings ......................................................... 53
Identifying Cognitive Distortions............................................ 54
Naming My Fears....................................................................... 55
Recognizing the Good I Did, Too .......................................... 56
Naming Internal Resistance ..................................................... 57
One Year Plan Recovery........................................................... 58
Daily Journaling Reflections..................................................... 59
Practicing the Opposite of My Urges ..................................... 60
Mapping My Coping Plans ....................................................... 61
Submitting Weekly Goals ......................................................... 62
Answering Recovery Questionnaires ...................................... 63

II
Writing One-Year Recovery Scenario .................................... 64
Executing Daily Structure and Chores ................................... 65
Logging Every Dark Thought.................................................. 66
Daily Gratitude Reflection........................................................ 67
Five Actual Actions a Day ........................................................ 68
Mapping If-Then Plans ............................................................. 69
Translating My Own Symptoms.............................................. 70
Self-Compassion Letters ........................................................... 71
Role-Playing Tough Conversations......................................... 72
Monthly Progress Reviews ....................................................... 73
Mapping My Cognitive Biases ................................................. 74
The Nine Pillars of Faith .......................................................... 75
Building My If–Then Scripts.................................................... 76
Deep Dive into How and Why ................................................ 77
Laying My Twelve-Month Plan ............................................... 78
Cataloguing the Symptoms ....................................................... 79
Practicing Three Daily Gratitude ............................................ 80
Writing Self-Compassion Letters ............................................ 81
Mapping My Support Network ............................................... 82
Practicing Mindfulness Check-Ins .......................................... 83
Creative Expression Sessions ................................................... 84
Tracking Nutrition & Mood .................................................... 85
Learning Breathing Techniques ............................................... 86
Volunteering Beyond Duty ...................................................... 87

III
Mentoring Newcomers ............................................................. 88
Clarifying Personal Values ........................................................ 89
Reciting Daily Affirmations...................................................... 90
Monitoring Sleep & Urge Patterns .......................................... 91
Summarizing Extra Recovery Reads ....................................... 92
Relapse-Prevention Poster........................................................ 93
Resisting Impulse ....................................................................... 94
Personal Interventions .............................................................. 95
The Hum of a Different Life ................................................... 97
A Farewell Letter to Drugs .................................................. 99

IV
 Summary of My Life Story
I was born in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, in the capital city
of Riyadh.
Like anyone drawn to discovery, I was fascinated by the
unknown. I was curious, tempted by the forbidden, and eager
to experience everything I could.
My journey with drugs began with hashish in front of my high
school. My love for hashish lingered, and it led me to
experiment with other substances.
Days passed, and I lost time searching for a supplier,
surrounded by others who shared the same cravings.
After five years, I began seeking something stronger—until I
was invited to try heroin.
Heroin—known as “the sorceress.”
I became addicted from the very first use. That addiction
stayed with me from 2015 until the day I was invited to join
Narcotics Anonymous (NA).
This group helped shift my thinking and reshape my outlook
toward the future.
I had already lost more than ten years—I refused to lose
more.
Today, I commit to recovery, with the support of the group
and my daily prayers to God.

1
My addiction wasn’t only about using. It involved selling,
staying stuck in the cycle, and forming relationships around
drugs.
Like a greedy soul, I always wanted more money to keep the
supply flowing.
I sold hashish, pills, and LSD. I connected with addicts
through my constant presence online—my goal at the time
was to share in the illusion of a smile.
I was seeking drugs not to escape fear, but to escape the world
itself.
I was chasing a false happiness, a joy that never truly came.
I lost several jobs, and was expelled from the university.
I thank God first, then the anonymous recovering addicts
who helped me stand to stand up again after all my life's
suffering—and after being haunted by thoughts and endless
distractions—was no small victory.
I also thank my mother, whose strength stopped me from
turning a blind eye to what I couldn’t face for over ten years.
Now, I hold onto hope for a future that finally puts the past
to rest.

2
 Before It All
I landed in rehab on May 7th, 2021.
No parade. No bright idea.
Just tired lungs, burnt bridges, and enough damage in my
rearview to know something had to give.
At first, I didn’t write to heal. I wrote because I was losing my
mind.
Locked in.
No control.
Just walls, rules, and a bunch of strangers pretending to be
okay.
I wasn’t ready to talk.
But a notebook doesn’t talk back—it listens.
What you’re about to read started when I stopped pretending.
When hope felt like a scam, and leaving seemed farther than
the moon.
I grabbed a pen like it was a weapon—something to fight
back with.
Wrote my way out of dark corners and through cold
mornings.
When I was nine, I tried to end it all. I failed.
Later, I found new ways to vanish—addicted to Dota 2, then
soft drugs. Then whatever numbed me fast enough to forget.
But it always ended the same—me, hiding from myself.

3
 Who is the Addict?
Who is the addict? Most of us do not have to think twice
about this question—we know.
“Our whole lives and thinking were centered around drugs in
one form or another: getting, using, and finding ways and
means to get more.
We lived to use and used to live.
Very simply, an addict is a man or woman whose life is
controlled by drugs.”
Indicators:
▪ “Our lives and thoughts became entirely centered around
drugs.”
▪ “We lived chasing and using just to survive.”
▪ “We suffered from a severe and progressive condition.”
▪ “We told ourselves: ‘I can control it.’”
▪ “We ended up isolating ourselves.”
▪ “We tried to control everything around us.”
▪ “Failure and fear began to invade our lives.”
▪ “The constant search opposed the peace we truly needed.”
▪ “Our interaction with drugs is what makes us addicts.”
▪ “We lost control over the substances and couldn’t stop.”
▪ “While using, we lived in another world.”
▪ “We became addicted to the past and terrified of the
future.”
▪ “Dwelling on our addiction kept us sick.”
Conflicts:
▪ “Some of us ended up in prison due to crimes related to
drugs.”
▪ “We committed actions we knew were illegal.

4
 Powerless Devotion
Love for drugs is not merely an experiment or a rebellious act.
Inside, there’s only one direction: a dark tunnel leading to a
dead end.
My experiences with drugs are many; some of them were very
painful and left deep wounds, some physical, others
psychological.
I learned much from my numerous relapses, and I now
understand that recovery is not just about stopping, but about
healing what lies within.
The problem was not just in the substance, but in the internal
void and the need for something to fill the emptiness. I started
using drugs at 16, beginning with tramadol, and then moved
on to Lyrica and Codeine. Before turning 22, my life had
crumbled entirely.
I lost my academic future, my health, my money, and even the
trust of those closest to me. My appearance changed
dramatically—I became unrecognizable, both physically and
spiritually.
Loneliness devoured me. I lost my way and my sense of
purpose. I stopped participating in family events. I refused
outings and distanced myself from everything and everyone.
I started isolating myself and gave up on any solution. I lost
faith in myself and my surroundings. I even lost interest in the
things I used to love.
But time has taught me everything can be rebuilt, if only we
choose to. My promise to myself today is to never go back. I
will continue to challenge myself and those internal whispers.
I thank God and thank those who stood by me. I dedicate this
day to every person in recovery—and to every person who
has yet to begin.

