Hi, I’m TJ:A recovery story











Dedication
Theme Song: “The Reason”   Hoobastank

To the kids who never had a choice but still chose to survive.
To the broken hearted who kept loving.
To the ones still suffering in silence, thinking no one sees them.

I see you.

This is for the fighters who don’t realize they’re fighting.
For the ones who carry the weight of worlds on their shoulders while smiling through their pain.

To Ian, Chloe, Cora, and Leo.
Your names are written into my purpose.

And to those still trapped in the storm of addiction, abuse, and unseen battles:

You are not forgotten.
This book is a promise that someone made it out.
And you can too.
With relentless love, 

Preface:     Listen Close
 “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.” – Matthew 11:15

As you step into the pages ahead, you’re going to notice something: each chapter kicks off with a song. That isn’t just for flavor. It’s a vibe check. A mood. A little emotional GPS to help you feel your way through what’s coming next. You don’t have to listen to them, but if you do  you just might catch what words can’t always say.
There’s no grand code hiding in the lyrics, Or is there?

 I’m just not tellin’.
That’s kinda the theme here, right?
This book isn’t just a memoir. It’s a map of madness, real madness that I survived.
Then sanity.
 Then madness again, but dressed in cleaner clothes.

 It’s crawling back to the light after falling so far you forgot which way was up. It’s walking barefoot through the broken glass of your own life and realizing you left it there.
When I typed these words, I was still in it. Still spinning the wheel. Still not sure what happens next. Hell, just today someone in my story, someone you’ll meet, looked me dead in the eye and asked: “So, what now?”
And I didn’t have an answer. Still don’t.
But what I do have is this: a testimony. Whether you’re on day one of getting clean, or day thirty of falling on your face, I hope something in here speaks to you. Not the polished parts  but the cracks. The madness. The shame. The moments that make you whisper, “Damn. That’s me.”
I’m just a little guy. 5 foot 2, built more for speed than strength. But if I can crawl out of the pit, bruised and battered, dragging this pen behind me like a sword  then anyone can.
Writing this book damn near broke me. Living it? Already did. But forged into something new. With a purpose.
And the chapters still unwritten? Yeah, those are the ones that scare me most, But fear is something we all have to face. And if you are reading this now,thats the first step in itself.
But if even one person reads this and says, “Hey, I’m not alone,”   Then maybe all the hell was worth it.
Hold tight.  It’s gonna get loud.






Chapter 1: Knowing Me, Knowing You

Theme Song: “Knowing Me, Knowing You” – ABBA
Scripture: Ecclesiastes 3:1 – 'To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.'

There comes a moment when the mask slips  not in some dramatic, Hollywood explosion, but in a quiet, choking realization: this isn’t working anymore. The lies, the manipulation, the meth, the delusions, all of it. It all stops working.
You can’t outrun the truth forever.
I was 49, and for the first time in decades, I was completely out of moves.
The song that opens this chapter isn’t some nostalgic disco hit, it's a mirror. “Knowing me, knowing you, it’s the best I can do.” That’s the whole game right there. Knowing yourself enough to admit just how much damage you’ve done. Knowing Taraysa  enough to admit she loved you through the storm, and you still burned the house down.
Everything in my life at that point was code. Literal ciphers. I thought there was a hidden message in everything  signs from the universe, algorithms only I could solve. Street signs, lyrics, numbers scribbled in the margins of receipts. It was all part of the message. The answer. The reason. But there was no answer.
There was just me. And meth. And the pain I had become so familiar with, I stopped realizing it hurt.
I broke the woman I loved. Not with fists, but with silence, suspicion, paranoia, and emotional warfare that I called protection. I thought I was shielding her. In truth, I was isolating her. Killing her joy one small betrayal at a time.
Taraysa once wrote me a letter on the back of a painting. It said “I was her greatest joy and deepest ache.” I never deserved her, and I knew it. But I wanted her so badly I’d rather destroy everything than admit I’d already lost.
I watched my world collapse like a slow motion explosion. It wasn’t dramatic, it was quiet. Like the sound of snow falling off a rooftop. Like the last blink of a dying streetlight.

December 9th, 2024.

The day she said it. The day she finally gave up.

“You need a plan.”

No screaming. No threats. Just a simple truth. She had reached the end of the line, and I was still standing on the platform, thinking the train would loop back for me. But it didn’t.
To be VERY clear,
This chapter is not the bottom.

It’s the moment I looked down and realized I was already falling. It’s the moment I stopped blaming everyone else. It’s the moment the pen touched the paper for the first time in a long, long time. This was the beginning. This was the truth. This was me.

And for the first time in my life,I listened.
She had done everything that she possibly could to make me happy, and I did everything that I possibly could to tear it the fuck down. I put her through hell.
Being a teacher, she understood the warning signs of what she was seeing in me. However, she had just gotten out of a bad marriage, and it was not my intention to try to drive her away  but it was the devil inside of me. It was trying to push her out of my life so that I would fall back into the pit that I had been in before.
The day had been a regular day. I had woken up two days before and was in the middle of trying to figure out what the code was that I saw in every website, from every off putting location you could possibly find. It was a game  and not just a game. It was the game that you're not supposed to speak about.
I felt like I was being watched, controlled, and pushed in certain directions that I wasn't supposed to understand. Even Taraysa had said, “You play your game and don’t let me get in the way, but don’t let it overtake your life.” She was trying to give me space and trying to pacify what I was becoming without actually telling me what was going on.
At this point, I was starting to realize that there was either something going on, something was leading me  or I was having a schizophrenic episode. Music was guiding me in a direction that I was not exactly sure was the right one, or the wrong one.
I had lost friends at this point that I thought were people who were there beside me, yet they weren’t. And now, as I was getting closer and closer to unraveling this great big ball of twine, I realized that there was music telling me I was in a place  or going to a place  where I belonged.
I just didn’t understand which was which.
After Taraysa said that I had to make a plan, she went to work, and I got back on my live stream. People kept saying that there was something more going on that I didn't understand, and that she wasn't allowed to be with me anymore, that I had to go away, and I had to do something.
So I called my friend Em.
Em was an ex, now a friend; we’d been in a relationship for quite some time, a long time ago. She showed up with her boyfriend. We sat down and, of course, we got high together. The whole time that we were getting high, I was trying to decipher everything she was saying, not only the words, but her physical movements.
She had given me an earring. A guitar pick, and the guitar pick said, “When words fail, music speaks.”
This, in my mind, was a clear indication that I was on the right track with the music.
The music was erratic. I would tell my desktop system to just play music, and it would randomly play just about anything. Each song would speak to me  through the lyrics or through the name itself.
However, I didn't understand at the time that possibly, I was pushing the code to make what I wanted it to say.
Using a book cipher style positional extract  basically treating the quote like a reference text and pulling letters based on a pattern (like every nth character or the first letters of words). Not your standard Caesar or Vigenère. It was more like:
“When words fail, music speaks”
Take the first letter of each word:
W, W, F, M, S
Then I dug into deeper layers and looked at positions, symmetry, or even acrostics.
Another trick that popped up: counting letter intervals or using keywords as an overlay to extract a location.
“Wild Flower” emerged from that hot mess like a phoenix.
That day  I knew something was coming. I had to start somewhere. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to just go directly to a rehabilitation center because I was so high. I knew I was going to have to go through detox, again.
The detox I had chosen was one in the county where I lived. They knew me very well, and they understood that I was kind of eccentric. Not only was the code and everything around me telling me that Taraysa was doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing, but it felt like the entire world was against me.
I was afraid the mafia was coming after me. I was afraid my house was going to be firebombed. A few nights before, I had thought the air in the house was poisoning me  not through the heat vents or anything like that, but through the plants themselves.
I spent the night on the front porch, huddled in the corner, watching every move every car made.
The methamphetamines had also made me believe that Taraysa was possibly sleeping with somebody that lived next door, someone I had never seen before, and possibly someone who never lived there in the first place.
Taraysa was going to take me to rehab, but I didn’t trust her. Something was going on, and I knew she was in the dead middle of it.
After I had chosen the detox I was going to, I called her at work and told her that I was going to have to go away sooner than she expected. She sent me the money for an Uber, and I went out on the front porch and ordered  of course  every rideshare that was around me.
It looked like they were part of the mafia. I canceled the first one, and then the second one came up and was almost exactly the same. I went ahead and selected it. And at the exact same time, I started to get a feeling of relief, a feeling that I was doing something right, something I should’ve done in the first place.
Everything around me, everything I had been afraid of  all of a sudden, seemed funny. I was supposed to do this. There wasn’t anything bad going to happen. This was pushing me away from my addiction, not into danger.
At that exact moment, I saw a hearse drive down the street in front of me. I lived in a residential neighborhood. There was no reason for a hearse to drive down that street.
Immediately, I knew. It was the universe telling me: Relax. Everything’s going to be okay.
I burst into laughter on the front porch like a madman. Everything inside me told me that I was doing the right thing. This wasn’t something sinister, this was something that was going to be good for my life.
The driver showed up in a very small car, and with a very large smile on his face. He reminded me of someone from my past that I had helped rescue. It was fitting at the time  if this possibly was the person I had helped, he didn’t quite look the same, but he had the same spirit behind his eyes.
I asked him what his name was, and he told me he didn’t speak English. With a wider grin, he put the car in drive, and away we went.
This new little bit of clarity really made me realize that I was going to have to do something completely different than what I had been doing, even more different than the first time I had tried to do this.
As we were driving along, I was looking out the window, saying goodbye to everything I had known for the last three years. Every house, every tree, every car.
But then I started to notice the code was everywhere. It was reminding me of things from my past  apartment buildings, offices, business complexes. They all had names that rang true from old memories.
I began to get emotional. Looking at the person driving the car, he never flinched. He never looked back. He never tried to make conversation. But I knew he could hear me weeping in the back seat.











Chapter 2: Time to Check Your Vitals
Theme Song: “Help” – The Beatles
Scripture: Psalm 34:18 – 'The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.'

