Today, I miss you.

Dear addiction,

I miss you. As I sit here and serenity prayer through another day of sobriety, I struggle to wrap my mind around why I can’t just visit with you one more time. Simultaneously, half measures echo through my head in all too familiar ways.

“I just need a little. I won’t overdue it.”

“Life is too hard. I just need some relief.”

“Perhaps I can manage and control my behavior now. I mean so many other people can. Why shouldn’t I be able to?”

These sentences skip down my worn out neurological pathways, inviting me to take the distress signals from my amygdala straight to my  mesolimbic system in my brain, which is ready to pour out an abundance of dopamine as soon as I give in to reconnecting with you.

Because let’s face it: you’ve been in my life more than anyone else has ever been.

When I was 10, you took my genuine curiosity and satisfied every last bit of it.

In middle school, heart break after heart break, fight after fight, you comforted me and accepted me every time without hesitance. Sure, the blissfulness you delivered would wear off, but you were always ready to swoop in again and shelter me from the pain.

In high school, as a I struggled to find myself and understand who I am, you gave me a foundation to ground myself in.

In college, all it’d take was one hangout with you, and the pressure from depression would alleviate. Coincidentally enough, the pressure would increase, but again, you were there to alleviate myself from it whenever I needed it. I always needed it.

Before recovery, I’d stop here. I’d allow these thoughts to overtake my thinking and say “That’s it. I’m coming back to you.” But today is a different.

Recovery reveals reality. And as I look back over the years, I see the real narrative.

When I was 10, you took my genuine, God given, curiosity and twisted it to your liking and my demise, filling it with insatiable lust and shameful inadequacy.

In middle school, you offered comfort from heartbreak, but all you did was fill the breaks with cement, hardening myself from any real love and connection, convincing me all I deserved was my abusive relationship with you.

In high school, your work was done. You convinced me all I could ever be was enslaved to you and that life intertwined with you was inevitable.

In college, the further I dove into your embrace, the more you crushed me. Every promise of comfort and escape you gave resulted in you going back on your word, breaking my spirit to live and dream that I’d ever be worthy of a healthy life. To leave you was too scary, because you convinced that to stay was my only choice.

Post college to the present, you’ve pretty much overturned my entire life.

Dear addiction,

I miss you. I surrender to the truth that there exist a piece of me that finds you enticing on days like today. Yet, in this surrender, exist a quiet moment that sparks a spirit that whispers to my soul.

“You are loved. My child you are home. Rest and be comforted.”

Today, I can turn from missing you and rest with someone that does fulfill their promises of comfort. As I look back throughout the years, in the midst of my embracing of you, there has been one who has remained faithful and in loving pursuit of me. My brokenness is no secret to him. My heart’s wandering affections don’t steer him away. While I was an addict and still continue to be a recovering addict, Jesus chooses to love me as a brother and likes me as a close friend. What is beautiful about Jesus is that the truth of who I am does not change with my ability to see the truth, understand the truth, or feel the truth. On days like today, when I feel there are two selves, the addict self and the real self, jockeying for control, Jesus’ loving demeanor towards me is unchanging. This is the love I always wanted. The love I was always too scared to receive. The love that will soften my heart and help me dare to dream again.

Dear addiction,

I miss you.

But I don’t have to go anywhere. I’m home.





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