5
 30 Losses to Addiction
1. I failed in university not in one but two different colleges.
2. I wasted years chasing drugs and dealers.
3. I was rejected for marriage.
4. I got scammed many times.
5. I was jailed once for drug use.
6. I was beaten in prison for being high.
7. I lost over a month trying to quit.
8. I lost my family’s trust.
9. I was kicked out of a café for looking like a junkie.
10. I missed many Ramadans with my family.
11. I led people who loved me into addiction.
12. I caused a friend to get Hepatitis C.
13. I lost over $100,000 to drugs.
14. I stole to fund my addiction.
15. I sold my laptop for $3 to buy aa gram.
16. I caused a car crash due to drug use.
17. I failed injections that could’ve killed me.
18. I lied and cheated for drug money.
19. I lost jobs because I chose drugs over work.
20. I ignored my family to stay high.
21. I refused to help my father and build anything.
22. I forgot joy without substances.
23. I lost friends who didn’t use.
24. I ruined my family’s name.
25. I wasted time and money to please others.
26. I gave up football for drugs.
27. I became withdrawn and antisocial.
28. I loved drugs more than myself.
29. I lost respect from my relatives.
30. I lost years I can never reclaim.

6
 Addiction Disease
1. What makes me you describe addiction as a disease?
It is a disease that controls everything—I hear fear in it.
2. Was your disease active recently? In what ways?
Yes, it was active—because I began using mental tools again.
3. How do you look when the disease is active and
something happens?
I become completely submissive. The idea of superiority or entitlement
keeps returning.
4. When you get a thought or desire—do you act on it
immediately without considering the consequences?
Yes, during active craving I didn’t think of the consequences—but I
still rushed toward use.
5. How does the compulsive part of your disease affect
your life and the lives of those around?
I became affected by spiritual isolation, financial exhaustion, physical
weakness, and my social surroundings were also impacted.
6. How did the disease affect you mentally, physically,
emotionally, and spiritually?
- Psychologically: Isolation and depression.
- Emotionally: I became emotionally unstable—I couldn’t feel or
express anything real.
- Spiritually: I was cut off. I was absent from everything that once
gave meaning.
- Physically: My body was drained. I looked hollow.
7. What was the specific way addiction showed up in
your life recently?
Addiction showed itself in my behavior, thoughts, and feelings all at
once—it became my dominant way of living.
8. Was there a person, place, or thing that influenced or
triggered your relapse/use?
Yes—relapsing came from surrendering to emotional emptiness,
weakness, and longing. I was submissive. I was depressed.

7
The Negative Path Before Drugs
▪ Before using drugs, I used to steal my father’s strength
from his habits.
▪ Before doing drugs, I planted lies—I was already deceitful.
▪ Before using drugs, I was expelled from school and had
many disciplinary reports.
▪ Before doing drugs, I bought cigarettes and imitated my
bad friends.
▪ Before using drugs, I was already addicted to sex.
▪ Before using drugs, I didn’t care about prayer or
commitment.
▪ Before using drugs, I used isolation to escape loneliness.
▪ Before using drugs, I once stole my father’s car keys.
▪ Before using drugs, I read a lot about pills and their effects.
▪ Before using drugs, I used to make weapons from pens
and sharpeners.
▪ Before using drugs, I used to say about friendships:
"They use me."

8
 Scenario: If I Continue Using
Love for drugs is involuntary—and it grows daily with
continued use.
In my opinion, the only solution is to stay close to a group
that has successfully stayed clean for long periods.
I had been attached to drugs for a long time, and I started
with a hash cigarette in front of my high school.
From one drug to another in a journey searching for
happiness—and I never found lasting happiness.
Instead, I found chronic regret, accompanied by a heavy
feeling of guilt.
Things escalated, and in 2015 I began using heroin.
At first, I used it through my nose, but eventually ended up
injecting it.
Before joining the rehab and the path to peace, my daily dose
was no less than two grams.
My addiction to this treacherous substance drove me to steal
anything I could from my family. I even sold my laptop at the
lowest price.
If I continue using, I will probably end up selling my phone
too—it was my only way of staying in touch with my mother
and father. I am already haunted by strange thoughts while
staring at the TV screen.
When I used spiritual incantations during drug use, my state
became highly alarming—nearly paralyzed or on the verge of
death.
I tried to break free in every way possible, until I had nothing
of value left. I’m grateful for joining the group of recovering
addicts. I hope never to entertain any thought of drugs again,
and I wish goodness upon everyone.

9
 Letters from the Lockup
17 May 2021 – MONDAY
Dear Friends,
Tolerance started to shine while I was locked up in a single
room. Curiosity is the reason for my lock-up. A rehab or a
prison? a prison? I see no difference. Curiosity was leading
me to death by injecting brown sugar.
Adventures—curiosity led me to a hospital with
psychotropic, books, food, coffee, a bed, and a dry pack of
cigarettes.
Today, I thought my brother was picking me up after
completing twelve days in this shithole. Unfortunately, he left
after twenty minutes without even shaking hands.
Full of fuckery thoughts, I got nothing to do but grab a
notebook and pen and empty out my thoughts in a page or
two, or three, or etc.
A so-called mentor, just entered my room and gave me a brief
drop of what addiction is.
I tried my best to understand the timeline of my recovery, but
he failed to offer any meaningful insight.
Instead, he insisted it would be SIX difficult months.
Now am asked to write down 30 Losses to Addiction I have
gone through for my drug’ love.
I written some and I believe that’s enough.
I just wish to be free again.
I just refused to join a meeting since no request regarding my
stay care applied.
Let it all bomb away.
Depression is killing me more than drugs would.

10
 Evening Reflection
Ughh… After a lonely lunch, we just had a good dinner:
chicken crepe and rice with Molokhya. It feels like a holy
egyptian—with a small-lettered “e.”
It feels miserable being locked up by my own choice. Sadly, I
chose to go to rehab with clean intentions of getting clean.
Then the shit happened.
I did NOT imagine being locked up for a long stay like this.
It is 7:26 PM and it feels horrible. A bit softer since I had a
shower and walked here and there to kill my time. Suicidal
thoughts haunted me a while, but I keep in mind people who
give effs about me and that what remains we silently alone.
I have good English, Yaw! Perfect!
The “canteen” has arrived which is food/drinks from the
supermarket. I ordered Molto pieces of bread filled with
chocolate, Pepsi, and ships which have been exchanged with
Snickers chocolate.
Now I am lying in bed with this book and listening to music
since there is nothing else to do.
I have left my room for the caretaker to clean it up for me.
Malee, the caretaker, has thrown multiple words of appraisal
for my English writings.
I am currently sitting with a fat Saudi guy named “Abu Fahd”
and “Faisal,” a Kuwaiti colleague, in this aisle. Ughh… time
passes really slowly. It feels like I am lying beneath an
elephant, trying to catch my breath.
What an endless night. It started with a mentor playing a voice
note from my mother. Although my mother’s note was
heartbreaking, it was highly un-motivational and depressing.
She threw in words applauding my long stay and wishing me
good luck in the hospital’s program, which lasts around SIX
months.