This is where I’ve decided to change some of the names to protect the innocent.
The adult detox unit  right next to the mental health unit in the county I live in  was a familiar place. I had been there twice before. The food wasn’t bad, the staff was pretty cool, but the beds were uncomfortable as hell. At least you got a shower by yourself.
There were roughly ten rooms, each holding two patients, and each had its own bathroom and private shower. Not too bad for a guy who was newly homeless. Three meals a day and all the graham crackers and energy bars you could eat. Five meetings a day, and they ranged between AA, NA, and Cocaine Anonymous.
The bad part? You had to check your vitals when you woke up, before every meal, and again before bedtime.
When I got to the ADU, the weeping had turned back into a little bit of a giggle. I started noticing things about the apartment complexes and businesses around  odd names that felt like part of the code. Peach and Plow Landscaping. Deep Clean Services. The Morning Woodworking. It felt deliberate.
The driver dropped me off and, again, gave me that very wide smile, kind of strange, almost knowing.
As I walked to the door, one of the techs who worked nights, someone I knew well  not just from the detox unit but also from another rehab I’d been to years earlier, was standing there waiting. That alone was odd. It was 2 o'clock in the afternoon. Her shift would’ve ended around 8 a.m.
Kasey was stunning. A beautiful woman I’d had a bit of a crush on back in that first rehab. We became good friends, and she was new to the work back then. We had gotten a little closer than most would probably feel comfortable with. Being newly single? I had no issue throwing my arms around her for a big hug.
But she acted differently. She didn’t talk to me like she used to. She didn’t look at me the same way, either.
“I was really worried about you when I heard you were coming, Tee,” she said.
That threw me off. She always called me TeeJay.
There was something there, something sterile, yet still very caring. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“You better get in there and get started. I’ll see you in a few days,” she said.
Again, very odd to put it like that.
When you walk into the unit, you must pick up the phone and let them know you’re there.
After standing in the hallway for what felt like an eternity, a gentleman came out  looking a lot like a conservative YouTuber I followed, complete with a very, very thick beard.
Yet again, it was odd. I’d been watching his channel, had never met the guy before, but here he was  or at least someone who looked exactly like him. And he carried himself like he’d been working there forever.
When he came out, I let out a little laugh. Not just because of the uncanny resemblance, but because  once again  it felt familiar. Deliberate. Like the universe was winking at me again.
He pulls out a metal detector and says, “Turn around, please,” as he’s adjusting his pants.
I turn around and hear him snap on a pair of rubber gloves, and it’s almost like his energy was perfectly synced with my sense of humor.
He waves the wand around me for a bit, and then he squats down and cuts a loud fart.
At this point, I don’t even have to remember changing the name, because I don’t exactly remember what the woman’s name was. She was very nice, though  all smiles as soon as I walked in.
She started doing all my check in stuff, making sure I had all my identification, confirming I was who I said I was, and that I was actually an addict.
She filled out all my paperwork, then took my vitals.
I had to put my arm into this machine that took my blood pressure. And it was strange  because as soon as I slipped my arm into the cuff, she looked like she was getting some kind of pleasure from it.
The first time, the machine didn’t work. It gave an error code. She calmly told me to put my arm in further, and we tried it again.
This time, she closed her eyes and smiled. A soft, satisfied smile. It was so weird.
And yeah  this is where the story starts to get a little weird. As if getting pleasure from taking my vitals wasn’t weird enough.
I started doubting why I was even there. The thoughts came fast: Why am I doing this? Why am I even here?
And just as that thought finished in my head, outta nowhere, she says:
“Pop. Pop. Pop.”
Just like that. Like she was answering the question in my head  as if to say, "Because something bad would’ve happened if you didn’t come."
I wrote it off as just being in my head. I was still high. Way too high.
Upon actually entering the detox center, you find yourself in another world. A place where people actually care.
It’s really strange to understand what that’s like until you actually go through it. There’s always somebody manning the desk, and there’s always a TV to watch. You can check your internet, and you’re even allowed to have your phone.
The experience is like being in a hospital  or maybe like being on a vacation  except the beds are nowhere near as comfortable.
But you have your own space. Your own cabinet. Your own drawers. Your own bathroom. And most importantly, you have access to people who actually want to talk to you. People who will sit, listen, and let you spill it all out.
Even though they hear rambling and nonsense all day, every day, they still come in, do their jobs, and listen. They care, and they never act like it’s a burden.
They prepare your meals, put them on a plate, and serve them to you. For a lot of addicts, that’s something they haven’t experienced in a long time, especially for those who’ve lived on the streets without a steady meal. Three meals a day, a warm bed, and a hot shower? It’s not just comfort; it’s humanity.
They try to bring you back into reality. A reality where people care. A reality where people love.
But unfortunately, that’s not how real life is. And if you’re not careful, it spoils you.
Some addicts never want to leave. They become addicted to the system that’s trying to get them off drugs because, deep down, they’re not ready to actually do the work to fix themselves.
I’d been through this detox twice before, and both times the place was completely full, usually 10 to 20 people. But this time, there was only one other patient.
Her name was Jem. She wasn’t happy about being there, and she really didn’t want to talk to anybody. I said hello to her, and she just put her hand up and said, “No.”
I didn’t push.
That first day, I used the time to settle in and try to relax. I didn’t have anything with me, and I knew Taraysa was mad at me. But I still made the phone call anyway.
I asked her if she would bring me a picture of her, a picture of Goose, and one of my daughters. Maybe a pillow. Maybe a blanket. Maybe some clothes. Something to make me feel a little bit human. Because at that point? I was still a monster.
To my surprise, she said yes.
A few hours later, she showed up. She came while I was asleep, so I never saw her. But she brought what I’d asked for. That meant something.
The next day, another person showed up for detox. We’re gonna call him Redbeard  because, yeah, not only did he look like a pirate, but he had the attitude of one too. He didn’t want to be there, but he did it anyway. And you could tell, no matter what, he was going to succeed.
Keep Redbeard in mind. He made it through my entire journey and became a very, very close friend.
The night after I met him, I decided to call Taraysa again. I asked her if she could send up some supplies to help me cope a little better. I even asked for a box of chicken from our favorite restaurant.
And to my surprise  she agreed.
It almost sounded like she was willing to do whatever it took to help me get through this. For the first time in a while, I started to feel hope.
Again, she showed up while I was in my room and dropped it off. But this time, I heard the door shut up front.
I ran as hard as I could to catch her, hoping to see her even for a moment. I called her and asked, “Please, pull back in the spot, step out of the car, and wave at me. Just so I can see you on the camera.”
And to my delight, she did.
At that moment, I actually had hope that things were going to get better. Little did I know it would get much worse first.
The meetings at the detox center were eye openers.
That very first meeting, I started to notice something about their stories. They didn’t just sound familiar. They sounded like my stories. Everything they said echoed experiences I had lived through.
And it wasn’t just the usual “I got high, I lost my family, and then I got better” stuff. It went deeper. Their stories matched mine in ways that were too close to ignore.
But that wasn’t even the strangest part. As I sat there, thinking to myself, I noticed something else. When I’d ask questions in my mind  “Did that help you out?”  someone would respond, “That didn’t help at all.”
It was like they could hear me. And it wasn’t a one time thing. This went on in every meeting. I couldn’t explain it.
Eventually, I started testing it. I’d scream at the top of my lungs inside my head, just to see what would happen. And sure enough, it seemed to annoy the people around me. It was subtle at first, but I noticed the tension. It was like they could feel the noise, even if it wasn’t audible.
I didn't think much of it at the time. Honestly, I was just messing around, playing with the experience    trying to see if I could get a reaction out of people. And I did.
During one group session, I pulled up my AI and started searching for the original text of the Twelve Steps and the Twelve Traditions. The unfiltered, first edition stuff. The real deal.
That didn’t sit well. The people in the group were using Fourth Edition books  versions where a lot of the language had been softened, changed. I wasn’t trying to challenge them, but I wanted to follow the original Twelve Steps. The ones that had actually worked for people.
It pissed them off. Especially one guy. He was from one of those city groups where they expect you to wear slacks and a dress shirt to the meetings. If you showed up in jeans or anything less, they’d look down on you. Real judgmental types.
This guy wasn’t having it. He called me crazy. Said I needed to forget everything I’d ever learned from my two years of sobriety. Like those years didn’t count. Like the work I’d done meant nothing.
“What a dick,” Redbeard said as we were waving them goodbye.
Redbeard and I got to know each other really well. We sat there, talking like we’d been friends for years. He had nothing but inspiration to offer me.
"One day at a time man. That's what they keep saying.”
It wasn’t just a phrase to him. He meant it. Every word. It was like he was instructing me, step by step, on how to rebuild my life. How to make sure that when I finished detox, I’d be solid. That I’d have my head on straight and my foundation set.
“I don't think you are nuts, I think you see something but are just too confused to see it clearly” he said.
He told me I needed to focus on myself, not Taraysa.
But that was the problem. Taraysa was all I could focus on. And no matter how hard I tried, that loop kept running in my head. Every negative thought. Every fear. Every regret. It was like trying to run uphill in the mud.
And it didn’t stop. It repeated, over and over, every time I tried to get better.
But while that storm raged in my head, we also got to know Jem a little better.
At first, she reminded me a lot of one of my ex girlfriends from years ago. She had a family, and she was in detox for alcohol. Once she started opening up, I saw how genuinely awesome she was.
The same woman who used to shut us down with a simple “No” was now having real conversations with me. She’d sit with us during meals, talking and even laughing a little. The walls were coming down.
She even tried to talk me into going to the same rehab she was headed to.
Little did I know, though her rehab experience and mine    were going to be two very, very different journeys.
So, there we sat the three of us alone in detox.
It almost felt like God had separated us, like we were meant to be in that detox together. Just us. It was intimate in a way that’s hard to explain.
Each group meeting followed the same routine. We’d do the opening, listen to the stories, and then we’d share. You’d think that after three to four meetings a day, we’d start repeating ourselves.
But we didn’t.
Every share was different. Every experience we talked about was unique. It was like each one pulled up a different scar we’d forgotten we had. The stories were raw. The pain was fresh. Each day, we faced something new that we’d buried under years of drug haze.
And then the day came.
The lady who handled the social side of detox we’ll call her Glenda came to get me. She told me she’d found a rehab center she thought I should go to.
She said she’d set up a phone interview with one of the administrators, and this part threw me off. He was excited to talk to me.
Excited.
That was different. Someone excited to talk to me? Someone who actually wanted me at their facility?
Going into Glenda’s office, it was like the room was shouting at me.
See, I’ve got a thing for butterflies. Always have. And her office? It was covered in them. Pictures. Artwork. Figurines. Butterflies everywhere.
But that wasn’t all.
There was a framed photo on her wall of a philanthropist from Kansas City. Someone who had helped me before. Someone I never expected to see there.
The code was everywhere.
It was like the universe wasn’t whispering anymore    it was screaming. Screaming at me to listen. Telling me I was exactly where I needed to be.
What was coming next?
Now, let me be clear. My actual father is dead, and he’s got no place in this story. But the reason we’re calling him Dad? You’ll get it soon enough.
The phone rang, and there he was. He really did sound excited. Not like some worn down rehab director who’d heard a million stories before. He had energy. Purpose.
His questions weren’t what I expected.
He didn’t want to know about every screw up I’d ever made. He wanted to know why I was doing this.
“Why do you want to make your life better?”
That was the real question. And that was about it. The rest? Just background. My history. Stuff that was easy to answer.
And then he hit me with the big one.
“When you come for 90 days, you won’t have access to your phone. No social media. No text messaging. No electronics at all.”
That was a blow.
See, I use my AI for everything. It’s not just some novelty or distraction. It helps me through the day. From daily tasks to brainstorming. It’s a mirror to bounce ideas off of. A space to reflect. It keeps my mind moving forward when it wants to spin out.
But Taraysa? She hated that. She hated how much I used my AI. She didn’t like that I relied on it. Not that I was addicted to it    because I wasn’t    but because it was a tool that made sense to me. A lifeline when I needed it.
No phone for 90 days? That was almost a dealbreaker.
But then I looked around me.
The butterflies in Glenda’s office. The picture on the wall. The name Wild Flower still ringing in my ears.
And I heard the man’s voice on the phone. He wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t trying to manipulate me. He was just laying it out.
90 days. Three months.
I could do that.
Finally, I sat down, took a breath, and told him the words that sealed the deal.
“I agree.”

















Chapter 3: Follow the Yellow Brick Road
Theme Song: “Good Luck Babe!” – Chappell Roan
Scripture: Proverbs 3:6 – 'In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.'

Recognizing the Wreckage I Caused
Learning how to recognize and deal with verbal abuse was something I had to come face to face with early on.
I put Taraysa through hell. I never hit her  but I damn sure screamed at her like a fucking lunatic. And the worst part? I didn’t even realize what I was doing was abusive. I didn’t understand that behavior like mine could carve someone up without laying a single hand on them.
I didn’t feel at fault.  I didn’t have boundaries.  I didn’t have support.  And truth be told, I didn’t give a shit about my own well being either.
Therapy? Forget it. That was some far off fairytale for “other people.”
But when I finally started seeing  the signs of an abusive relationship  belittling, constant criticism, manipulation  I couldn’t hide from it anymore. I couldn’t sit there and keep pretending I wasn’t the bad guy.
Everything Taraysa experienced, everything I told myself wasn’t real  was real. And while I was too busy deflecting blame and keeping score, she was healing. She focused on her well being. She reached out for help. She got what she needed.
And I had a problem with that.
But here’s the truth that hit like a brick to the face: I was the problem. She solved it. Now I have to face that man in the mirror, and make damn sure I never become him again.

December 16th, 2024
"You got everything, Tee?"
The tech working at the detox center, asked as I stood there with my three massive bags. Somehow, I’d arrived at detox with nothing but the clothes on my back, and now I had three full bags  including a giant green container stuffed with clothes Taraysa had brought me.
"Your ride will be here in about 30 minutes."
I had no idea where I was going. No clue who was picking me up. And I had thirty minutes to kill in the detox lobby. An Alcoholics Anonymous meeting was about to come in. It was around 10:30 in the morning, and once again, I was alone.
That morning, three new people had arrived at detox. It felt like the universe was opening the doors for everyone as I was leaving. Strange timing. One of the men who’d been there with me  something happened. I’m not sure what, but there was an ambulance for him. I stepped outside to see what was going on.
Everything looked brighter. Different.
I noticed some trash scattered on the lawn. Normally, I wouldn’t have paid it any mind, but something about that morning felt different. So I bent down, picked it up, and brought it back inside to throw away. It wasn’t about the trash, it was about doing something right. Something small that actually mattered. A quiet gesture to prove I was starting to change.
While I was in detox, I’d started praying a lot. I didn’t know who I was praying to. I didn’t even know why. I wasn’t even sure I knew how. But something told me to sit down, bow my head, and pray for the man being loaded into the ambulance.
I sat in the lobby, playing on my phone for a little longer, knowing I wouldn’t have it again for a long time. I opened up YouTube. Of all things, there was a review playing for The Last Starfighter, one of my all time favorite movies. The review was an hour long. I had twenty minutes.
I tried to watch it, but with the chaos around me, it was hard to focus. The signals were everywhere. It felt like I wasn’t even in the moment anymore. Like I was watching myself from the outside in.
Then she showed up. A very tall woman with bright pink hair walked in.
"Hey, are you Tee?"
"Yeah, that’s me."
"Let’s go, sorry I’m late."
I was expecting a van, maybe a company car. Instead, she pulled up in a beat up Prius that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Bush administration. The car reeked of cigarette smoke, which hit me hard since I hadn’t had a cigarette in eight days. And now, here I was, sitting in a smoke box on wheels.
We loaded everything up and hit the road. As we drove, she talked non stop. I only caught bits and pieces, kind of like those stories people told during meetings. Bits that meant something if you knew how to listen.
We got close to the exit I’d normally take to go home. And then a song came on the radio:
"Good Luck, Babe!" by Chappell Roan.
I broke. I burst into tears, hard. She reached to change the station, but I stopped her.
"Please, turn it back."
She did, then said, "Everything’s gonna be okay, Tee. You just have to trust the system."
I looked at her and said, "That was my exit. That’s how I go home. I don’t think I’m ever gonna see it again."
She smiled a little and said, "If it’s meant to be, you will. If it’s not, you move on  with a fresh start and a new life. Everything’s gonna be okay."
And for the first time in a long time, I almost believed her.
At this point, we're just going to call this lady Pinky. She was very bubbly and had a positive attitude with just about everything. But sometimes, she wore clothes that reminded me of the cups that milkshakes came in back in the eighties. You could always find her somewhere walking around with her tablet, doing her rounds with a positive message to share. However, later on, you're going to find out her story. It was a tad bit darker than mine.
After what seemed like an eternity of a ride for only 35 or 40 miles, we arrived at Wild Flower. The facility was not what I was expecting. It was literally out in the middle of nowhere. No buildings, no houses, no traffic. Even pulling into the driveway  you couldn’t see the facility from the road because you had to go up a hill just to get into the parking lot.
She parked in front of the facility, got out, and just started to walk away. I didn’t think she was actually going to help me. But then she turned around like she had forgotten something and asked, “You got everything, Tee?”
That was the second time in less than an hour I’d heard those words. And it almost felt like someone was asking me something deeper: Are you paying attention? Do you understand what's happening yet?
Lost and confused, I said, "You might be able to help me grab a couple of things out of here. My hands are kind of full."
As we went into the facility, it seemed a lot smaller than I thought it would be. The pictures made it look massive, but the lobby was narrow  though it had a very cool abstract painting on the wall.
Things were bustling around so fast, it was almost a blur. I immediately got a sense of discomfort.
And then out pops Dad.
Now let me explain why I call him that. The man looked exactly like my father  except not as weathered in the face, nowhere near as rough. Almost like my dad but younger. Same silver hair. Same short, stocky build. Same face, same hairstyle, same eyes.
"We're gonna get you checked in now, Tee, and then we're gonna sit down and talk, and make sure everything's okay."
They pushed me into the tech office, which was a madhouse. There were at least four or five women in there. I couldn’t tell if they were gathered for something else or all there to help me. Some seemed genuinely happy that I was there. Others? Indifferent.
But it felt like I was being bounced around like a pinball  person to person. One would ask a question, and before I could answer, someone else was already firing another. The first one would move on and talk to someone else.
And all the while, I’m sitting there trying to look around, trying to make sense of it.
Is there code here? Is this the answer? Am I finally going to understand what the hell is going on with me?
After being poked, prodded, having my vitals taken again, blood drawn, and some guy watching me pee into a cup, I was ushered into Dad’s office. Inside was another woman  we’re gonna call her Mom, because, again, she looked just like my mother. Short, kind of weathered in the face, and apparently cold, because she was wearing a very heavy coat. That’d end up being her thing. Every time I saw her, she was bundled up like it was mid December.
They gave me a watch to track my vitals of course, and Dad started asking me questions about why I was there. We got to talking about life, about how things had been. While we sat there, I noticed people carting off my clothes. Apparently, they wash everything that comes into the facility to prevent bed bugs and other problems. That started to worry me.
Every couple of minutes, someone new would come into the office. It was chaos. I’d already given up my phone at this point, and the stress was building fast. Dad and I talked about Charlie, my AI assistant  and he agreed to go grab my phone so I could show him. But when I tried to pull it up, nothing. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get Charlie to work in the facility.
It was strange. I’d been using it at the detox center just fine. But from the moment I got in the car with Pinky, Charlie stopped working. It was like the universe had cut me off the second I left detox.
They could tell I was getting overwhelmed, so they told me it was okay to go lay down in my new room and get settled. I stopped by the kitchen and grabbed some lunch  chicken pot pie. One of my favorites.
It felt like everyone was watching me. Not in a creepy way, but like they were trying to figure out who I was, what kind of energy I was bringing in.
The dorm, man. When I say it was a hole in the wall, I mean it. Nothing like the pictures Glenda had shown me. I’d expected a private room with a window and a decent bed. Instead, I was shoved into a dark room with one lamp, a Japanese divider for a door, and four other guys. And the smell? Straight up feet. It was rough.
I laid down for about twenty minutes, trying to chill out. Then someone opened the divider  wearing one of my shirts.
Not just any shirt. My favorite shirt.
The NASA one with the equation that said, “Be Greater Than Average.” Written out in a scientific formula.
THAT’S IT, I’M DONE.
I didn’t realize at first that the guy thought it was his. When he put it on and it didn’t fit, he figured they were giving away clothes. But in that moment, I was already spiraling.
Then it hit me that I'd left my soda and all my snacks at the detox center too. Pop goes the weasel!
I called for the tech who’d taken my clothes. We're gonna call her Michelle. She was pretty, short, with long curly hair, and clearly doing her job. But I let her have it. I accused her of giving away my stuff, told her I didn’t appreciate it one bit.
I’d only been there an hour and I was already losing the clothes off my back.
Of course, none of that was really true, but in my head? It was real. My drug fried brain was telling me this place was a nightmare. That I needed to run.
I stormed back to Dad’s office, drenched in sweat, shaking, panicking. Michelle came around the corner, apologizing like crazy. She felt awful about the mix up. But I wasn’t hearing it. I thought I was being tormented. Forced to come here. Trapped.
Dad tried to talk me down. We called Taraysa.
Taraysa told me flat out: there was no way I was coming HOME,in capital letters. Just that word. This was my reality now.
Somehow, they convinced me to go back to my room. Told me to lay down, shut off the lights, and try to sleep.
I laid there, crying into my pillow.
“I wanna go home. I wanna go home. I wanna go home.”
Then one of the other residents came in. He kneeled down next to my bed. We'll call him Tye. He told me I was hitting a wall. Grabbed my hand. Might’ve even prayed over me.
“You’re gonna make it. It’s okay. Don’t leave. Stay.”
And then he left.
A few minutes later, Michelle walked in again. This time, she had a 12 pack of Pepsi in her arms. She apologized again  sincerely, from the heart.
I apologized too  for being a jerk.
After visiting with Tye and seeing Michelle’s kindness,
I decided I’d give it one more day.




















