This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue?
tossed away over cocaine, meeting their ends in jails, psychological institutions, and even death. I have seen the state of mind one develops over it – the obsession that occurs after several days of abstinence, where one conjures a way to find forty dollars for another gram; the phenomena of craving and the inability to control how much one uses; the powerlessness of controlling cocaine via self-will, saying “I’ll cut back, I can beat this by myself.” Even after my life was a vessel shipwrecked in the Atlantic, even after I hit the rocks and volcanoes, spewing fire like Aragon, of the cold, dark sea, I continued on, trying to swim back to sea level, as the water pulled and pushed the air out of my lungs. Close to death? I dare say so! But this night was different – this was my last night doing it – I swear, the last time! I had seen the full vengeful and shipwrecking come down, and I could nearly smell the air of freedom and hear the birds of tranquility chirping in a meadow bathed in balmy sunlight. “The more I see, the less I know, the more I’d like to let it go! Hey, oh!” Wise words sung by famous singer Anthony Kiedis, words that resonate in me and my sideways immorality like a broken bell rung by a church campanologist. I need, I want, I must let it go – let it go like grains of salt in the wind. That’s what it is to me: addictive granules of salt that had me hooked on the stimulating, mind and body
numbing effects it released in my system. Nothing is more powerful than a two-faced substance; something that heals the pain of screaming arguments with my parents, being thrown out to the streets by those who conceived me, all etched in my mind. But ironically and paradoxically, cocaine injects a greater, external trouble in the forms of a fruitless and feeble relationship with my parents and brothers, and being shunned by people I once was close with. With internal healing comes external pain. This external pain and struggle also comes in the form of common family and lawful conflict. The conflicts with family members and the law, as well as addiction in general, is something that takes years of recovering like a cancer patient who, at the beginning of his diagnosis, was doomed to die. I sat in my room, in the nearly-complete dark, except for a glowing head lamp illuminating a paining, unsatisfied, melancholy, and practically morbid face. Who was this young man whose face, which in his childhood was once bright, alive, and colorful, was the epitome of a downcast human being? What had I done with my life that I was that doleful and unhappy? “When will I know that I really can’t go/ to the well once more time to decide on? When it’s killing me, when will I really see/ All that I need to look inside?” I knew I couldn’t go to the well, the well of temporary healing I found in cocaine, not once more, or else face a death from overdose, the cold feeling of silver-colored handcuffs around my wrists, or the disability of moving my arms in a straightjacket. All the while, I thought these words: do I need a place where people, who hit rock bottom, go to gain knowledge of their disease and a solution to solve their problem? A place where people stay over-night and gain tools to cope and fight all the things triggering in their life? Indeed, I felt my feet touch the searing heat of the volcanoes at the bottom of the sea and the immediate impulse and reaction to
bounce up and try to salvage one last high before I quit for good. Only time would tell, but I had a gut-feeling that God, like my mother who gave birth to a beautiful son with one wish and hope in mind: that I would live an advantageous, successful ninety years of God-given life. And I knew, I knew by that time of that year of that month of that day and of that mind-opening come-down, that He had planned me to go there in the near future. Nonetheless, I was fearful. Scared of the unknown, of what might happen if I went to rehab. On top of that fear of my undecided future and fate, I was scared of losing old friends, who I grew to love and know; a fear far greater than any other. Will I be lonely if I desert my old habits and stride to a new way of life? Will I still bear the same melancholy, doleful expression in my face as I lay in and under a pile of self-pity and loneliness? Will these defects of my character hold me back from achieving my goals and dreams of being a business man of high-class and a large sum of cash, running and managing the finest, most intricate, and most visited hotel? But I will only discover the answers to these questions by giving this new way of spiritual life a chance. This was a time of great change in my life. A type of change that would alter the route of my life-long journey, that was at a fork in the road: Go left down the road into a dark forest, similar to the Forest of Mirkwood, or I could go right, through a legion of tall, oak trees and into a glade of dew-glazed, fresh-green grass. Go left down the road and I would have surely meet my end in handcuffs, a straightjacket, or a coffin. But I could go right, change my old ways, strip my face of its melancholy, morbid appearance, and place a new, true, brighter and more colorful look as I bathe in the balmy sun in Paradise, in the form of a meadow.