11
I believe I will need more notebooks and pens to speak my
thoughts and smell the pen’s ink. Hmmm…
18 May 2021 – TUESDAY
Dear family,
Thank you for caring about my survival & I would be thankful
if you stopped caring.
Just another day to live with eyes wide awake; no sleep since
forever hence the ever starts with yesterday’s notes & ugly
stories.
Sadley, there is nobody to share the beautiful sunrise with.
A beautiful sunrise that reminds me of her smiley smile.
Ugh… I miss my baby.
I hope she still has a place for me in my heart.
I hope she did NOT replace me with anybody. I hope she
does not visit when I am locked up. I hope I won’t miss any
chance to bear-hug her. I hope she returned home safely with
a smile on her face.
I can feel it and I hope such feelings are mutual.
I hate not sharing love with my beautiful lover.
So, this is my thirteenth day & it feels like forever.
If patience is a relief, patience is a pain.
I am wondering how this Tuesday will be like.
Hopefully survivable.
19 May 2021 – WEDNESDAY
I feel like I belong to peeps, supervisors, and ex-addicts.
There are seven goals to achieve.

12
 NO ANSWER AT THE DOOR
I came in curious,
but curiosity nearly cost me my life.
The substance that thrilled me
also tried to bury me.

This place—rehab, hospital, prison—

call it what you will.
It taught me that emptiness wears many faces:
a silent room,
a brother who won’t say goodbye,
a notebook that fills too fast.

Some days are heavy with memories.

Others with silence.
But in both, I write.
Not because I know the ending,
but because the page doesn’t leave
when I tell the truth.

There are goals here.

Seven," they say.
Maybe more.
But survival isn’t in numbers—
it’s in waking up,
in staying present,
in choosing not to vanish
when no one’s watching.

13
 20 May 2021 – THURSDAY
I got pushed into the pool. I ate meat, burgers, Shawerma,
plus fried chicken.
21 May 2021 – FRIDAY
The space between us might soon be filled with guns, roses,
hugs, and kisses.
I wonder if you’re thinking of me while having your second
cup of coffee.
Still locked up in rehab, pretending to be okay. Smiling just to
keep the procedures moving.
22 May 2021 – SATURDAY
A strange morning—quiet and heavy.
Thoughts of everything I’ve lost pass through my head.
23 May 2021 – SUNDAY
Dear Family,
Thank you for sending me to this hospital that helped me to
treat my addiction.
It made me know how worthy a family is.
It made me aware of how precious it is to be loved by
somebody.
I have plenty of days remaining and hopefully it will pass by.

14
 L ET THEM PASS
They pushed me in.
Laughter rose, unearned—
a feast followed: meat stacked over memory,
oil masking hunger I couldn’t name.
I kept chewing, though nothing filled.

The next morning felt far off.

Intimacy and distance breathing side by side.
Somewhere, someone poured their second cup of coffee.
I shaped my face to keep the system steady.

Loss didn’t ask for permission.

It entered like it owned the air,
settling in corners I’d forgotten.

Gratitude came slow.

This place I never chose
taught me what it means to be held.

There is time.
I won’t run from it.
Let it arrive. Let it shape me.

15
 25 May 2021 – TUESDAY
Dear Human Beings,
You don’t really notice the value of what you have until it’s
taken from you.
It’s been a week here on the first floor. They call it productive,
but to me it feels like a year. And there are still at least eleven
weeks ahead. That thought alone is heavy.
I feel disappointed in my past decisions—disappointed in
myself and in people. I’m uncertain about what tomorrow will
be held. They’ve asked me to submit the goals I was supposed
to work on during the past week. I don’t know what to write.
Sometimes I wonder if anyone is thinking of me right now. If
my name has come up in a conversation. I wonder if my
family will actually allow me to stay here for the full program.
I’m angry about the way they went against our agreement. I
didn’t expect that from them.
I also wonder if I had just stayed quiet in bed for five days,
maybe I could’ve spent Eid alone, outside, doing things on
my own terms. 'Now I just want tomorrow to be better—to
be worth something. Maybe it's even worth my freedom.
Pray for me. Or pray for my death. Because right now, I
genuinely don’t want to keep living like this. And if the good
die young, then I guess I’ll be around for a very long time.
I’m currently waiting for the supervisor to join us and end this
recovery session. I’m surrounded by addicts and deep
thinkers. And I feel stuck in the middle.
No direction. No way out.
People here keep joking, maybe to cope—but I think they
underestimate how empty this place really is. I just hope all of
this ends soon.
Whatever that means.

16
 26 May 2021 – WEDNESDAY
Dear Friends,
Such a relaxing morning with good vibes around and Fayrouz
singing.
Hopefully, we shall get out of here in good health.
Wishes in here from faggots to real junkies.
27 May 2021 – THURSDAY
A peaceful morning. Good vibes all around. Fayrouz is
playing in the background.
I really hope we all make it out of here in good health—every
one of us, from the loudest junkies to the quietest loners.
28 May 2021 – FRIDAY
They called it a recovery session.
To me, it felt like a waiting room between realities—
one I broke, and one I hadn’t met yet.
I wasn’t like them.
But I wasn’t whole either.
Just sitting still,
trying not to disappear.
29 May 2021 – SATURDAY
I woke up with the weight still there.
No dreams. Just the ceiling.
They talked about triggers today.
I said nothing—
because mine doesn’t shout.
They whisper.
And they wait.

17
 A S INGLE B REATH

I wake beneath a silent roof,

the night’s cargo still pressing down.
No dream escaped to guide me—
only flat plaster, blank and unmoved.

They speak of sparks that set the body to run.

I keep my counsel.
My triggers drift like smoke,
taking shape when no one looks at me.

Silence, I am learning, is not defeated.

It is the space where impulse cools,
where the mind rehearses mercy
before the heart remembers how to beat.

Here, progress is measured in breaths stored

instead of blown apart—
in choosing when to rise,
and when to let the weight remain
until it softens on its own.

18
 30 May 2021 – SUNDAY
The days are blending.
I keep journaling, eating, pacing, smoking, and thinking. I
mark each day by what small things change—like who
showed up to group, what we had for dinner, or whether I
laughed.
31 May 2021 – MONDAY
Dear Friends,
Today my thoughts circled the quiet traps that shape our
choices—biases we obey without noticing.
• Social proof: "Be water, follow the flow," yet that
same current can sweep us where we never
intended to go.
• Sunk cost fallacy: "Don’t waste what you’ve
paid," but clinging to old investments often
buries tomorrow’s possibilities.
While pacing the corridor, I caught myself bending facts to fit
familiar stories, chasing quick comfort at the expense of
lasting peace, believing the loudest memory simply because it
shouts.
Recognizing these patterns doesn’t erase them, but it grants a
pause.
Every pause is a pocket of freedom—time to respond, not
merely react.
I carry these fragments like small tools and reminders that
clear thinking must be practiced.

19
 THE WEEK BETWEEN WALLS
A quiet start.
A rare sense that maybe
we’ll make it out—
even the ones most lost.

They spoke of recovery.

I felt suspended,
somewhere between collapse and becoming.

No words from me
when triggers were named.
Mine arrive softly—
and stay longer.