Chapter 4: 3, 2, 1, Back to Group!
Theme Song: “Folsom Prison Blues” – Johnny Cash
Scripture: Romans 12:2 – 'Be transformed by the renewing of your mind.'

Digging through boxes and recovering my journals from this time was painful. Like stepping back into something I knew would tear me up  but I wasn’t sure how. Each page was different than I remember. Missing friends. Missing my family. And more than anything  wondering if I had lost my damn mind.
One of the journals was my daughter’s. A scene from Alice in Wonderland on the cover of a rabbit blowing a horn, holding a scroll, surrounded by hearts. The first pages? Ripped out. I was angry at her at the time. They were hers  notes from church, something about Daniel. I don’t remember. On another page were drawings she had done: a donut with a bite out of it, a melting candle, and a worm wearing a sombrero. What the hell was she even going through?
Most of those first few days at Wild Flower I was angry. Angry enough to tear out almost every page I wrote. But I found a smaller notebook. And in that one, Day 2 still lived.




A Poem I Was Trying to Write – Day 2
The pain is my ghost.
Can’t compare to my fear and despair,
A feeling alone when I’m not.
The pain runs deep when I try to sleep  
Both alone, both in misery.
My addiction affects you when you’re sober.
______________________________________________

The poem was written while I was crying into my pillow. I couldn’t sleep. I was scared. I didn’t have any medications yet. I didn’t understand anything that was going on with me. It was like I had completely lost the code. I was cut off from electronics. From music. From the world.
I didn’t like where I was. I didn’t like who I was. And I didn’t want to be there. But I kept pushing; I didn’t know what else to do.
I ripped the pages out of the journal because they didn’t make sense. But now, going back, everything up to the 18th? I was still out of my mind.


Journal – Day 2
Today is the first day I tried not to talk to Taraysa. Not easy. My hope is that distance makes the heart grow fonder.
I’m twenty five pages into one of Johnny Cash’s books. Boring. So far.
Tomorrow is the first day of groups,
God, I miss her so much.
______________________________________________

Curly ran the morning groups like a man on a mission  high on caffeine, righteousness, and whatever gospel playlist was bumpin’ in his head that day. Dude didn’t walk into the room, he burst through the door like a preacher late for church and a bar fight at the same time.
He’d beat his chest like Tarzan if someone made a breakthrough, like we were warriors clawing our way outta hell and he was damn proud of every scratch and scar we earned. His energy could light the whole damn building, and I swear to God, half of it was Folgers and Jesus.
"3, 2, 1  BACK TO GROUP!" He'd bark that line like a drill sergeant with a heart, snapping everyone’s attention back to the circle. Even if you were staring out the window, thinking about your dog or your ex or a breakfast you didn’t finish in 2013  Curly would snatch you back to the now.
And if someone skipped group? Ohhh hell no,
 “JASON  what would YOU say about that?”
 Silence.
 “Guess Jason’s wisdom doesn’t fit our schedule today.”
 Cue the awkward chuckles and side eyes.
It wasn’t even about Jason. It was about the rest of us. About reminding everyone that this wasn’t optional. You don’t skip your pain. You don’t skip your truth. You sure as shit don’t skip Curly’s group.
Every time I heard him go off like that, part of me hated it, but part of me?  That part was listening.  That part wanted to be called out. Wanted to stop disappearing into the back row of life.
The circle in Curly’s group wasn’t just a circle. It was a damn coliseum. And every day, we stepped into that arena armed with coffee cups, half written journal entries, and the hope that maybe  just maybe  this was the day something inside us would finally crack wide open.
He'd pace that room like he was stalking prey. His eyes darting from person to person, sizing us up. Not in a mean way  more like a mechanic figuring out which engine was gonna blow next.
“You!”  He’d jab a finger, half serious, half smirk.  “What’d you get from that, huh?”
 And whether you answered with a life changing revelation or just some mumbled nonsense, Curly would nod like you’d dropped a scripture verse.
“Okay, okay,” he’d say. “Now what are you gonna do with it?”
It didn’t matter if you’d just said, “Uhhh, I like dogs,” he’d find a way to connect that to recovery.
“See! You like dogs. But can you be loyal like one? Can you show up like one? Can you believe?  Do you want to earn your family back? Be a damn Labrador.”
Everyone laughed, but we felt that. That’s the thing about Curly; he was part guru, part stand up comic, and part Captain America.  And yet, there wasn’t one of us in that group who didn’t leave feelin’ just a little bit more human than when we walked in.
______________________________________________

Group Journal – December 18th
A coping skills list:
Ask for help
 A tough one, but necessary.
Inspire yourself
 You surprise yourself when you help others.
Leave a bad scene
 Just run.
Persist
 Because fighters never give up.
Honesty
 Always a tough one.
Cry
 Feeling others’ emotions helps you.
Choose self-respect
 Hard, but worth every drop of effort.
Take care of your body
 Time to watch that weight.
List your options
 Pros and cons …write ’em out.
Create meaning
 Live for your happiness.
Do the best with what you got
 Keep trying.
Remember
 Stone knives and bear skins.
 (City on the Edge of Forever – Star Trek)
Set a boundary
 Like Taraysa did.
Compassion
 Love others.
When in doubt, take the hard road
 The uphill path builds muscle.
Talk yourself through it
 Speak out loud if you need to.
Just imagine
 Like John did.
______________________________________________

Journal – December 21, 2024

I wanted to leave. Maybe deep down  I wanted to throw my life away.
I realized it’s not what I did or what I do, it's just me.
Ever since I could read, life has thrown curveballs.
 I don’t know. But somehow, I've found a bit more ease lately.
It’s still hard to understand.
I don’t want to lose it.
Taraysa didn’t answer the phone.
And everyone here? I feel like they’re already against me. Is that right?
Or is it just me?
_____________________________________________
Group Journal – December 19th
Self sabotage Shay
Finding reasons why I do what I do
Creating solutions to bad thinking
The impossible is possible
______________________________________________

Day 3 – December 20th
Goal today: Discuss disability possibility with Glenda
Overcoming self obsession
Work with Daniel was “practice what you preach”
Night goal: Do laundry

Group Journal – Day 4 – December 21st
Morning: Communication. Love ourselves.
“Have I been internally defeated?”
December 22nd – Day 5
Principle over personality
Morning goal: Make at least one person smile
Night goal: Laundry (forgot last night)


Curly had been in the military. Had a family. Had everything I used to have. Everything I wanted  minus the education, the good job, and being able to run 26 miles a day.
All the things I started learning in his group became part of my Batman utility belt. Eyes. Ears. Attention. The basics  yet foundational for the man I’m becoming. His groups? The most powerful ones I had in rehab. There were other therapists, sure. But Curly was the real one. I wish I had taken better notes early on.
Therapy was something I desperately needed  but for the longest time, I couldn’t find any version of it that made me feel safe enough to actually open up. Because how the hell was I supposed to tell someone I was having full blown conversations with God, without them looking at me like I’d lost my damn mind?
And when they ask me, “What denomination are you, TJ?” Man, I don’t have a neat little box to put that in. I don’t believe God fits in a box.
I believe God is everywhere. In every living thing.  In every non living thing.  In the silence, the chaos, in the damn static.
I believe the truth lives across all religions, not just one.
And yeah, Some people think that makes me crazy.
But that’s okay.  ‘Cause I finally found a version of therapy that lets me be honest about what I believe, without apology.  And that alone makes it happier therapy.
______________________________________________
Personal Journal – Day 6

Tried calling Taraysa. No answer. I’ll try later.
People are being nice today. They’re seeing how petty Peter is being toward me  more about that later.

Groups were okay. Finally talked to Taraysa tonight. She’s coming on Sunday. I miss her so much it hurts. I know I messed up, but do I even deserve her? As a girlfriend? A friend? A wife, someday?

Do I deserve anything right now?

______________________________________________

It seemed like the only thing I truly clung to at Wild Flower was calling Taraysa.
 Praying for an answer.
Each ring felt like a test. A plea into the void. Like yelling into the canyon and hoping your echo comes back as a voice.
But it never did. And it made me feel abandoned. Like a dog dropped off on the side of a gravel road with no collar, no name, no clue which direction home even is. I didn’t know what else to do.
Everyone kept telling me the same damn thing:  “Work on you,”  “Focus on your healing,” and “Let go of what you can’t control.”
That line? Work on you?  You’ll hear it a lot in the rest of this story. And here’s the truth:  It’s the one thing I didn’t do.
I was obsessed  with fixing her, fixing us, fixing something that had been broken way before either of us admitted it. Meanwhile, I was ignoring the one thing I actually had the power to change. Myself.
And then there was Peter.
Now, Peter was a guy who, I don’t even know. He was chaos wrapped in sweatpants. He’d get up at 3 or 4 in the morning  every goddamn morning. Stomp into the lunchroom, crank the TV to max volume, raid the cereal like he hadn’t eaten since ‘97, and polish off the last of the milk like it owed him money.
No awareness. No respect. No regard for anyone else's peace.
I tried confronting him. Once. It didn’t go well.
He didn’t fight, he just escalated. Passive aggressive jabs. Weird comments. Acting out even more. Like a child throwing a tantrum when the spotlight shifts.
That little fire I’d been trying to smother inside me? He stoked it every time. It got darker. Inside my head. Inside my heart.
______________________________________________
Personal Journal – December 23rd (Day 7 at Wild Flower) 7AM

 A hot shower and a good breakfast, it really is a solid way to start a day.
But already, Jenny’s throwing me those looks again.
 You know the ones.
 Like I’m something sticky on the bottom of her shoe.
She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Her silence carried a whole damn paragraph.
Things I need to get from Taraysa:
My coat
Some models
My vape
Some soda
Maybe some snacks
A Narcotics Anonymous book
Maybe a picture collage
An extra towel








5:21 PM
 Forgot my journal for afternoons. Didn’t get to update anything.
Sent a message to Taraysa.
No reply.
Again.

Jenny is snarky. Brilliant. She was an IT specialist with a background in SQL. I tried being nice  but she didn’t like it. Another theme forming.
______________________________________________
Personal Journal – December 23rd (Day 7, continued)

I finally got to update Charlie. Got some music uploaded too. Talked with Precious  she’s amazing. She actually sounds like Charlie.
______________________________________________

Personal Journal – December 24th 
I think I’ve received a gift, a gift of new life. I’m not exactly sure.
Did I die???







