Bruised Fruit 15 - 16 January 2025

Moving on from anything—whether it’s active addiction, a job, or even a relationship—isn’t easy. It takes time. One hundred and sixty-eight days have passed since I overdosed. In the recovery world, while that’s just a drop in the bucket, each day somebody stays sober can be considered some type of miracle. Every sober day is a victory, no matter how small.

Separation changes everything. Whether from a person, a way of life, or reality itself, it redefines your world and reshapes who you are. There are so many paths in this life and choices—each one with the potential to lead us closer to or farther from the person we want to become.

Separating myself from addiction has been transformative. Who I was just under six months ago is far from who I am today. Back then, I was drowning in darkness, using drugs to numb the pain of living and to escape from problems that felt insurmountable. Today, I am stronger in many ways, and I am keenly aware of the dangers of using substances to hide from the world. The facade of comfort they offered came at a steep price: my peace, my relationships, my sense of self.

With time, distance grows. Lovers become strangers. The world you were once part of—that felt so consuming—becomes foreign. And the separation—both physical and emotional—leaves a mark. It’s not just a clean break; it’s messy and painful. It’s lonely and, frankly, just fucking sad. There are days when the ache of it all feels unbearable. But that pain has a strange beauty because it means I’m feeling again.

As time passes, the rituals and routines that once defined my life—the endless cycle of using, hiding, and surviving—feel more distant. The longer I stay clean, the harder it is to comprehend the crazy shit I put myself and others through. In just under six months, I’ve gained enough clarity to see how drugs devastated my life. And while the destruction is undeniable, I’ve come to understand it as a harsh teacher. The lessons are brutal, but they’re necessary to grow, find peace, and never make the same mistakes again.

The cravings still come. They creep in unexpectedly, like uninvited guests. But the separation has helped. It’s given me the space to reflect and to see myself more clearly—both the man I was and the man I’m becoming. Regret lingers; it doesn’t fade as quickly as I’d like. But regret, I’ve learned, can be a powerful motivator. Each day presents choices, and each choice comes with consequences. It’s a simple truth that I’d ignored for far too long.

Narcotics Anonymous says, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” Admitting to that insanity is a tough pill to swallow. But it’s the truth. I repeated the same destructive patterns over and over until I hit rock bottom. Only then did I begin to see the insanity for what it was.

Experiencing life by being present is a gift I no longer take for granted. I am deeply grateful that I survived, and I know I couldn’t have made it this far alone. It really did take a village to pull me back to solid ground. Friends, family, counselors, and strangers played a part in my recovery; I’ll always be thankful for that.

They say time heals all wounds, but I’m not sure I fully agree. Losing friends, partners, and parts of myself feels permanent. The damage is raw and will be for some time. But healing isn’t about erasing the past but learning to live with it. The Spanish-American philosopher George Santayana said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” So, while time may soften the edges of my pain, I’ll never forget the lessons it taught me. Remembering is part of the healing.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I know this: I’m moving forward, one day at a time. Each day is a chance to make better choices, to build a better life, and to continue the long and winding road of recovery. It’s not easy. It’s not perfect. But it’s worth it.