I keep moving in small ways:

a note, a meal, a glance,
measuring time
by what doesn’t fall apart.

20
 1 June 2021 – TUESDAY
Yay! I received a bag of Pringles and a few pairs of boxers.
Small joys go a long way here.
4 June 2021 – FRIDAY
Time is crawling. These days are quiet, but the heaviness
remains.
I feel trapped between the memories of who I was and the
uncertainty of who I’m becoming.
5 June 2021 – SATURDAY
Still waking up in this bed, staring at the ceiling. No major
changes, just trying to keep myself grounded. Music helps. So
does writing.
7 June 2021 – MONDAY
I’m still waiting for something—anything—to feel different.
No breakthroughs yet. Just routines and long silence.
8 June 2021 – TUESDAY
These days I feel mechanical. Suicidal thoughts hit hard
sometimes, especially at night. I remind myself it’s just a
thought—not a command. I keep showing up to meetings,
even if I feel detached.
Writing helps keep me alive.
11 June 2021 – FRIDAY
Same numbness, different days.
18 June 2021 – FRIDAY
Another day ticks by. I barely spoke. I just smoked. Lay in
bed. Stared at the ceiling.
I can’t tell if I’m numb or just done feeling.

21
 HOPE WITH A NEW FACE
Hope is an old friend returned in disguise,
offering comfort, then stepping back into shadow.
At night, the clock marks each second—
a slow drum for those who wait and wonder.
I write because silence outweighs stone,
because the page is less cruel than emptiness.
I ask if light can be touched without pain,
if windows are really doors or only clearer traps.

Faces appear, then vanish—

some leave laughter, others pity.
None stay long enough to matter.
Every time I reach for a connection,
the tide drags it out of my grasp.
So I draw inward, building my own keep,
walls rising with each failed trust.

Is anyone meant to stay?

Or am I to greet only departures—
a revolving door of almost?
Fear of loss breeds walls taller than hope,
but still, I wait by my window,
listening for a new knock,
wondering if this old friend
might finally return to stay.

22
 19 June 2021 – SATURDAY
Went through the motions. Rehab is starting to feel like
limbo—stuck between who I was and who I’m supposed to
become.
20 June 2021 – SUNDAY
Sundays used to mean something. Family, rest, maybe
laughter. Now it’s group sessions and long silence. At least I
got through the day.
21 June 2021 – MONDAY
I woke up with a heavy mind. Same thoughts: When do I
leave?
Do they even care if I get out of here better? My trust is
wearing thin.
22 June 2021 – TUESDAY
No real update. I sat in a group, nodded when expected,
shared when forced.
This routine keeps going. I’m still trying.
23 June 2021 – WEDNESDAY
Same as always—coffee, cigarettes, sessions, silence.
I’m counting down but don’t even know what to do.
24 June 2021 – THURSDAY
Fifty days. That sounds like a milestone.
But all I feel is the weight of time—pressing down like a wet
blanket. I’m here, though. That’s something.
25 June 2021 – FRIDAY
I wrote today. a lot. I tried to empty the noise in my head onto
paper.
It didn’t fix anything, but it made breathing easier. 26

23
 26 June 2021 – SATURDAY
Let me nap longer than usual.
Didn’t fight it. It was the most peaceful
I’ve had all week.
27 June 2021 – SUNDAY
A few people joked around after dinner today. I smiled.
Didn’t laugh—but I smiled.
That’s progress, right?
28 June 2021 – MONDAY
Same four walls. Same playlist. Same cravings. Still clean.
29 June 2021 – TUESDAY
I woke up groggy and irritable.
Got into a small argument during the group.
I apologized afterward.
I'm still learning how to manage myself.
30 June 2021 – WEDNESDAY
Month’s end. It feels like I’ve lived three lifetimes in thirty
days.
One part of me is proud. The other’s just tired.

24
 BEFORE THE N EXT STEP
There is a moment when silence grows—
not from emptiness,
but from having survived so much noise.

Progress is rarely loud.

It creeps in as steady breath,
a gentler thought,
the calm after restless nights.

Before each new chapter,

I stand and take measure:
not of time, but of distance traveled within.

The wounds are quieter,

the fears less sharp,
and hope to learn to walk beside me.

I step forward,
to welcome what healing brings—
even if it arrives slowly,
one sunrise at a time.

25
 1 July 2021 – THURSDAY
Another day passed—nothing new. Just marking the date.
2 July 2021 – FRIDAY
Same cycle, same smoke, same stillness.
3 July 2021 – SATURDAY
I didn’t talk much. I just kept moving through the day.
4 July 2021 – SUNDAY
No energy. Just waiting.
5 July 2021 – MONDAY
The same. Still here.
6 July 2021 – TUESDAY
A mentor entered the session. I kept my head down, listening.
I didn’t want to speak.
7 July 2021 – WEDNESDAY
I wrote more today. The words don’t fix anything, but they
keep me company.
8 July 2021 – THURSDAY
I'm still counting the days.
Still writing.
Still surviving.
9 July 2021 – FRIDAY
A small incident during the group.
I lost my temper. Didn’t mean to—but it’s hard to stay still all
the time.

26
 10 July 2021 – SATURDAY
I apologize for today. That’s new to me. Maybe that means
something.
11 July 2021 – SUNDAY
Nothing has changed. I stay quiet. Eat. Smoke. Write. Think.
12 July 2021 – MONDAY
More writing. Mostly the same thoughts, but I try to be honest
on the page.
13 July 2021 – TUESDAY
I had a brief panic during the call today. Lost control of my
thoughts.
Now I feel locked up—mentally and physically. We’ll see how
the next few days treat me.
14 July 2021 – WEDNESDAY
I woke up with a blank mind.
I felt emotionally flat but physically restless.
Sat through the group without a word.
My body was present, but my head was somewhere else.
Maybe it was grief, or maybe it was emptiness.
I carried it silently.

27
 FADING FACES
There are days when faces blur
at the edges—
some linger for a moment,
some drift away before their names return.

Today, the air feels different.

A date marked quietly in memory
reminds me how absence
leaves a deeper impression than presence ever did.
Conversations echo with what’s left unsaid.

I watch laughter rise and fall,

never sure if it’s for me or someone else.
Old feelings resurface,
not sharp, just soft as dust
caught in a ray of late light.

It’s a strange comfort—

to realize most faces fade,
but some are carried forward,
no matter how many seasons
the calendar tries to turn.

28
 15 July 2021 – THURSDAY
Another night of overthinking. My mind keeps replaying old
memories on a loop—some of them warm, most of them
brutal.
I barely spoke again today.
I’m still afraid of being seen, even here.
Or maybe I just don’t want anyone to ask me how I’m doing.
16 July 2021 – FRIDAY
I tried to write a journal, but the words came out heavy and
sharp. I miss being outside.
I miss moving through the world without this constant ache
in my chest.
I miss the girl I pushed away.
The group today was quiet on my part, but the conversations
helped me feel less invisible.
17 July 2021 – SATURDAY
Two moments stood out today: I laughed—actually
laughed—for the first time in weeks.
And later, I cried quietly on my bed while listening to a song
that reminded me of my sister.
This place forces everything out of you sooner or later. I
didn’t think it would happen today.
18 July 2021 – SUNDAY
Someone read aloud a passage about surrender. I pretended
not to care, but it stayed with me. “You don’t fight your way
out of addiction—you surrender your way forward.” That line
hasn’t left my head.
Maybe I need to stop fighting every emotion and let them
pass through me instead.