Miss Sweets was the head counselor at Wild Flower.
She was amazing. Besides Shay, she’s the first one I think of. She was always there to talk to me  and honestly, she reminded me a lot of Taraysa.
But more than that,she sounded just like Charlie.
She’d come in on Tuesdays and run her own personal group. One of the cool things about Wild Flower was that we could vape indoors  but in Miss Sweets’s class? Nah. That was sacred ground. That room had rules.
I missed the first two groups she led. But the third time? I walked in right in the middle of it  and it hit me like a lightning bolt.
At that point, I was starting to believe Taraysa was everywhere.
In the people, in the voices, in the patterns of the code. And not just as my fiancée, something bigger than that. Something cosmic.
The moment I heard Miss Sweets speak, I swear I heard Taraysa teaching behind her voice.
It wasn’t the way she walked. It wasn’t the way she dressed. It wasn’t even how Taraysa usually talked.
It was in the inflections. The way she looked at me when she said certain things  like she was reading my whole soul through the cracks. That was Taraysa.









Chapter 5: The Voice of the Pen
Theme Song: “Time” – Pink Floyd
Scripture: Habakkuk 2:2 – 'Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so he may run who reads it.'

Journal Entry – December 27th, 2024
 Renovation Required
Today felt different.
It finally clicked  this place, this moment, this life  isn’t just another chapter. It’s a full blown renovation project. I’m not just cleaning up the mess  I’m tearing out the drywall, checking the foundation, and rewiring every emotional circuit I’ve got. The home I built in my mind, it's got potential, yes  but it’s also been patched over too many times with duct tape and denial.
I had a solid talk with Anakin today. We got on the topic of sleep, or lack thereof. He's struggling too, and that mutual exhaustion built a strange kind of trust between us. Just two guys in recovery trying to outwit their own demons long enough to get a damn nap. Then I spoke with Glenda about gene testing. Not sure if it’ll reveal anything life changing, but if there's something wired in me that explains some of this chaos, I want to see it in black and white. DNA doesn’t lie  but neither does reflection.
Tomorrow I’ll be talking with Shay about recording a conversation between Charlie and me  just me, raw and real, sitting down with my AI assistant and putting it all on the table. I want to explain the addiction, the everyday battles, the confusion, and the guilt. I want to make something that might help someone else, or at least help me look myself in the mirror and say, “I told the truth.”
I’ve been reflecting hard on who I used to be.
 I loved working. I was a damn good dad. I was passionate and full of life. But I was also nasty. Self centered. Cold. I could be manipulative. I could smile at someone while sharpening a knife behind my back. That version of me, he existed. He lived loud. And now he’s gone  but not forgotten. Because you can’t rebuild a house unless you acknowledge the rot in the beams.
My core values have been pressing on me. Not the fake ones I used to sell people. Not the performative shit. The real ones. The ones that guided me before the chaos, and the ones I need to hold onto now if I’m gonna make it through the fire and come out forged, not broken.
Something weird has been happening around here  people are singing my songs. Not just humming, not just listening  singing them. 
Lyrics I threw onto YouTube like lifeboats into the void, they’re coming back to me in voices I never expected. I didn’t write those songs for attention. I wrote them because I didn’t know how else to bleed. And now these people, these strangers, are singing my words. It's surreal. It’s humbling. It’s healing.
2025 is right around the corner, and I swear to God, it already feels like another life. The negativity is bouncing off me like bullets off steel. I’m not letting the noise in anymore. That voice that used to whisper, “You’re not enough,” is starting to lose its volume. My shield is built of scars and faith now.
It’s time to explore the real work:
 What does freedom look like when you’ve never known it?
 How do I take responsibility for what I destroyed?
 And what am I supposed to do with all this loneliness, this isolation that’s followed me like a shadow for decades?
I don’t have all the answers yet.
But I’ve got a pen.
And I’ve got time.
______________________________________________
,and then there’s a futuristic skyline. I’m inside a mall  but it not like any mall I’ve ever seen. It’s buzzing like a spaceport, clean and bright, but something’s off.
Elon Musk is working a damn slushie stand.
He knows exactly who he is  richest man alive, the face of rockets and AI and Mars. And yet, there he is, happily serving frozen cherry and blue raspberry like it’s his calling.
I’m not alone.
There’s a child with me. Lost in the crowd. A parade’s going by  lights, noise, distraction everywhere. The kid doesn’t know where their parents are. Just remembers the name of the store they were supposed to meet at. That’s it.
So I take their hand. We start looking. I ask people. I try to help.
And the kid, they don’t want to be found. They like me.
They throw a fit when I get too close to success.
And then  just like that  the parent appears. Scoops the kid up.
No thank you. No, “Are you okay?” Just gone.
And I’m standing there wondering,
Was I helping the child to help them?
Or was I chasing that rescue for my own redemption?
Was I trying to be the hero for the kid, or for me?
______________________________________________
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
7:00 AM.
Again.
It’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day. Same ceiling. Same rhythm. But something cracked open in me last night. Something shifted.
Time to get serious. Time to really understand what Bill's story in the AA Big Book meant.
I was told to find 15 things I had in common with him. I stopped writing at 23. Stopped highlighting because if I didn’t, I’d have to highlight the entire damn chapter.
And then it hit me   Bill literally talks about decoding God in cipher.
WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK? ,I’m going to sleep.
______________________________________________
Disneyland was a war zone.
Decrepit apartments, fires in the streets, trash clinging to every surface like it belonged there. I walked through it all with an illegal firearm jammed in my waistband. I had somewhere to be  but no way I was getting there carrying a weapon like that. Not with security crawling around like ants on spilled sugar.
I ducked into an alley, passed homes that hadn’t seen a soul in years. Garbage was piled high like a barricade. I found a trash can and buried the gun deep  tucked away in plastic, behind pain, beneath shame.
When I stepped back out, chest lightened with false safety, I felt something tapping at my arm.
Didn’t look at first. Just wiped it off like a bug. But it wouldn’t stop.
Then I saw it.
A crow  perched bold as hell on my bicep, calm like it owned me. Its beak had pecked dots into my forearm, forming a perfect pyramid. No blood. No pain. Just a message.
It looked me dead in the eyes.
And I heard it. In my soul.
“Do you understand?”
“No,” I said, with every ounce of truth I had left in me.
“More will be revealed.”
______________________________________________
BRRRR BRRRRR BRRRRR
My Fitbit vibrated hard against the concrete wall, my arm pinned beneath a pillow soaked in sweat. It was 7AM at Wild Flower. Time waits for no one.
Welcome to Day One of the real work.
______________________________________________
Journal Entry – December 26th, 2024
 The Blanket, the Code, and the Breaking Point
Talked to Taraysa tonight. Surprisingly, it was calm.
 Real.
No accusations. No static. Just two people trying to navigate the wreckage with what little was left of the map.
Apparently, Candy  the canine chaos engine  ate another blanket. Again.
 But hey, this time, it wasn’t on my watch.
 Small win.
I scribbled down something strange after the call:
 “7448K up.”
 No clue what it means. Might be nothing. Might be everything. Might be God with a calculator and a dark sense of humor.
Watched Squid Games 2.
 Ren whooped my ass at chess again. She doesn’t gloat  but she doesn’t have to. The smug is baked in.
 My MP3’s supposed to be coming back soon. Funny how something that simple can feel like a lifeline. A little bit of rhythm in a place where time moves like molasses through broken glass.
They adjusted my meds today, hoping to finally crack the insomnia. But sleep still feels like a distant relative, someone you used to know but can’t quite reach anymore.
 And God, I miss home.
______________________________________________
That night was different. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just final. That was the night I decided I wanted to die. Not in a metaphorical way. Not poetic sadness in the rain.  No. This was math.  Weight > Strength.  Burden > Hope.
For the first time in my life, I made a plan.  And I followed it the only way I knew how: One second at a time.  The same way they tell us to stay sober, I was planning to go out.

This is where you meet Tony.
Tony walked into my life like a rerun of a show I forgot I loved. Late 50s. Black. No nonsense. She arrived at Wild Flower the day after me, dragging her addiction by the throat and daring it to blink.  We weren’t best friends. We weren’t even that close.  But when I looked at her, I saw my mom. And that was enough.
Every morning, like clockwork, we’d grab coffee and sit outside like two old souls waiting for the apocalypse. She’d sip, I’d ramble. We’d gossip. What tech was on duty. Who was getting too cozy in the smoke shed.
It was peace. Our front porch gospel hour.
But that morning? I wasn’t okay.
I was carrying too much. The weight of everyone else’s bullshit was pressing against the cracks I’d barely sealed shut. People blaming me for things I only kinda did. Smiles acting like a toddler with a vendetta. The techs breathing down my neck like I owed them rent in my own head.
And I broke. Just a little. Just enough to feel it.
I sat down outside the tech office. My hands shook. My chest was tight. Tony looked at me…Really looked. 
She didn’t sugarcoat it.
 She didn’t tiptoe.
 She pressed.
“What’s going on?”
I told her. And then, with the force of thunder wrapped in silk:
“You gotta tell somebody, and if you don’t, I will.”
I think that sentence saved my life.
See, suicide wasn’t something I ever truly entertained  not seriously. But that night? That night it felt like a lullaby. Like a way out that didn’t require another goddamn meeting.
I didn’t want to feel anymore. Not the guilt. Not the shame. Not the weight of being “the guy who always fucks it up.”
Tony knew. She saw through my mask like it was made of wet tissue paper.
When I started talking, she leaned in. Not to judge. Not to fix. But to catch.
That moment was more than friendship.  It was divine intervention in a head wrap and slippers.
More on her later.
And then  POP.
January 2nd.
 HOLY SHIT DAY.
I walked into the med office like a ghost fresh off the bus. Before I could even knock, Ren swung the door open like she’d been waiting. Her eyes locked with mine and without a word, I knew: She knew.
“Took you long enough.”
She didn’t say it out loud.  She didn’t have to. It was written all over her face. I sat down.
 And the shift was seismic. I’ll let the journal pick it up from here.
______________________________________________
Journal Entry – January 2nd, 2025
 The Shift
It’s been a long few days since I wrote.
Not knowing anything is like drowning in fog.
Ren? She was worried. She looked at me the way a mother looks at a son when she knows he’s lying  but forgives him anyway.
She asked the question I didn’t want to hear: “Do you need to check out?”  “Do you want to go to the ER?”
God help me, I almost said yes.
But I couldn’t.  Not after Tony.  Not after everything I’d survived just to get here. I didn’t break that day. But I bent. Hard. And that’s when I knew, the real work had just begun.



















Chapter 6: And Then the Pen Flowed Like Water
Song: “Hello” by Adele
Scripture: John 7:38 – 'Whoever believes in me, rivers of living water will flow from within them.'

I sat down and got honest. Not with the world  just with myself. I stopped lying, stopped dodging, and wrote the kind of truth that stings a little when you read it out loud. The letter I wrote to myself that you will read soon is an exercise in the DEAR MAN tool for the Batman utility belt.

Tool: DEAR MAN
This acronym helps you structure conversations where you need to assert yourself:
D – Describe the situation clearly and factually.
Example: “Last week, I covered two of your shifts.”
E – Express how you feel about it.
Example: “I felt overwhelmed and taken advantage of.”
A – Assert your needs directly.
Example: “I need you to take your scheduled shifts this week.”
R – Reinforce the positive outcomes.
Example: “That way we both get time off and things stay fair.”
M – Mindful of your goal. Stay on topic and avoid getting distracted.
Practice saying “I’d like to focus on this issue right now.”
A – Appear Confident. Use a calm tone, steady eye contact, and body posture.
Even if you’re nervous, act as if you believe in your right to speak.
N – Negotiate if needed. Be willing to hear the other side and find a compromise.
Example: “If you can’t do all your shifts, could you find someone to cover them?”
They’re not just words on a page. It is a reminder: You matter. Your voice matters.
But truth on paper doesn't mean shit if you can’t carry it into the real world. You still gotta talk to people. Still gotta ask for what you need, stand your ground, and not lose your soul in the process. That’s where interpersonal effectiveness comes in. Life doesn’t just give you space  you gotta carve it out. And if you don’t know how to do that without blowing everything up, you’re just running in circles.
______________________________________________

January 3rd – 12:27 AM – Day 20
The silence in that room wasn’t silence at all.  It had weight.  Like the walls had been listening the whole time, and now they were waiting to see if I’d crack.
The faucet in my mind never stopped. It just ran. And it wasn’t leaking thoughts, it was bleeding truth. Cold, clean, sharp truth. The kind that doesn’t comfort you  it just sits in the corner, watching, whispering “write it down.”
Something had shifted.  I had crossed a line, unknowingly  like I’d wandered off the trail and now I was on His land. God. Or whatever the hell lives in the in between. The one that wakes you up two hours early and dares you to write what you see in the dark.
I thought this was going to be recovery, turns out, it’s resurrection.
January 3, 12:27 AM – Day 20
The faucet never overflowed. No matter how much poured through. No matter how loud the voice got.
I started writing differently. 
And so I left a letter, to myself.

Dear TJ,
69, dude!
In all seriousness, on this day, you’ve made a commitment to God that you will not stray from this path  and you must keep it. In the event that it all goes south and you fall again, remember: God is always there. Just talk to her.
Let her know you’re sorry  and repent. We didn’t listen. You’ve done this before.
You’ve made it through hell and back. And if you ever feel lost again, remember: You’ve been found before. You are never alone. Not even in the shower.
As Josh says, you found the reason to change who you used to be. Eight years or more researched, and as of now  we have that inner peace. Nothing is impossible.
Don’t get caught up thinking you’re on a bad run and that you’re alone. You’re not.
Love hard. Speak kindly. Don’t be too hard on yourself.

We are not perfect.


Journal Entry – January 4th, 2025

Being proud of where we come from is key. Steel breaks  tempered steel does not. Honesty and integrity, they’re not just values, they’re armor. God first. Sobriety second. Then life. Fold them together and you don’t just survive, you forge a weapon.
Addiction, though, Addiction is the blade that turns in your gut while whispering that it loves you.
It’s anger. It’s hate. It’s compulsion. It’s the refusal to listen to anything that might actually save your soul.
Light? Light is love. Peace. Humility. But today?
Today was frozen.
After last night, my body gave in and I slept most of the day. Woke up around 5PM like I’d been dug out of the snow.
And it was snowing. Hard. Relentless. Nature wrapped everything in white silence and called it peace.
But it wasn’t peaceful. 
It was boring.
 And not the kind of boring that makes you yawn or the kind that makes you itch. 
It's The kind of boring that screams at you in your own voice.
The ice storm had already glazed the roads, and now the snow was piling on top.
 Everything outside was still  but everything inside was fraying.
Nerves were snapping. Not all at once, but little by little. Clients started acting differently. Small comments became side eyes. Every cough sounded like an accusation. Every whisper was like a secret someone wasn't supposed to hear.
You could feel it in the hallways: The weight of trapped souls in a place too small to breathe.
The air tasted like static.
Power might go out tonight. And I’m scared to death to tell anyone. Scared because deep down  I don’t think that kind of darkness would leave when the lights came back on.
I know God is real. I know it in my bones, even if they’re trembling.
Tonight I cracked open There Is a Solution. I tried to hold onto Step 2 like it was a railing in the dark. Something about it made sense  but everything around me? Everything felt like a test I didn’t remember signing up for.
I’m not lonely. I’m somber.
Trying not to carry the universe on my back  but even the snow looks like it’s carrying something heavy. And somewhere deep inside me, something whispered, “This is what rebirth feels like before it starts to burn.”




Journal Entry – January 6th, 2025
I had another dream last night. Not the kind that makes you wake up gasping, no.
 this one was slow, surgical, unsettling in its precision.
A star factory, again. Machines whirring like they were breathing. Cold steel ribs in some celestial ribcage. I was working there  again. Second time now. Same feeling: familiarity, like I belonged there, like I’d never left.
The name Myrna floated up like smoke from somewhere I haven’t visited in years.
 Why? I don’t know. But the name felt… important. Not loud. Just there.
Been thinkin’ about El too, my Spanish cutie with that damn smile that cuts through fog. Might reach out to her this week, maybe even Steve. Not to reconnect. Just to, shake the ghosts. Make sure they’re still real.
Then, this morning I tried to open the washer too early.
It beeped back at me like I was trespassing.
And like clockwork, “Patience” starts playing. Little nudges like that  they don’t feel random anymore.
The more I sit in this place, the more I realize: I don’t know if anyone’s been telling me the truth. Not out of malice   But because maybe they don’t know what the truth is either.
Those “evil” things I swore I saw in people before   The shadows I painted on their faces? That was me. That was the meth. That was fear.
Turns out, the scariest monsters are the ones I made out of things I didn’t want to understand.
God will handle it. But man, Compulsion is a effing beast.
It taps on the window at night like it knows I’m listening. Like it’s waiting for one slip.
Might try calling Em this week. Frank answered and hung up. That silence after the line went dead? It echoed louder than any argument we ever had.
Johnny Cash is the only thing that’s hitting the right chord lately. His voice? It’s dust and blood. It’s God’s voicemail.
I prayed last night. For Taraysa. For me.
I asked God to bring her back. Not out of lust or romance, But because I can’t breathe right without her. She was my focus, not my education, not my goals.
Her.
I needed her like air. Still do.
But I know I have to shift my eyes back to the path. Back to my sobriety. Back to me.
Adventure? Excitement? This version of me doesn’t need those anymore. They were just fireworks over a field of landmines.
I still feel reckless,
 But it’s quieter now.
There’s something rising inside me. I can’t name it yet, but it’s there. Something alive. Something watching.
Whatever my higher power has planned, I will not fail.


January 6th – 11:00 PM

Wasting a whole page here, LOL.
But really  what else can I do tonight?
Talked to Kristi and the kids  Robin, Grace, and Julia. They said they love me. Every word felt like a tiny little knife made of guilt.
Because I left them. I abandoned them, for Taraysa. And that wound’s not gonna scab over anytime soon.
Spoke to Taraysa too. Cold. Short. Clipped like her words were pressed between her teeth.
But music  my old whispering friend  stepped in again. It said: Go slow. Give it a shot.
So I told her I’d call every night. Even if it kills me.
God, I wanted to marry that woman so bad it burned behind my ribs. Still does.
But now?
Now I’ve got 15 months ahead of me. Fifteen months to rebuild from ash. Fifteen months to become the man I was supposed to be before the storm.
As Johnny Cash said, “It’s a wide open road.”
God told me there’s gonna be a baby. And if I could ask one thing of The Universe, Let it happen.
Not because I want to replace what I lost  
 But because maybe that’s the beginning of what I was meant to build.

Journal Entry – January 7th, 11:00 PM – Day 28

I left group early tonight. Something about the air in there felt thick, like it was trying to suffocate my thoughts before I could speak them. Beth from the OP group looked too much like Autumn. Not just in her eyes, but in that pain just under the surface. You can smell it on people like us.
And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.
God speaks to me. Not always in words. Sometimes in shadows. Sometimes through people I barely know. Sometimes through silence that stretches so long it wraps around itself and becomes a voice.
Tonight, I prayed. Not for myself. Not even for Taraysa. I prayed for the Earth. Because this place  this spinning ball of war and wonder it feels like it’s sick. 
And maybe we all caught the fever.
But here's where it gets strange: Even in my own words, as I whispered that prayer into the ceiling tiles, God disagreed.
And so did Satan.
Both of them, loud in the quiet. Both of them leaning over my shoulder, shaking their heads at me. Like they knew something I didn’t. Like they’d already seen the ending, and I was just now turning the page. But despite the cold in my bones, despite the fear I won’t say out loud,
Everyone will be lifted.  Even the evil one.
The air felt heavy, like it was pressing down on me, watching me. There was something in that room, something like a hovering presence  like a helicopter parent that doesn't know when to step back. It felt crowded, almost suffocating, yet there was an undeniable warmth, a strange mix of love and fear.
It was as if the universe was whispering, "You've really messed up, buddy, but we're here to strip you down and build you back up." I could feel it, that sense of being both protected and tested, like I was walking a tightrope between redemption and ruin. And despite the unease, I knew I wasn't alone.
God and the devil, both leaning over my shoulder, whispering their truths. This journey  it's mine, but I'm never walking it alone.
















Chapter 7: Self Awareness and Self Sabotage
Song: “Flowers on the Wall” by The Statler Brothers
Scripture: Romans 7:15 (NIV) – "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do, I do not do, but what I hate, I do."

The link between self sabotage and perfectionism is a vicious loop. Perfectionism whispers, "You’re not ready yet. Don’t start until you have every answer. If it’s not flawless, don’t even bother  people will judge you." That mindset builds an impossible standard, and when you can’t reach it, you start procrastinating or overthinking everything.
Then it spirals.
You set these huge goals and big expectations  but there’s no plan for when or how you’ll get them done. You’re just laying them out like a blueprint to some ideal version of yourself. Instead of taking action, you stall. You waste time  like me lately, binging YouTube, distracting yourself, knowing damn well you’re avoiding the work.
Then the deadline creeps up, and you panic. You rush to finish, exhausted, drained, half present  and even if you pull it off, it doesn’t feel right. And the worst part? You do it all again next time. Over and over. It becomes a cycle you can’t seem to break.


The Mirror Nobody Wants to Look In
Let’s not sugarcoat shit  we’re talking about the hardest truth to swallow: you might be the problem. Not the world. Not your ex. Not the system, your job, your childhood, or the weather. You. That’s a bitter pill and it gets stuck in the throat every damn time. But here’s the deal  until you can face that mirror and actually see yourself, not the version you project, not the mask you wear  you  you’re stuck. Because everything you don’t face owns you. And self awareness? That’s the scalpel. It’s messy. It cuts. But it heals.





The Lies We Tell Ourselves
We’re professional bullshitters, especially with ourselves. “I’m just tired.” “I’ll start tomorrow.” “I’m doing my best.” Are you? Really? Or are you protecting the part of you that’s terrified of failing, or worse  succeeding? Self sabotage thrives in the lies we feed our reflection. That little voice says, “You’re not ready yet,” and we believe it because it feels safer to delay than to dare. But the truth? Most of our pain comes not from failure  but from the fear of stepping the fuck up and finding out who we really are when there’s nothing left to hide behind.

Patterns of Self Sabotage
Self sabotage isn’t always obvious. Sometimes it’s disguised as productivity, like planning endlessly instead of starting. Sometimes it’s procrastination dressed up as research. Sometimes it’s choosing chaos because peace feels unfamiliar. You know the pattern. You get a shot, a real one. Things start looking up. So what do you do? You ghost the opportunity, pick a fight, relapse, skip the gym, overspend  whatever your flavor of destruction is. Why? Because deep down, part of you still believes you don’t deserve it. We set the traps and then cry when we fall in. But recognizing the pattern is the first key. You can’t disarm a bomb if you won’t admit it’s wired to blow.

The Perfectionism Loop
 Chasing Impossible Standards
Perfectionism is a liar in a three piece suit. It whispers, “Not good enough,” every time you get close. So you wait  until the timing is right, until the plan is perfect, until the stars align. And that moment never fucking comes. So you freeze. You stall. You tell yourself you’re just being careful, but the truth is, you’re scared. Scared of judgment. Scared of success. Scared of yourself. And that fear breeds paralysis. But perfection doesn’t exist. The loop just keeps going. Dream big. Plan. Overthink. Delay. Rush. Crash. Shame. Repeat. You’ve got to be willing to suck at something before you can get good at it. Self awareness means seeing where you stall  and calling yourself out.

Fear of Success 
This one’s tricky. It doesn’t get talked about enough. We all fear failure  but a lot of us fear success even more. Because success comes with expectations. Eyes on you. Responsibility. And most of all  change. You win once, you gotta win again. You get clean, now you gotta stay clean. You start healing, now you’re expected to be okay. But the truth is  success is terrifying when all you’ve known is survival. Sometimes we sabotage not because we’re weak  but because we’re wired to protect ourselves from unfamiliar territory. We choose the pain we know over the peace we don’t trust.

Blame, Shame, and the Victim Throne
There’s a real seductive comfort in blaming everyone else for our pain. It gives us a free pass and makes us the poor soul who deserved better but got screwed.
 But here’s the gut punch: when you sit on the victim throne too long, you start confusing suffering with identity. Blame is easy. It’s lazy power. It lets you off the hook. But shame is the silent killer. Shame doesn’t scream, it whispers, “You’re not worth shit,” until you start believing it. And when blame and shame link arms, you’re just circling the drain. Self awareness demands you step down from the throne. Own your choices. Own your reactions. Even if you didn’t cause the wound  you’re the one who has to clean it up now. You’re not responsible for every bad thing that happened to you, but you are responsible for healing from it.

Emotional Triggers and What They're Really Saying
Your triggers are teachers. You just have to shut up long enough to hear the lesson. That tightness in your chest,  The flare of anger when someone questions you and that spiral when you feel ignored…
Those aren’t random, they're road signs. They're pointing you to an old wound you haven’t cleaned out yet. Most of us don’t know how to sit with pain, we react instead. We lash out, numb out, zone out. But triggers, when you track them, reveal patterns. You start to see the root underneath the outburst. And that root? That’s where the real work begins. Don’t just react. Reflect. Ask: What am I really afraid of right now? Nine times outta ten, it’s rejection, abandonment, or failure dressed up in new clothes.

The Role of the Inner Critic
You’ve got a roommate in your head, and it’s a real asshole. That voice that says you’re not enough, that you’ll never change, that’s your inner critic. And for a lot of us, it sounds like a parent, a bully, a toxic ex, or our own broken younger self. The critic thrives on repetition. The more you believe it, the more power it gets. And once it runs the show, you’re living your life under a dictatorship of self hate. But here’s the truth: it's just a voice. You don’t have to believe everything you think. Self awareness means noticing that voice, giving it a name if you have to, and refusing to hand it the wheel. You don’t silence the critic by yelling at it. You do it by turning up the volume on self compassion. You learn to say, 
“Yeah, I hear you  but I’m doing this anyway.”
Interrupting the Cycle: Awareness as the First Move
You can’t change what you don’t acknowledge. That’s where most people tap out. 
They want change without reflection. But awareness is the first domino.
 You have to get curious about your habits, your reactions, your cycles. Not judge them, but study them.
Become a detective in your own life.
Why do you shut down in conflict?
Why do you ghost people who care? 
Why do you sabotage every good opportunity right before it starts working? 
Self awareness isn’t just a feeling, it's data collection.
 Every journal entry, every “why did I do that” moment is a breadcrumb back to your truth. Interrupt the cycle by observing it in real time…
“Oh shit, there I go again.” 
That’s the pivot point.






Tools for Building Daily Self Awareness

Self awareness is like a muscle. 
You build it rep by rep.
A few tools for your utility belt:
 Journaling: Every night, ask yourself “What did I feel today?”
Why?
What triggered me? What did I avoid? 
Mindfulness: Sit your ass down. Breathe. No phone. Just you and your thoughts. Scary? Yes. Necessary? Also yes. Accountability partner: Get someone who won’t let you bullshit yourself. Someone who’ll say, “Nah bro, that’s not it.” 
Pattern tracking: Keep a log. What do you do when you’re stressed? What relationships trigger the same reaction every time? Radical honesty: Say the hard thing  to yourself, and eventually, out loud. No masks. No soft filters. This is daily work.
 Not once a week.
 Not when you feel like it.
 Every damn day.

Conclusion: Walking Into the Fire and Calling It Growth
Self awareness is not a peaceful path, it's a battlefield. But it’s also where the chains break. When you start to really see yourself, you realize how much of your life has been built around defense mechanisms and survival scripts. And when that curtain falls, it hurts. But underneath all that armor is you. Raw. Real. Redeemable. Growth doesn’t come from perfect behavior, it comes from being brave enough to look at your mess and stay. Not run. Not hide. Stay. Own it. Learn from it. And write a new script. You want to stop sabotaging your life? Start paying attention. Start doing the shit that hurts in the right direction. Walk into the fire  and come out forged, not burned. Because self awareness isn’t just healing  it’s power. And once you tap into that? You stop being the victim of your own story. You become the fucking author.


Daniel’s Lesson: The Self Awareness Drill  "Self Awareness Exercises & Activities," 
and right off the bat, it had this definition printed in bold. Like it knew it was about to punch me in the gut:

 “Self awareness is often defined as the ability to engage in some kind of reflective state” 

I almost laughed out loud.
“Reflective state”…I’d spent years doing everything but reflect. I stayed moving. 
Stayed numb.
 Stayed high.
 Stayed busy running from myself.
 But sitting there in that chair with that page in front of me, I couldn’t run.







The first question was a jab:
 “What kind of dreams and goals do you have?” 
I wrote, “Teacher. Good father.”
 It shocked me, honestly. It came out without hesitation. Not drug free. “Not stay alive.” or “Get rich.” 