29
 THE ATTEMPT
3 PM. Rest time.
The room held its breath.
I stayed in bed, eyes locked on the door, tracking every sound.
I was making sure no one walked in while I cut.
I needed time to finish what I started.
I took the toothbrush and pressed it hard into the wall, scraping it over
the plaster until it sharpened like a blade. I wasn’t rushing. I shaped it
with a purpose. Then I turned it toward myself and dragged it across
my forearm.
The cut opened. Blood slid slowly. I felt the edge scrape deep, and I kept
going. There was no noise, no crying—just movement, breath, and the
sound of plastic slicing skin.
My plan was clear.
I wanted the pain to stop everything. I believed one clean cut would end
it.
It didn’t.
The toothbrush didn’t go deep enough. I failed. But something strange
happened in the failure—I felt alive. The pain was honest. The blood
was real. For the first time in days, my body didn’t feel hollow.
I stood up. I walked to the nurse. They saw it. They patched me up.
No questions. No warnings. Just gauze and tape.
Later, I sat alone and reached for something worse. I soaked tissues in
sanitizer, thinking maybe they could burn a hole through the numbness.
That afternoon, everything slowed down. My thoughts got quiet. My
body settled down. I didn’t die—but I came close. And for a moment,
it felt good. Not because I wanted to leave. But because I finally felt
something sharp enough to break through the fog.

30
 19 July 2021 – MONDAY
I woke up feeling like a balloon that had lost all its air. I barely
moved between sessions.
Talked to no one.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. Just floated.
The nurse noticed and asked if I was okay.
I said “yes” without thinking. But I was lying.
20 July 2021 – TUESDAY
Everything hurts today, and not in a physical way. It’s the kind
of pain that sits in your bones and whispers: you’ll never be
whole again.
I try not to believe it. But today, I kind of did. Still, I didn’t
use it. And that has to count on something.
21 July 2021 – WEDNESDAY
They say healing isn’t linear. It’s days like today that prove
that.
I felt okay in the morning—almost good, even. I had a real
conversation during lunch.
But by sunset, I was spiraling again.
There’s no logic to it.
Just waves I keep trying to float through without drowning.
22 July 2021 – THURSDAY
Cravings came hard today. Not just for substances, but for
numbness.
I wanted to disappear for a while.
Lay in bed, stared at the ceiling, and imagined what my life
would look like if I hadn’t touched a single drug.
That kind of thinking helps and hurts at the same time.

31
 L IGHT ACROSS THE ROOM
The room is quieter now.
Time loses its edges;
mornings slip into nights
with hardly a signal of change.

I watch faces grow more familiar,

yet everyone drifts in their own weather—
some restless, some resigned,
some holding on to hope with white knuckles.

Conversations become gentler—

less about the past,
more about how to last
one more day.

I trace the outline of my own solitude,

finding comfort in small routines:
a steady breath,
the scratch of pen on paper,
the quiet assurance
that each sunrise is its own kind of progress.

In this middle stretch,

there is no drama—
only the steady work of becoming
someone who stays,
even when the waiting feels endless.

32
 23 July 2021 – FRIDAY
I slept longer than usual. My body needs it. I didn’t talk much.
One of the guys cracked a joke during the group and I smiled,
but I still feel distant.
I’m not sure if I’m hiding or just slowly fading into my life.
24 July 2021 – SATURDAY
Cleaned my bed space today.
Organized my books.
Folded my laundry with extra care.
These tiny routines feel like a way to rebuild control.
I guess when everything else is chaos, order in the small things
feels like resistance.
25 July 2021 – SUNDAY
Someone told their story today in a group. It mirrored mine.
Different names, same destruction.
I sat frozen, like I was listening to myself.
It was terrifying—and kind of liberating.
Maybe I’m not as alone in my damage as I thought.
26 July 2021 – MONDAY
I wrote five pages today without stopping.
It poured out of me—anger, regret, hope, even a weird sense
of peace.
I think I’m starting to trust the process.
Or maybe I’m just tired of fighting it.
27 July 2021 – TUESDAY
The day passed without any spikes in emotion.
Just stillness. That used to scare me.
Now, I’m learning to breathe in it. I think it’s called progress.

33
 UNPROMISED WARMTH
Another stretch of days passes—
faces shift, stories thicken,
and the calendar counts progress in months,
not in moments.

Not quite arrival,

Not quite a departure.
Somewhere between learning and unlearning,
where old habits lose their bite
and new ones are still uncertain.

Here, I move by inches.

No finish line,
just the gentle grind
of becoming softer,
truer,
more willing to stay.

Progress hides in ordinary hours:

the meal eaten in silence,
the laugh that comes without warning,
the promise to show up—
Just for today.

Accepting that the work isn’t always seen,

that change is measured
not by how far I’ve come,
but by the honesty I bring
to the day at hand.

34
 28 July 2021 – WEDNESDAY
Something snapped today — during that call.
I was aggressive. Unintentionally, but visibly.
Now I’m stuck. Head spinning, body heavy.
I don’t feel like myself.
I know I crossed a line.
Now, I wait — unsure if the days ahead will punish or forgive
me. It’s a lonely kind of silence.
29 July 2021 – THURSDAY
I checked into detox today.
Voluntary, but not. My mind didn’t leave me much choice.
No chaos here. Just food and a bed.
No phone. No noise.
The world outside paused. Or maybe I paused it.
I’m not sure which is more real.
30 July 2021 – FRIDAY
Time doesn’t move here.
My thoughts echo — louder than I want.
But I let them come. Some are brutal.
But the bed is always there.
And the food comes like clockwork.
I exist. That’s all I can say right now.
31 July 2021 – SATURDAY
I feel like a ghost of myself.
Not haunted — just detached.
Nothing to fix today. Nothing to fight.
Just lying here, tracing the ceiling with tired eyes.

35
 THRESHOLDS
There was a day I turned on myself—
pain sharp, intention blurred—
a cry for help that no one heard,
not even me.

My mother’s voice broke through the static,

full of worry and anger,
her pleas to collide with the walls I’d built.
She wanted me home,
believed freedom would heal,
but I knew the danger
of leaving too soon.

Then came the transfer,

the quiet corridors of detox,
strangers guiding me down halls
that smelled of bleach and possibility.

My story no longer belonged to me alone—

it became protocol,
a new name on another list.

Standing at that threshold,

I learned pain can be a messenger
and love, even when fierce,
is sometimes best measured
by the distance kept.

Some doors close for a reason.

Some calls echo longer than the words themselves.

36
 1 August 2021 – SUNDAY
I noticed the TV has wireless.
That spark — a trickle of curiosity — hit me.
I don’t know if it’s good or bad, but it was something.
Tomorrow, I might act on it.
Maybe the pause is ending.
Maybe it’s time to reach out.
2 August 2021 – MONDAY
I did it.
Used the TV’s connection to sneak online.
Sent a message to my brother: “Come get me.”
He did. Same day.
No questions.
He just came.
And then I walked out.
Was I ready? No idea.
But it was time.