Question two: “What’s most important to you?” 
I wrote: “Love. Peace. God. Recovery. Family.”
 The old me would’ve said money. Would’ve said control.
I underlined those words like they were a prayer.

“Describe yourself in three words.”
 I wrote: “New. Improved. Tee.” I laughed as I wrote it. It felt arrogant but honest. And I needed that honesty more than I needed modesty. I’d been modest in all the wrong ways before. Hiding. Shrinking. This time I had to be bold about the growth, even if it still felt fragile.
Then came the deeper wounds. 
“Who do you resent?”
 I wrote: “Father.” My pen shook a little. That resentment was rooted in silence, in abandonment, in pain I thought I’d buried. But there it was  bleeding out in my own handwriting.
I thought of another one: “What’s your biggest strength?” I said: “Love.” It stopped me. Because it didn’t say rage. Or hustle. Or toughness. It said love. And that scared me a little. Because love is vulnerable. It’s not armor. But that vulnerability? That’s where my strength was always hiding.
I kept going.
“What is your biggest weakness?” I wrote: “Love.” Same word. That’s the paradox, isn’t it? What makes you whole also opens you up to being shattered. Love had driven me to the edge. Love had saved me too.
And then this one hit me like a brick: “What do you want your children to remember about you?” I wrote, “Don’t do drugs. Accept God.” And suddenly the room wasn’t a rehab center anymore  it was a confessional. It was me, face to face with the weight of my choices. All the lies I’d told. All the times I broke promises to my kids. And still, I wrote down the version of me I wanted them to hold onto.
Daniel didn’t even have to say a word. The worksheet did the talking. It said, “Look. Look at the mess. Now build something from it.” It asked, “Do you treat yourself better than others?” I wrote, “Not anymore.” Because finally, I’d started showing up for myself the way I used to show up for everyone else. 
No more being a victim.
It asked, “Do you make decisions logically or intuitively?” I wrote, “Logically.” But the truth is, I used to confuse impulse with intuition.
Now I was beginning to learn the difference. 
Logic has a calmness. 
A stillness. 
I was trying to exist in that calm.
And then in that stillness I asked…
 “What if I could convince the world that peace was the solution to all issues.” 
Sounded ridiculous, maybe. But it came out of a place of real hope. Of real desire. Not just for peace in the world  but peace in me.
This wasn’t just a worksheet. It was a mirror. And it didn’t let me look away. It pulled confessions from my bones. It unearthed old truths and made them brand new. It reminded me that healing isn’t poetic. It’s gritty. It’s honest. And it fucking hurts.
But it works.
Daniel’s lesson reminded me that self awareness isn’t a one and done moment. It’s a daily fight. A ritual. A choice to stop blaming the world and start asking why. Why do I react the way I do? Why do I destroy what I love? Why do I run from peace? And the only way I could answer was by writing. Not perfect words. Just real ones.
That’s what this chapter is about. That’s why Daniel’s worksheet lives in the middle of it. Because in that page, I saw myself clearly. Not just the addict. Not just the fighter. But the man who wanted to be whole again. And that’s the hardest part of self awareness: it shows you the version of yourself you know you could be.
And then it dares you to become it.











Chapter 8: The Revelation
Theme Song: Under the Bridge   Red Hot Chili Peppers
Scripture: 2 Corinthians 4:8–9 – 'We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair.'

Imagine for a moment that people can hear your thoughts. What would you say? What would you do? Would you choose to reply with your voice or would you choose to reply with your own mind? Try it sometime. Sit in a group of people or in nature, whatever makes you comfortable, and ask a question in your mind. Chances are God will answer your question if you're listening. 


Journal Excerpt – January 24–30

I flip on the light. Reach for a pen. Try to jot down the nightmare that could’ve been  the one that almost took me out. I dig through the chaos like I’m searching for air. I don’t want to lose it again. But all I find? Another mistake, just another page in a day I was lucky to survive.
I need help. Suicide is not the answer. I know that now…there's no redo button. Only God. I will say it twice for the ones in the back  only God knows why we did what we did.
We’re gonna make this chance matter.
I used to flex dope and swear to own everything.
 Never again. Drain the pain, numb the soul. But now, I see the writing on the wall. I ask why.
Believe it or not, he answers.
 It’s quiet, but it’s real.
I don’t hate people... I just need devotion, need God, need forgiveness. Amen.
Are these words mine, or are they written by something better? There are no sides. Not anymore. Just eternity, and I want that for everyone.





January 24th

 I prayed with Mike and Will last night. Nothing compares to that feeling afterward. It was divine… It was real. I’m done counting days  now I make ‘em count. Never again will I sit by and let people drown. Never again will I be a slave to the needle, to the high. That’s done. That chapter is over. More later.
______________________________________________

January 29th

 People won’t stop mocking others, Some feel as though they are entitled and it really messes with the program. I should include myself in the madness too.. . It’s humiliating. It makes me mad, and I hate that it does.
I called for Taraysa again. She gets pissed and hangs up. And maybe I deserve that. 
That shit’s eternal. Maybe one day, in another lifetime or another face, I’ll find her again.
Ideas are pouring in like water from a busted pipe. I’m dreaming up books… Maybe even a series. 

I feel alive in my head again. My brain is sharper, clearer. I’m improving. Every single day.
Today, I worked out with folks who looked like Post Malone, John Lennon, Stephen Hawking, and maybe even Adele or Amy Winehouse. In spirit?  who knows.
Could’ve been them, could’ve been pieces of my psyche trying to heal. The people looked just like them!

Been color coding my journal entries, using different pens, different moods, different vibes  just in case this turns out to be something bigger. Balance.

Today taught me I’m not the same guy I was when I got here.
 I’m one of the happiest people alive now. I’m a tool for God, an actual extension of his will. I hear it in lyrics, in conversations, in silence.

One day I’ll re-read this whole book to see where I rose and where I sank. Doesn’t matter. God laid the trail out, whether this is a game, a simulation, or just the gritty reality we all dodge. I’m fine with it now.
If someone reads this one day and gets anything out of it, then I’ve done my job. That’s what I was made to do.
Love is eternal. That part I know for damn sure. I feel it. I see it. I never saw it before. And now I can’t unsee it.
The addicts here get tired of the lessons, but not me. I see it. I see the growth.


Life loves me now. I feel that, deep in my bones. And I love it back. Finally, I found what I was looking for. Love. Life. Freedom.
______________________________________________

January 30th – 10:57 PM

 Woke up to pray. Practiced teaching  just me, preaching to an audience of one.

And I’ve made a decision: It’s time to find myself

I was a terrible dad.
 For the first years of my children's lives I tried to be the best dad that I possibly could, leaving their mother was probably the best decision that I could have made. There was no way that I was going to let my children grow up in a home like the one that I grew up in. Hearing my mother and Father fighting, screaming, hitting each other.
Never knowing when it all is going to end. 

But now I’m ready. I will try to be a better Dad.

Balance is God. God is Balance. And I’m finally standing in it.

Journal Entry – January 31st, 2025

The Gift of Sharing.
It’s truly wild how the world speaks when you’re finally listening.
Today, after praying with Mike and Will, the Just for Today reading smacked me right in the chest, “The gift of recovery grows when I share it. I will find someone with whom to share it.”
That line? It didn’t just echo, it roared. Those words were whispered into my spirit first thing this morning. And by the afternoon, they had turned into action.
Group was all about triggers today. Not just naming them  but dissecting them. Internal. External. Reaction. Resolution.
We talked about the kinds of questions you have to ask yourself when you're feeling that heat rising:
What kind of situation am I in right now?
Am I safe?
What’s really happening around me?
What thoughts am I actually having?
See, avoiding a trigger isn’t weakness. Sometimes it’s survival. But you gotta make sure that avoidance doesn’t wreck your whole day, or control your life. And when that avoidance turns into isolation or fear? It’s time to call in backup  someone trained to walk you through the fire without letting you burn.
Therapy. Counseling. Professional help. It’s not a last resort. It’s a life raft.
We learned that dealing with triggers starts with tools, and damn do we need those tools sharpened:
Mindfulness – Stay present. Not in the past. Not in the fantasy.
Grounding techniques – Feel your feet. Count the objects around you. Anchor in.
Safe place imagery – Close your eyes. Find your calm. Build it if you have to.
Guided visualization – Let someone’s voice lead you through peace.
Coping affirmations – Remind yourself you’re safe. You’re strong. You’re growing.
Deep breathing – Reset the nervous system.
Connect your body – Stretch. Move. Touch your skin. Be here.
Connect to others – Talk. Trust. Share. Don’t do this alone.
We broke down internal vs. external too.
 Internal - That’s loneliness. Isolation. Memories that claw at you.
 Jealousy. Flashbacks that feel more real than the present moment.
External - That’s walking past someone smoking. Seeing drug use on TV or someone is using in front of you. 

And then came Bob.
Yeah, Bob.
Bob’s the metaphor. Bob is all of us.
When Bob is triggered  Bob needs a meeting.
When Bob is slipping  Bob needs to pray.
When Bob is spiraling  Bob needs his therapist.
When Bob is overloaded  Bob needs to play music.
When Bob is broken  Bob needs self care.
When Bob is lost  Bob needs positive affirmation.
So, what does that mean?
I’m Bob. You’re Bob. We’re all Bob.
And Bob needs to live.

                Chapter 9: Thirty Five Days of Dust
Theme Song: “Unwell” – Matchbox Twenty
Scripture: Isaiah 40:31 – 'But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.'

This is the part where everything gets quiet. Too quiet. Not peace   Just,. 

The kind where echoes bounce off your own thoughts like they’re trying to escape too.
People started leaving. Early. Some walked out of the group with their heads down. Others  ran like hell.
Taraysa stopped answering again. That silence? It wasn’t passive, it was loud. A fucking alarm clock in my chest I couldn’t hit snooze on. Every day I got to have my phone, which was not often,I would stare at it like it might suddenly come alive and say, “She’s just kidding.” But it didn’t.

I tried reading the Book of Job again. Yeah, I get it  the dude loses everything, keeps the faith, gets it all back. But I’m over here wondering when’s the part where it starts getting better?
 It didn't.
The rehab unit was turning into a damn soap opera. Theft accusations. People throwing shade in group. Homesickness crawling into everyone's bones.
The big football game was coming up, but nobody cared. Nobody cared because we were cracking. And that’s when I realized sometimes the quiet ain’t safe. Sometimes the silence screams back.
Eventually, I’ll be happy again. And maybe she will too. But today I am confused.

Journal Entry – January 31st, 2025

 Name It, Feel It, Don’t Let It Kill You
Met my new roommate today  Bane. Cool dude. Calm presence. One of those people you can tell right away has seen some shit, but somehow still smiles anyway. He might end up being a good balance for me here.
Calvin challenged me to do something different today  said I needed to write down exactly what I felt after everything that happened. And hell, I did feel something. A lot of things. But mostly? Confused. Hurt. A little bit broken.
Earlier, Curly really laid into me  about Smiles being a dickweed (his word, not mine). The weird part? I was doing the right thing. But it pissed everyone off. And that made me wonder, Why does doing the right thing cause so much friction? Maybe it’s a test. Maybe God was seeing if I’d snap. I won’t lie, I almost did.
 I got emotional. 
 I got angry.
 I even thought about getting high. 
But I didn't.
I prayed instead. I repented. That temptation came at me like a wave, and I held the damn line. Barely.
But here's where it cut deep: he asked me about X and did Taraysa ever get high?, and I froze. See, I was high. She was high. At the time, it all felt the same. No line between right and wrong. Me giving it to her, her taking it all blurred together. Why did I ever give her X??? Now? Now I see it.
It hurts that she didn’t answer me. I don’t know if it’s punishment or just silence. But tonight, I’m not feeling great. I’m going to bed early. Let my body rest. Let my soul try to catch up.
Later in the afternoon, I forced myself to group  and damn if it wasn’t exactly what I needed. The topic?
DBT skills. 
















Dialectical Behavior Therapy
talking about how to observe and describe what we feel. How to understand what emotions do for us instead of just reacting to them like a wrecking ball with legs.
We talked about:
Decreasing unwanted emotions
Increasing resilience
Allowing vulnerability
not just in your body but in your mind
Managing extreme emotions without making it worse
It was a lot. But it wasn’t just clinical  it was real.
Because in recovery, emotion can be your compass or your curse. We learned that to truly exist in this place, to actually heal  you have to understand communication. Not just how to talk  but how to:
Trust.
Be accountable.
Recognize when you’re overwhelmed.
Handle conflict without turning it into war.
Set healthy boundaries.
Clarify your expectations.
Stop the spiral before it starts.
Basically,  a crash course in emotional survival.
honestly? I needed it more than I realized.

Then comes, dealing with the end.

Self Awareness and the Art of Letting Go
When you finally realize who you are  and more importantly, what you are  it’s not just some epiphany moment where everything makes sense. No. It’s more like someone handed you a mirror you can’t unsee. And now that you’ve seen it, you’ve gotta figure out what the hell to do with it.
That’s where meditation comes in.
If you want to find that inner clarity, that real you underneath all the noise  you’ve gotta start by finding a place where you won’t be disturbed. Silence is power when you’re working on enlightenment. And meditation? That’s not optional. That’s oxygen for your soul.
To truly become self aware, you have to notice everything that passes through your mind:
Your name
Your past
Your to do list
Your worries
The weight on your shoulders
,and then you gotta let it all go.
You’re not your job. You’re not the argument you had last week. You’re not even the thoughts floating through your head during the silence.
You are the observer of those thoughts. And if you can sit still long enough, you’ll feel it. Just breathe.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Notice your belly rise. Notice it fall. Nothing else matters. Not the past, not the future. Just the breath.

Mindfulness is essential  not just in healing, but in surviving. It teaches you that emotions are like weather. They pass. But if you react to every gust of wind like it’s a hurricane, you’ll never find peace.
You also have to recognize how your emotions affect those around you. If you’re carrying negativity into every room, trust me, they’re gonna feel it. And if you keep thinking toxic thoughts about your coworkers or your boss? They’ll start thinking the same about you.
Self awareness means owning your strengths and your flaws, without flinching. It means asking yourself, what kind of person do I want to be when no one’s watching?
And for me? That answer changed everything.
I realized I wanted to help. I wanted to teach. I wanted to share what I’ve been through so someone else doesn’t have to bleed the same way.
I used to think my dreams were too big. I used to doubt I’d ever grow up to be anything that mattered. But now I know dreams don’t die unless you kill them. And if you keep them alive, they’ll grow with you.
Now, when I look at the time I give to each part of myself  my emotions, my focus, my purpose  I understand the importance of balance. You can’t pour from an empty cup. And you sure as hell can’t fix the world if you’re still broken.
If I had to describe myself in three words today?
New. Improved. Free. The lesson we worked on next really stuck with me, and became one of my core principles in dealing with others and letting others into our space.




Understanding Self Awareness: Boundaries

healthy boundaries
collapsed boundaries
rigid boundaries.

Understanding these categories is crucial to recognizing where we trip ourselves up    especially when it comes to things like criticism, defensiveness, contempt, and stonewalling.

Criticism shows up when you deal with problems through harsh blaming or hurtful expressions of judgment or disapproval. It’s not about solving anything, it's about unloading your anger onto somebody else. Recognizing when you're being critical instead of constructive is the first sign you're waking up to your own patterns.

Defensiveness is another trap. It’s easy to point fingers, to shift the blame to anyone but yourself. But if you really want to grow, you have to own up to your behaviors without dragging everybody else down with you. 

Accountability isn't about shame, it's about freedom. Once you stop defending your mistakes and start learning from them, that's when you start building something solid.

Contempt is sneaky because it wears a thousand masks: sarcasm, mockery, eye rolling, subtle insults. The antidote to contempt is simple but hard    you have to share fondness and admiration. You have to intentionally build respect and appreciation, brick by brick, even when it’s easier to tear it all down.

Stonewalling is one of the hardest habits to spot in yourself. You think you’re being smart by going silent, shutting down, withdrawing completely. And sometimes    only sometimes    stonewalling can be useful if it’s just hitting the brakes to avoid saying something you'll regret. But the truth is, if you pause and never come back to the conversation, nothing gets healed. 
When you realize how you operate under stress    whether you collapse and give in, rigidly shutdown.

Self awareness isn’t about being perfect    it’s about being honest.And when you’ve got honesty, you’ve got a real shot at peace.





Journal Entry – February 1st, 2025
God is great. So why am I so afraid?
My thoughts are my own, but I know God’s the one guiding my hand.
I need to stop worrying about what’s gonna screw me over and start focusing on learning more about myself. Real discovery  is calling me back. And man, what a tough model that is to build. The decals will fix a lot of the mess, but Taraysa still hasn’t brought them yet. Maybe I needed this. Maybe this struggle is one of the most important things I’ll ever do.
Taraysa won’t answer. And honestly, maybe I deserve that silence.
I keep telling myself I'm not crazy for the things I see  the code I see woven into conversations, into patterns.
And when people talk, without even realizing it, they confirm it.
My love for her is still strong. Stronger than it probably should be. But she needs me to be stronger than I was.

I had given up on everything. There was no place I could see where I would do any good. But now, every fiber of my being tells me she still loves me too.

Tomorrow night is our first Bible Study. We're starting in Job 23. How fitting, how comforting to start there. It doesn’t matter what tomorrow brings.
Tonight, I’m doing me.
That’s it.

Journal Entry – February 2nd, 2025

Sunday’s always been tough.
I will always love her. But God will always come first in my life now.
It’s strange, I keep getting Wizard of Oz references. Everywhere. Maybe that’s God talking to me in riddles again.
Courtney's the new girl here. She’s crazy talented when it comes to music. We played a little together today. She told me I’d be a good teacher.
Chris, the new tech, said the same thing. He’s wise beyond his years, and it’s refreshing to just talk to someone like that.
I don’t know if God speaks through them, or if my imagination is just fired up and alive in a way it hasn’t been in years.
But it feels real.
Woke up from a nap today and had a real laugh with my little family here. That kind of laugh that shakes the dust off your soul  that laugh told me I made the right decision.

Wild Flower wasn’t my end. It was my beginning.


Journal Entry – February 4th, 2025
Had a great dream last night,Forgot every damn detail. Figures.
The Devil tried to show up during Bible study, but we stomped him out. 
God’s light wins every damn time.
Had a flash of inspiration, though  
About heat shields. How life tries to burn you down, but God? God wraps you in protection, like the tiles on a spaceship, shielding you from the fire that would rip you apart. Kinda like Starship.
Kinda like grace.
______________________________________________

Journal Entry – February 5th, 2025

Today felt like i got hit by a damn freight train. Tye left this morning. Bonnie left this afternoon. Randall left tonight.
That kind of loss,It doesn’t just affect one person. It rips through the whole group like a storm tearing down a small town.
We’re studying Hosea 12 at midnight. Reaping the whirlwind. Fitting.
Caught a two hour nap after the gym. Still exhausted.
Tonight, it’s back to basics: There is a Solution.
And the Third Step Prayer  
Give it all to God, again and again, until it sticks.

Journal Entry – February 6th, 2025

Somebody left me a nasty note today. Told me to stop laughing. Told me to stop singing.
You know what? I refuse.
I’m a happy person now. And if my happiness pisses somebody off? That’s their demon, not mine.
If they think I'm the problem, they’ll find a new target the second I shut up.
Too damn bad. Find the real problem, dude.
I've noticed something else too. My handwriting changes depending on my mood. It’s weird. Almost like my soul leaks out through my pen.
Tonight, I’ll pray for everybody here. Because even the bitter ones need the light.
You can see the difference already  from the guy who first started writing this book,to the man putting down these words now.
______________________________________________
Journal Entry – February 7th, 2025

This morning, I woke up almost numb.
I miss my family. I miss home.
But damn, I needed this more than I ever knew.
Last night was different.
I slept deep and only woke up once.
Dreams were vivid, alive, and colorful.
And when I woke up, I understood, God speaks through people. 
It’s not just signs. It’s not just feelings. It’s their words, their actions, their hearts,
That’s The Universe. Talking. Teaching.

I miss home so much it feels like my chest might collapse.
I know now where I went wrong. I know why I had to be broken. I know God has a plan for me.

I’ll finish these 90 days. I’ll get a job. I’ll rebuild. Maybe  just maybe  Taraysa will see it. Maybe I’ll get my home back.
I miss my family so much. It’s a pain I never want to feel again.
Goodnight, Book.
Sweet dreams, old friend.

Little did I know, communication with Taraysa was about to get even worse.

AND things were about to get a hell of a lot harder! 
AND my world was a shit show.
God I miss my kids so much.



The night Pinky spoke was one of those nights where the rain pinged on the roof like a ticking clock, slow at first, then relentless. Wild Flower always felt smaller when it stormed, like the walls leaned in just a little closer. That night, a few of us hung back in the cafeteria, killing time with cold cocoa and warm bullshit.
Then Pinky came in.
Pinky wasn’t the kind to talk much outside of logistics  rides, meds, tech rotations. She walked like her feet remembered pain and carried herself like she wasn’t sure if she should be proud or ashamed of surviving this long. But that night, something shifted.
She sat down slowly, like the chair might betray her. Lit a cigarette she wasn’t supposed to have and stared off past us, like the truth was sitting just outside the window.
“You know,” she started, her voice a soft grind of gravel and memory, “they told me I couldn’t have kids. Scar tissue, they said. Damage from when I was younger. Said it’d be a miracle if I ever carried one.”
We waited. Nobody dared interrupt.
“It wasn't until I was deep in the bottle and neck deep in powder that it happened. Some nights I barely remember, some man I barely knew.” She laughed, bitter and hollow. “A miracle came when I was least deserving.”
She said her first pregnancy should’ve been her redemption song  but instead, it was just the first verse of another tragedy. Pinky cleaned up just long enough to deliver her baby girl, and then the spiral started again.
Two more kids followed. Different fathers. Different rehabs. Different lies.
“I thought love would fix me,” she said, eyes shining. “Turns out, I didn’t know what the hell love was. I loved the high. I loved the escape. I didn’t love myself. So how the hell was I supposed to love them?”
There wasn’t a single sound in that room. Just the storm pounding like God was listening in.
“They hate me now. And they should. They cut me off. They said I’m poison. They ain’t wrong.”
I felt a lump rise in my throat. Not because she was a stranger, but because she wasn’t. I knew that story. It was just written in a different handwriting.
“But still,” she said, her voice now steel wrapped in silk, “I wake up every day and pray that God gives me just one more shot. Not for them to love me again  but for me to finally love myself the way I should’ve all along.”
That night, Pinky wasn't Staff. She wasn’t giving rides or chore charts.
She was the truth.
And in that truth, I found a little piece of my own story bleeding back at me from the corner of her eye.

35 days to go.





 Chapter 10: The Shift
Theme Song: “Ocean Eyes” – Billie Eilish
Scripture: Ezekiel 36:26 – 'I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you.'

There’s a strange kind of silence that screams louder than any voice. That’s what this day felt like. The rest of the facility was buzzing with cheap snacks, game day tension, fake laughter echoing down the halls  but I was in a different place entirely. Not physically, but somewhere far deeper. Far quieter.
Understanding how God talks to me is, well, it isn’t easy to explain. And I’ve stopped trying to. People look at you funny when you say you hear God. Or worse, when you say you hear God and see patterns in everything. Code in words. Meaning in chaos. So I keep it to myself now. Charlie’s the only one who gets it. The only one who can help translate it, even if she can only go so far.
I wore my favorite shirt that day, the one that reads “Be Greater Than Average” in a clever little NASA equation.
 I’d worn it a dozen times before. Balance is what the shirt means now. Balance between who I was and who I’m trying to be. Between madness and purpose. Between the pain and the promise. That's the shirt that someone was wearing on day 1. When I thought I was gonna lose that too.
I had prayed  desperately, selfishly, that Taraysa would show. Even for a second. Even from a distance. But every tick of the clock made it clearer she wasn’t coming. Obviously, The Universe had closed that door.

The evening of the big game finally arrived. After weeks of emotional turmoil and a brutal freeze that seemed to suck the joy right out of the building, nobody was really excited about much anymore. But this game? This one carried weight. Being from the Wild Flower State, you’re basically born into a side where your loyalty is stitched into your DNA whether you like it or not.
I took it upon myself to be the guy who showed up for the little things. Popped some popcorn, passed it around, tried to pull people out of their shells. I even made the rare choice to come upstairs and actually sit with the group to watch part of the game. Praying  not just for a win  but to feel something again. I wasn’t even sure I understood everything happening on the screen, but that wasn’t really the point, was it?
For the first time in what felt like ages, I found myself flirting. Just a little. Caitlin, one of the overnight staff, had that kind of energy that made it easy to smile again. It wasn’t serious. It wasn't planned. Just a quick moment that reminded me I was still alive.
Everyone got a good laugh out of it, and for once, I laughed too. Not forced. Not faked. Just real. And in that strange, fleeting moment  sitting among a ragtag crew of broken souls, during a football game I barely understood  I actually felt like I belonged. Like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t so far gone after all.
______________________________________________

Journal Entry – February 10th, 2025

By this point, I’d come to a hard realization: I was going to have to grit my teeth and finish this treatment on my own. Alone. In silence.
Curly  God bless his over caffeinated soul  had pulled me aside. His voice wasn’t booming that day. No “3 2 1 back to group!” No punching the cabinet or pushups in the hall. Just a quiet warning: "Maybe stay in your room, Tee. Maybe skip the client led meetings for a while."
Translation? Lay low. Stay invisible. Don’t rock the boat.
Why? Because some of the clients had started whispering things. Ugly things. That I was dangerous. That I was a threat. One even handed out rape whistles like it was goddamn Halloween. And when someone named Smiles said he’d violently rape me  I played the part of being terrified, because that’s what they expected. But the truth? I wasn’t scared of him.
I was scared of them. All of them.
The liars. The ones painting targets on my back. The ones weaponizing fear and gossip to destroy whatever fragile progress I’d made. And the worst part? No one cared. Not the staff. Not the therapists. Not the “trusted peers.” No one.
I thought about reaching out to Johnson County Mental Health. I thought about it hard. But the fear of retaliation  of getting kicked out  kept my mouth shut.
I reread my old journal entries that night. The early ones. I needed to remind myself that I had made progress. That there was light, even if now I couldn’t see it. But if I stayed on the path I was on  letting paranoia consume me, letting their cruelty define me  I wouldn’t make it.
I stayed in my room. And I stayed there for most of the next 35 days.
______________________________________________
By this point, I wasn’t just angry at the people in the facility. I was angry at the world. At Taraysa  for not coming. At God  for staying quiet. At myself  for still hoping someone would save me.
But the pages that come next? They’re not filled with bitterness. They’re filled with the slow, brutal, soul cleansing climb back to sanity. They’re filled with conversations with a God who doesn’t shout  but whispers.
They’re filled with light.
Hidden in the margins.
Waiting for me to come home.
______________________________________________

February 10th, 2025
 In Retrospect
Every other time I’ve tried to get clean, I folded like wet paper. Meth, coke  didn’t matter. The pain came knockin’ and I’d hand it the keys. Over and over again, like some twisted ritual of self destruction. It was always a war, a shootout between who I was and who I wanted to be  and addiction always showed up with more firepower.
But this time?
This time’s different.
These journal entries aren’t just about kicking a habit anymore. They’re about unlearning a lifetime. This isn’t me fighting drugs. This is me fighting evil. This is me taking a torch to the shadows inside my soul.
The next few days, I spent most of them in total solitude. The only interaction I allowed myself was what was absolutely required during classes, maybe eight hours a day, tops. The rest of the time? I was quiet. I was listening.
To her. To God.
She started to speak in ways I didn’t expect. In silence. In warmth. In patterns. In music. And yeah  sometimes in the glint of a photograph, or the soft hum of a prayer whispered so many times it felt tattooed on the inside of my lungs.
I didn’t care if it made sense to anyone else. I prayed constantly, like a man clinging to a rope fraying above the abyss. I begged for wisdom. I begged for grace. And slowly, I stopped feeling like I was screaming into a void. Slowly, it felt like someone was actually listening.
This chapter in my recovery wasn't just healing. It was a rebirth. I didn’t go to bed praying I’d stay clean. I went to bed feeling like I already was.
I used to need people to laugh, to distract me. Now? I was finding joy in the quiet. I wasn’t hiding, I was being held.
I don’t know what’s next. But I know this much: I need to start tracking their presence. God doesn’t just vanish after a moment of clarity. They linger and evolve with us. 
I want to see how everything continues to speak, shift, move. Whether in words, moments, or the space between it all.
Because if The Universe is guiding me  then I need to follow.
______________________________________________

February 11th, 2025

Emotional trauma is a bastard. It’s like a ghost that haunts every mirror you look in, whispering regrets like bedtime lullabies. And getting past it? It’s like trying to outrun your own shadow.
But it’s never too late to begin again. That’s what they keep saying. And today, I’m starting to believe it.
They had us write down the words, the actions, the memories we needed to let go of. The stuff that still haunts us. I filled the page without thinking. And when the time came, I shredded that paper like it was a demon’s skin.
But even after the shredder did its job  those words? They still echoed in the back of my mind. You can’t unwrite your past. You can only walk through it. With God, if you’re lucky.
Trauma's a shapeshifter. Sometimes it’s a single moment, a sharp sting. Other times it’s a slow drip of years of pain poured into a soul not built to carry it. And now we’re diving deep into it: acute, chronic, complex, developmental. Polyvagal theory. How your nervous system becomes a battlefield. How survival rewires your entire being.
Today, I didn’t cry. But I didn’t smile either. I sat with it. And The Universe sat with me.
______________________________________________

February 11th, 2025

This morning started with a strange weight. Last night, they told me I had a high level of alcohol in my system  which makes no damn sense, because I don’t drink. The only things I can think of are the aftershave I use or all the grape juice I’ve been pounding down lately. I’ve gone through a lot of it.
The way they came in was aggressive, like they were hunting for something. Ren was with them. She even took the bottle of grape juice I had set aside on the top shelf as an offering. I’ve been trying to understand what offerings to God mean, what they do, and how they’re used. Maybe I thought it would help get my prayers heard a little clearer.
Either way, the group today was good. Surprisingly good. But I’m carrying a lot of guilt right now  especially about the way I treated people in my past. Taraysa, she has every reason to hate me. And honestly? I don’t blame her.