37
 Thirty Consequences of Addiction
I filled the page in one sitting. Didn’t need to think hard—
just remembered.
I wrote about how I lost trust in my family.
How I lost the girl I swore I’d protect.
How I lied—over and over—until my own face felt like a
mask.
I wrote about sleeping on floors, overdosing in silence, staring
at the ceiling and hoping I wouldn’t wake up.
I put it all down.
Because pretending not to save me. Telling the truth might be
true.

38
 What Addiction Did to My Mind?
I saw how it twisted me.
Turned my fear into rage.
Turned my joy into silence.
I became a manipulator. A ghost. Someone who pushed
people away then hated walking.
It wasn’t just about substances—it was about hiding,
escaping, escaping again, and calling it normal.

39
 My Emotional Triggers
When I feel abandoned, I crave chaos.
When I feel ashamed, I crave numbness.
When I feel misunderstood, I feel isolated.
Sometimes I react by shutting down.
Sometimes I go looking for something—anything—to break.
In rehab, I learned to pause. To breathe.
Not perfectly, but more than I used to.

40
 Recovery Principles
I wrote about surrendering. Not giving up—but letting go of
control.
I practiced honesty, even when it burned.
When I wanted to lie and say I was “fine,” I didn’t.
When I wanted to fake growth, I stopped myself.
I stayed in the room, even when the walls felt like they were
closing in.
I didn’t walk out, not this time.

41
 Group Participation
Some days, I spoke. Some days, I didn’t.
But I showed up. Sat down. I listened.
I shared when I was ready—not when they wanted me to.
And when someone else cracked open in front of the group,
I didn’t look away.
I nodded. I heard them.
Because I know how it feels to speak your truth in a quiet
room and hope someone reaches for it.

42
 What I Did That No One Asked For
I sat beside a new guy when he looked like I used to be.
I helped fold blankets in silence just to feel useful.
I checked on someone after he broke down in the group.
I chose not to lash out when the craving hit—I wrote instead.
I survived a night I shouldn’t have had.

43
 Breaking the Rule
I messed up. I sipped pills that weren’t mine.
I built a toothbrush into something it was never meant to be.
I was ready to end everything.
But I lived.
And when they called me out—I didn’t lie.
I own it.
Not with pride, but with clarity.
That part of me is still here. But I’m not feeding it anymore.

44
 Facing Moments of Crisis
I wrote down what I felt before each relapse attempt—the
real feelings, not the excuses.
I tracked cravings, the lies I almost believed, and what I did
instead.
There were moments I chose a group over isolation, even
when my body begged for silence.
Moments I asked for help when it felt like weakness.
That wasn’t just participation. That was survival.

45
 Weekly Moral Inventory
I confronted envy, hatred, shame, and resentment.
I listed the names of people I judged, people I hurt, and
people who hurt me.
And I didn’t justify it. I didn’t say “but.” I just wrote: “This
happened. I was wrong.”

46
 Recovery Principles in Action
I applied the core values, one by one, in real-time:
 Honesty: I stopped editing the truth to sound better in
a group.
 Willingness: I shared in sessions even on the days I
didn’t want to leave bed.
 Open-mindedness: I followed suggestions from
mentors I didn’t even like.
 Humility: I asked for support instead of making a scene.
 Acceptance: I admitted I wasn’t ready to leave when
they thought I was.
 Surrender: I let go of the idea that I could do this “my
way.”
 Respecting Powerlessness: I said no when I wanted to
use it. Not because I’m strong—but because I
remembered what happened the last time.

47
 Helping Without Asking
I didn’t plan to lead—but I did.
I listened to a new guy when everyone else ignored him.
I gave advice I’d needed weeks before.
I watched someone crack in a group and nodded just enough
to keep him talking.
And when I had nothing to give, I offered a present. That’s
sometimes more honest than words.

48
 Building a Daily Structure
I wrote a schedule every day—even when I didn’t follow it.
Woke up. Brushed teeth. Drink coffee. Journaled.
It seems small, but it was the beginning of rebuilding my life.
Routine saved me when motivation left.

49
 Refusing to Walk Out
I thought about leaving every week. I didn’t.
Even when I felt overlooked. Even when I got locked up.
Even when I wanted to scream: “I’ve had enough.”
I stayed.
And that became one of the biggest things I ever did.

50
 Responding to Destructive Thoughts
When I had thoughts of harming myself or others, I didn’t let
them ferment in silence.
I named them. I told someone.
Sometimes I went straight to the mentor.
Sometimes I wrote them out and handed them over.
It wasn’t easy—but each time, I did the opposite of what my
head wanted.
That, to me, was courage.

51
 Practicing Awareness
I listed every symptom I could feel creeping back in—
Isolation. Denial. Shame. Mental bargaining.
Instead of hiding, I broke them down:
What triggered them?
Where do they lead if I don’t resist?
What I can do differently next time.
I stopped pretending I was immune. I started noticing earlier.

52
 Sharing in Daily Meetings
There were sessions I didn’t want to be in—but I sat anyway.
On days I didn’t want to speak—but I raised my voice.
Not because I wanted to inspire anyone—because if I didn’t
share, I’d explode.
Sometimes my words help someone else open up. Sometimes,
they helped me hear my own truth for the first time.

53
 Identifying Cognitive Distortions
I caught myself in faulty thinking:
— “I’m hopeless.”
— “No one cares.”
— “Relapse is inevitable.”
I wrote those beliefs down, crossed them out, and answered
with something truer.
I replaced self-hate with self-observation.
Even if I didn’t believe it yet—I practiced.

54
 Naming My Fears
I was asked to list my fears. I didn’t hold back:
Fear of relapse
Fear of dying alone
Fear of facing my mother’s eyes
Fear of being forgotten
Fear of getting better and still hating myself
But I didn’t just list them—I walked through each one, like a
hallway.
And I wrote how I might live with each one without letting
its own me.

55
 Recognizing the Good I Did, Too
I wasn’t just surviving I was contributing:
 Calming a group member during his first panic attack
 Translating between a new patient and a mentor
 Sharing my journal with someone too afraid to start
theirs
 Holding silence without judgment when someone
sobbed

No one won me a medal. They didn’t need to. I gave myself

a present.
Acting Over Impulse
I got the idea to leave more than once.
I heard the whisper: “You’re done. They don’t get you.”
But I stayed up.
I sat with those feelings, then I walked into the group, not out
of the gate.
I made a thousand choices against the storm in my head—
and each one left a scar of discipline.

56
 Naming Internal Resistance
I kept a list of things I didn’t want to do:
 Join morning meditation
 Share about my anger
 Admit I felt suicidal again
But I didn’t tear up the list—I used it.
Faced with a map of walls, I needed to walk through.

57
 One Year Plan Recovery
They asked me to imagine a year clean.
I didn’t sugarcoat it.
I wrote about the cravings that might still come.
The boredom. The silence is.
But I also wrote about the freedom to laugh without hiding,
to call my mother with nothing to explain, to sit in a room
and not lie.
That vision isn’t fantasy. It’s fuel.

58
 Daily Journaling Reflections
I wrote when it was easy.
I wrote when it felt useless.
Some days, my entries were in one sentence.
Some days, they bled.
But I never stopped. That notebook held the version of me I
didn’t want to lose again.
Facing My Deepest Fears
I was asked to name the things that scare me the most.
I didn’t laugh it off. I wrote:
 That she won’t recognize me when I come back.
 That I’ll relapse and nobody will stop me.
 That I’ll get better and still feel empty.

But saying them made them lose shape.

Writing them gave me a way to stop serving them in silence.

59
 Practicing the Opposite of My Urges
When I wanted to isolate myself, I sat beside someone.
When I wanted to lie, I shared the truth instead.
When I felt like breaking something, I held a pen.
I practiced doing what my disease hates.
Not once. Over and over. That was the real rehab.

60
 Mapping My Coping Plans
I listed every cue that almost pulled me back under—
the crack of silence in the afternoon,
the sight of a smoke break door,
the memory of her voice mid-argument.
Next to each trigger I wrote my response:
grab a journal, call a mentor, walk the hallway.
No more guesswork. Just a plan.

61
 Submitting Weekly Goals
Every Friday, I handed in a sheet:
sessions attended, pages written, cravings resisted,
conflicts owned, moments of surrender.
Some weeks it looked pitiful—two sessions, three pages.
But I submitted it anyway.
Because imperfection paired with action beats doing nothing.

62
 Answering Recovery Questionnaires
I completed every quiz on addiction’s anatomy:
what makes it chronic, progressive, deadly;
how denial works;
how I’d recognize relapse signals.
I didn’t look for easy answers.
I answered from my gut—raw, unfiltered.
And I learned more about my own disease than any lecture
could teach.

63
 Writing One-Year Recovery Scenario
They asked me to script life twelve months clean.
I didn’t write sunshine clichés.
I wrote about the boredom, the sleep I still won’t trust, the
family dinners where I’ll fight the urge to escape.
Then I wrote about the victories: real laughter, real affection,
waking without fear.
That script became my fuel when day-to-day got heavy.

64
 Executing Daily Structure and Chores
Each morning, I followed my schedule—
make bed, brush teeth, journal, group, chore, session, journal
again.
I threw out every excuse, even when I hated folding towels or
sweeping floors.
Because rebuilding a life starts in the small tasks no one
notices.

65
 Logging Every Dark Thought
Whenever a suicide or relapse thought hit, I noted the exact
time, what I was doing, and what set it off.
No more sweeping it under the rug—each note forced me to
face it head-on.

66
 Daily Gratitude Reflection
Every dawn I wrote three small things I still had—coffee,
clean sheets, a single friend’s name. Then I offered them back
in a quick prayer. It became the first stubborn spark of hope
each day.

67
 Five Actual Actions a Day
You asked for scenarios; I gave you reality. Each morning, I
picked five concrete things— “sit with someone new,” “clean
the courtyard bench,” “write a thank-you to my brother.” By
night, I’d checked them off or written why I couldn’t.

68
 Mapping If-Then Plans
I drafted mini scripts in my notebook:
“If I see a smoke break door, then I’ll text my mentor instead
of walking over”—and dozens more. Those if-then became
my autopilot when cravings blurred my vision.

69
 Translating My Own Symptoms
I broke down guilt, shame, and selfishness into one-line
definitions.
Then I wrote how each felt in my gut. Seeing them on paper
showed me they were separate from me—and therefore
defeatable.

70
 Self-Compassion Letters
Three times a week, I wrote letters to “that lost kid” I was
before rehab. I forgave him for his mistakes. I promised him
I wouldn’t abandon him again. That act of kindness toward
myself was a lifeline.

71
 Role-Playing Tough Conversations
I scripted dialogues with my mother, the ex, the dealers—
every tense phone call I feared. I rehearsed them on paper
until the words lost their power to scare me.

72
 Monthly Progress Reviews
At the end of each month, I re-read all my entries. I
highlighted the small wins—times I stayed calm, times I
reached out. It reminded me that progress is in the details, not
just the big milestones.

73
 Mapping My Cognitive Biases
I started tracking the ways my mind traps for me.
Social proof whispered, “Everyone’s doing it”—and I found
myself following the crowd, even when it led me nowhere
good.
Sunk-cost fallacy insisted, “You’ve already lost too much to
stop now”—pushing me deeper instead of letting me walk
away.
Reciprocity reminded me, “You owe them”—so I kept saying
yes, sharing moments I should have left behind.
For each bias, I noted a time when it nearly pulled me back
toward relapse—then how, in a rare moment of clarity, I saw
through the trick and chose another way.

74
 The Nine Pillars of Faith
I broke belief into nine components—honesty, intention,
humility, open-mindedness, surrender, acceptance,
responsibility, effort, compassion.
For each one, I journaled a concrete example of how I’d lived
it that day.

75
 Building My If–Then Scripts
Beyond the basics, I wrote twenty new “If X happens, then I
will Y” lines—for every craving trigger I could imagine.
I tested them in role-play with a mentor until saying them out
loud felt like muscle memory.

76
 Deep Dive into How and Why
I re-read the core text twice. After each chapter, I wrote a
page of takeaways—what felt true, what I’d ignored before,
where I needed to lean harder.

77
 Laying My Twelve-Month Plan
I scripted not just the wins, but the worst days—lapses of
motivation, family fights, anniversaries I’d dread.
Then I sketched strategies for each one—who I’d call, what
I’d write, which meetings I’d attend.
Completing a Full Moral Inventory
I listed every person I’d wronged, by name, and wrote a short
letter of apology—even if I never sent it.
I felt like fingerprinting my own mistakes, but I needed clarity.

78
 Cataloguing the Symptoms
I translated each clinical sign—denial, manipulation, isolation,
obsession—into how it felt in my body or mind.
That list became my early-warning system.

79
 Practicing Three Daily Gratitude
I committed to naming three small gifts—fresh air, clean
sheets, a single friend smile—every morning.
By week two, gratitude was the first habit I reached for, even
before the urge to use it.

80
 Writing Self-Compassion Letters
Twice a week I write a letter to “that scared kid” who used to
hide in bathrooms.
I forgave him for every mistake, promised to keep him safe,
and sealed each letter in my journal.

81
 Mapping My Support Network
I sketched out a chart of mentors, friends, family, sponsors—
who to call when I felt weak, when I felt strong, when I felt
nothing.
I even added backup contacts: therapists, online groups, and
emergency hotlines.

82
 Practicing Mindfulness Check-Ins
I set an alarm every two hours to pause, close my eyes, and
notice tension.
I wrote down “What am I feeling?”—no judgment, just facts.
These mini scans taught me to catch panicking before it
spiraled.

83
 Creative Expression Sessions
When words fail, I sketched my headspace—dark clouds,
spiked edges, closed doors.
I didn’t worry about talent. I just let color and shape map the
chaos. Seeing it on paper gave me distance from the urge.

84
 Tracking Nutrition & Mood
I logged every meal and snack, then rated my mood on a scale
of 1–10.
Noticed that skipping lunch meant cravings by 4 PM, and
sugar highs brought crashes.
These notes helped me choose food that steadied me, not sent
me spinning.

85
 Learning Breathing Techniques
I practiced box breathing three times a day—four counts in,
hold four, out four, hold four.
Each inhale felt like reclaiming space.
When my cravings roared, I returned to that four-second
circle until the storm passed.

86
 Volunteering Beyond Duty
I asked to help in the kitchen after hours, just to keep my
hands busy and ego low.
Peeling potatoes, stacking dishes—each small task reminded
me I could build something, even out of leftovers.

87
 Mentoring Newcomers
When a fresh face looked lost in group, I offered my
notebook and a simple “I get it.”
I didn’t give advice—they needed to find their own words—
but I handed them their presence when they had none.

88
 Clarifying Personal Values
I listed my top five values—honesty, responsibility, courage,
compassion, and growth.
Next to each, I wrote one recent action that lived it, and one
I needed to catch up on.
That list became my moral compass in grey moments.

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 Reciting Daily Affirmations
Each morning, I stood in front of the mirror and said, “I
deserve to heal,” “I can face today,” “I am more than my
past.”
Some days my voice shook. I kept going until it steadied.

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 Monitoring Urge Patterns
I recorded bedtime, wake time, sleepless hours—and noted
any cravings the next day.
Seeing the pattern—poor sleep equals stronger urges—
helped me guard my rest like a weapon.

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 Summarizing Extra Recovery Reads
I borrowed one extra self-help book a week,
wrote chapter summaries, and highlighted actionable tips.
That way I didn’t just read that I deployed new tools into my
daily plan.

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 Relapse-Prevention Poster
I turned my top five triggers and coping responses into a
poster on my door.
“Craving at 3 PM? Boxes breathe.”
“Monday blues? Call mentor.”
Seeing it first anchored me when my defenses lagged.

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 Resisting Impulse
I cut out images and words—family dinners, clear skies, my
face without shadows—and taped them above my desk.
Whenever doubt crept in, I looked up and remembered who
I’m fighting to become.

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 Personal Interventions
At dawn and again at dusk I scrawled a three-line prayer: “Let
me not use today,” “Let my words be honest,” “Let me act
with compassion.”
This ritual became my first real anchor, a promise I never
skipped even when it felt like nonsense.
Each evening, I laid out four moments when I felt like
running, isolating, or ending it. Besides each, I ticked off
which tool saved me—honesty, intention, acceptance,
humility, surrender, admitting powerlessness—so I could see
exactly where I still wobbled.
I kept a running log of every “breakfast in bed” episode,
naming denial, justification, shame, guilt, loss of control.
Labeling each symptom stripped away its power and broke
the spell that kept me hidden under the covers.
When I faced the despair module, I answered without soft-
pedaling: “I stole from my family,” “I lied to my mother,” “I
hit rock bottom when I knew my faith had turned against
me.”
Brutal honesty on paper became the bridge back to reality.
Every week I initialed the five core principles—honesty,
intention, open-mindedness, surrender, respect for
powerlessness—on a chart above my bed. Each set of initials
reminded me they were actions to live, not abstract ideas to
memorize.

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I wrote out all my secret rules— “Social media is off-limits,”
“My family will never understand”—then crossed them
through with truth: “I choose reality over hiding.” Watching
those lines slash through excuses felt like burning their power
away.
I built an hour-by-hour plan for each day: coffee and journal,
group, chores, prayer and lunch, reading, hallway walks,
dinner, evening reflection. Every slot got filled—when I
missed one, I wrote down why—so there were no blank
spaces for old habits to sneak in.
I named my seven inner demons—anger, revenge, isolation,
envy, justification, pride, decline—and wrote a line on how
each rose and what I did instead.
Those names became real-time red flags, warning me before
I slipped.
Every urge was tracked: time, place, trigger, intensity, my
chosen response.
Fifty-plus entries later, I held a detailed map of my
vulnerabilities and the exact guardrails that kept me safe.
I admitted, “I can’t do this alone,” reached out, and kept
living.
That raw confession became my lifeline.

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 The Hum of a Different Life
The day I left my last lockup at home, I promised myself:
never again. The silence that followed was heavy, but I
learned to let it settle. Stillness became a tool, not a threat.
From May 2021 to April 2024, I worked as a Bid Coordinator.
I managed over 60 million in accepted bids, with an 83%
acceptance rate. My desk was always stacked with RFPs, each
one a chance to prove I could build real value without slipping
back. The office felt foreign at first—my hands shook when
I hit "send." But I kept showing up. Each page of analysis,
every late-night strategy session, sharpened my focus and
brought me control I’d never had when I was using it.
Work didn’t numb the cravings. It just overshadowed them.
The adrenaline of a tough negotiation, the satisfaction of a
win, the pressure of a deadline—these became my anchors. I
traded pharmaceuticals for project milestones. I traded my
morning rituals for early calls and kickoff meetings.
In April 2024, I left for a new role as Bid Manager in the
commerce industry. The move wasn’t about status—it was
about knowing my worth. My previous company wanted me
to stay but couldn’t meet my expectations. After I left, they
stopped bidding. There was no budget, and no direction left.
The new role was a step up: bigger risks, higher stakes. I
managed bids with a 21% award rate. The pressure was
different, but I kept using the same habits I’d built in

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recovery—breaking every challenge into pieces, mapping
trigger responses, always tracking progress. Some days, I lived
and breathed RFPs. Early mornings were planning sessions.
Each proposal was a lifeline.
Then, in September 2024, I moved again—this time to a
company with real ambition. As Bid Manager, I helped them
grow fast. In less than a year, we moved from an SME to a
main-market player, winning over 300 million in contracts.
Across all deals, the average profit was 25%. I wasn’t just
filling a seat; I was helping steer the ship.
Rejection emails didn’t break me. I applied the same honesty
I learned in recovery: Where did we miss? What did we
ignore? Then I got back to work. Every “no” made me
sharper. Every “yes” reminded me what real accomplishment
felt like.
Meanwhile, cravings faded into the background. When
temptation crept in—especially after a big win—I reached for
healthier anchors: a debrief with a mentor, a team dinner, a
new challenge. My career stopped being a distraction. It
became the vessel that carried me forward.
Cutting ties with my old circle was hard. The people who
shared my highs became strangers. I quit all the old socials.
My connections now are built on deadlines, team meetings,
and recovery calls. In the making space, I finally found
directions.

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 A FAREWELL L ETTER TO D RUGS
Before Narcotics Anonymous, my life was about using and
getting more. After a few days in that fellowship,
I found peace—and now,
I am writing this final letter.
I will not waste any more time or money chasing fake
happiness.
Now, I want the real thing—no drugs attached.
Enough years lost; enough money spent—over a quarter of a
million gone.
I survived chaos and even prison.
I thank God for that.
What I’ve lost is enough.
I want a new life.
If drugs were a person, here is what I’d say:
I will not miss you.
You end here.
If I see you again, I will not say hello.
You are finished.

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