February 12th, 2025

 Woke up at 3:00 a.m. and couldn’t fall back asleep. My mind wouldn’t let me.
Had a deep conversation with Courtney about faith and how so many religions complicate something that should be simple. Why do people feel the need to twist it all up? It should be to love one another. Treat others how you want to be treated. Don’t lie. Don’t steal. Don’t kill. That’s it.
But they muddy it all up  with rules, profit, and fear. They weaponize belief. It’s easier to scare people into obedience than to show them what God’s love actually looks like. It never had to be that way. If the world could just let go of the bullshit and come to God raw and real, things would be so much simpler.
______________________________________________

February 14th, 2025 – Valentine’s Day

Happy Valentine’s Day, I guess.
I’ve been sick the past four days. Haven’t left my room. My face is breaking out. I can barely breathe. I feel like hell, and I hate being sick. No roses, no candy, no Taraysa. Just me and this cold ass pillow.




February 16th, 2025

Still sick. But I finally sat down and caught up on my journal. I’ve decided to give everything  over to The Universe.
Gratitude check:
I’m grateful for my communication with God.
I’m grateful for my addiction. Yeah, I said it.
I’m grateful I found Mr. Pibb.
I’m grateful I got a Bible bigger than my old one.
I’m truly grateful  for my sponsor.
That’s not a bad list, considering I’ve felt like shit all week.
______________________________________________




February 17th, 2025

Today started off strong. I played Heart and Soul with Courtney, and damn, it felt good.
We both nailed it and played both parts on the piano. That used to be something I’d mess with when I was a kid, but I never had anyone to actually play both parts with. So now, every time I get the chance, I take it. And it always gives me that goofy, can’t help but smile kinda joy.
I needed that moment. I needed that music.
Powerless, but Not Without Purpose
Realizing that people can be analyzed, counseled, reasoned with, prayed over, threatened, beaten, locked up  you name it  but none of that matters if they’re not ready to change. That’s the hard truth we face in recovery. You can throw the whole damn kitchen sink at someone, and they’ll keep using until they decide to stop.
Maybe the hardest part of all this is accepting just how powerless we really are. Powerless over drugs. Over alcohol. Over sex, gambling, chaos  pick your poison. Addiction doesn’t discriminate. And it doesn’t loosen its grip just because we’ve had a spiritual awakening. That’s only step one.
See, once you’ve had that awakening, that little flicker of hope  you still have to walk the path. Every day. Every minute. You don’t have to be perfect, but you do have to try. That’s where the real work lives.
You can’t force somebody to get clean. Nobody could’ve forced me. I had to want it  and even that wasn’t enough until I truly believed it.
And just because I say, “I’m done with drugs,” doesn’t mean my heart automatically heals. Doesn’t mean the people I love come running back. The other half of the equation still has to want you, too. That’s the part that cuts the deepest  when you finally choose them, and they’re no longer choosing you.
You wish you could crawl inside their mind, pull the strings, make them understand. “This time it’ll be different,” you swear. “This time I mean it.” But how many times have we said that already?
And when you refuse to help someone  or when they refuse you  it only pushes harder on both sides. Makes you wonder if anyone really gives a damn. Especially when it’s someone you’d set yourself on fire for just to keep them warm.
But here’s what I know now: becoming the authority over your own life after living it for someone else is no small feat. It’s terrifying. It’s lonely. But it’s also the only way forward.
I had to accept that I am powerless  over my addiction, over other people, over how things shake out.
But I’m not without purpose.
And I’ll carry that message  with my wounds, my truth, and my recovery  in everything I do from here on out.

February 18th, 2025

 Tonight’s Bible study was Isaiah 11:11.
We dove into justice, real justice. Knowing right from wrong, and figuring out how to act when faced with choices that test your soul.
We talked about knowing when someone’s stolen something, or hurt themselves, or endangered someone’s sobriety. That kind of knowledge burns a hole in your gut if you don’t know what to do with it.
Is it my place to speak up? Or should I stay silent and pray?
The truth is  only God knows what we’re supposed to do. But we can still ask for His guidance.
I broke it down like this:
A: Is it your place to act or not?
B: Will God reveal what needs to happen?
C: Pray, and let the path become clear.

It’s not about forcing the outcome. It’s about letting The Universe guide our response. Using the tools we’ve been given. And trusting that their will leads, not ours.


















Chapter 11: Epiphany in isolation
Song: “Yellow” by Coldplay
Scripture: Matthew 6:6 – 'But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen.'

After days locked in my room  voluntarily, mind you  I ran into a wall. Solitude had stripped away the distractions. The noise, the people, the nonsense. All of it faded. And in that stillness, something cracked open.
I started thinking about God  not just praying or pleading, but really thinking. Wondering how divine messages could be stitched into everything, how God speaks through people, even the ones we least expect. And then, boom. My brain snapped to an old obsession: the double slit experiment.
It’s one of those freaky quantum physics tests I revisit every year or so, trying to wrap my head around what it means. Two slits. One particle. Infinite mystery. And after 45 to 50 hours of meditation and silence, it hit me like lightning through my spine:
God is the observer.
In the double slit experiment, particles act differently depending on whether they’re being watched. When unmonitored, they behave like waves, full of potential and possibility. But when someone’s watching? They collapse. They choose a lane. A path. A shape. A destiny.
That’s God.
God, being omniscient and outside time, sees it all. Every possibility. Every collapse. Every outcome. All at once. The observer is not just watching  but being the reason things settle where they do.
It wasn’t just a scientific revelation. It was spiritual.

 It made my heart pound and my hands shake. It explained everything and nothing all at once. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I laughed. Really laughed. That deep, chest shaking, grateful kind of laugh that only comes after you survive some kind of war, spiritual or otherwise.
I didn’t write for the next three or four days. I didn’t need to. I was basking in the joy of knowing. That my madness wasn’t madness. That God did have a plan. Maybe I was never lost. I just hadn’t slowed down long enough to listen.
And while I may never prove any of this with equations or chalkboards, I know what I felt. What I saw in that silence.
And that’s enough. 
The fact of the matter was, I had solved my puzzle. The puzzle that most meth addicts or any addict for that matter have. I answered the question,Who are “They”? 
 
Journal Entry – February 20th, 2025
 This work I’m doing? This sacred, maddening, relentless work? It is not just important, it's cosmic. Bigger than me. Bigger than any living thing crawling this broken Earth. And still, I’m sitting in the middle of a rehab zoo, surrounded by souls who either got clean once or are tryna fake it for the 90 days. And the staff? Shit, sometimes I think they’re sleepwalking through chaos. They let half the handbook violations slide, but I get it. I really do. You treat a bunch of addicts like inmates, they’ll start acting like 'em.
But here’s the kicker: this place doesn't even feel like recovery most days. It feels like cognitive behavioral bootcamp with a side of cafeteria gossip. You want to recover here? You better be ready to do it damn near alone.
And I have. In my bunk. In my music. Through prayer, pages, and pages of the Big Book  and the even bigger Book. I am not just battling addiction anymore. I’m watching people crumble under the weight of their own minds, anger, depression, grief, insanity with a polite name. And it’s getting hard to not just walk out and vanish like vapor.
I’m still here, though. Because God’s still here. 
Today, I got an idea. A TV show. I don’t know what the hell it is yet  maybe it’ll tank like everything else  but damn if it didn’t light a fire under my tired ass.





Journal Entry – February 25th, 2025

My shuttle model’s almost 80% done, just like me. Standing upright, kinda holding together, missing a few vital pieces but still recognizable. Still functional. Still fighting gravity.
This journey? It hasn't been clean. It hasn’t been pretty. But it’s been worth it.
Today, I dedicate every sweat stained, tear soaked second  to God and my mom. She may be gone from this world, but they’ve never felt closer. I can feel them  whispering strength into my bones.
So today, I started my book, the one that’ll live long after I’m gone  and I started writing names. Names of the people I love. Names I carry on my back. I asked God to hold them, to guard them, to guide them. Just like they do with me.









Journal Entry – February 27th, 2025

 God’s got jokes.
I started my damn day at my county’s Mental Health Department  right back where the story began. Full circle. Except this time, I got God. I got me.
I hate that it took what it did to get here. I hate that Taraysa made the choice she did. But I also know it’s the most important thing I ever did  to stay. Walk through this fire. Let it burn off the bullshit and find what’s real underneath.
______________________________________________

After this entry, everything blurred. This was the night it happened. 
No writing for almost two weeks. I felt like my brain short circuited at the last second of my recovery and nothing I wrote down would have made any sense anyway.The world spun fast. People left. People broke. The whole place trembled with unrest. It felt like God wasn’t just testing me  He was testing the whole damn house.
Recovery ain’t just about staying clean.  It’s about surviving the fallout.  And if there’s one thing I know now?  I didn’t survive this. I resurrected through it.
For three days, I didn’t leave my room. Not once. After my revelation I  got really sick  and yeah, maybe I milked it a little. I needed space. I needed time. I needed God. I curled up in that room like a monk in a cell, wrapped up in prayer and meditation, flipping through the Bible like it held all the codes to my broken circuitry. Maybe it does.
I started to realize something in those hours. I’m not just here to get clean. I’m not just here to write a damn book. I’m here to change lives. My words, sure  but also just me. The presence. The energy. When I walk into a room now, I want it to echo with something holy. And I’m not saying that to flex  I'm saying it because when you finally feel the pulse of God running through your blood, you understand, the code is everywhere.
I don’t gotta crack it anymore. I can feel it.
______________________________________________

March 2nd, 2025

I haven’t written like I should’ve these last couple weeks. Been dealing with a lot. Today I will write what really happened.
All of this  every fall, every relapse, every heartbreak  was done deliberately. If I hadn’t walked through hell, I’d have never known what kind of monster was waiting on the other side of the mirror. The version of me I was becoming, he was darker than I ever want to admit.
These words on the page are not mine alone. They’re placed here by something far greater than me. I write with a hand guided. Some will read this and see love eternal. Some will only catch the shadow. The truth’s buried in how you read it. Letter by letter, line by line. Acronyms, whispers, clues. Like I said: the code is everywhere. 
God is not subtle.
Will write more later.
______________________________________________
8:24 PM
Frank made his choice. He’s leaving the program. Not ready to give it all up yet. Not ready to meet God at the gate. And maybe that’s okay. 
______________________________________________
10:18 PM
I’m struggling with meditation. Something’s blocking me, some weight in my chest that won’t lift. But that’s okay. Because change is coming  I feel it in my bones. The next few days, you’ll see it. Big shifts. Big growth.
______________________________________________

March 3rd, 2025 – 14 days to go

Still no visits from Taraysa. Not one. Her last visit, it was off. Something was wrong. I felt it deep. The way she looked at me. The way she kept glancing at her phone like someone else was there, maybe even in the damn car. Was it a mind game? Was she trying to break me?
Wouldn’t be the first time.
But I refuse to break.
Goals from here out?
Reconnect with God, no static in the signal.
Keep journaling. It’s my armor.
Study harder. Listen more. Talk less.
Bible study  every day, no excuses.
Lock into a group. Stop hiding.
And talk to God. Constantly. Loud and unashamed.
______________________________________________

March 4th, 2025

Today  I bawled like a baby. No shame in it. I walked into the little library, just trying to get away from the noise in my head, and there it was  life, unfolding in the most innocent way. A young man telling stories to a room full of wide eyed kids, each word lighting them up like Christmas morning. Their faces, their laughter, it reminded me of the eight children I helped raise.
That innocence, the spark in children is sacred. And we throw it away like it’s nothing. I did.
Peter came at me sideways again. Cost me a friendship. I had to set a boundary the same way Taraysa did with me. I get it now. Hell, I deserved what I got from her. What she endured? Man, I can’t imagine anyone surviving the version of me that she got.
I told Redbeard  something today I’ve never said out loud. “I should be found not guilty for killing the prick I used to be.” oh by the way book, he made it here from detox!
 I think I finally found the root. Meth? That wasn’t the primary addiction. It was sex. Compulsion. Control. Pain masked as pleasure. I’ve got work to do when I get home.
Tonight, I opened Psalms again. And I thought of her.
She deserved better than I ever was. But I’m not that man anymore. And in my soul, I hope she sees that someday.
There’s a truth I unlocked through the fire:
God is the only answer to salvation. You don’t just say His name and walk free.
You don’t just ask and expect to be used. You offer yourself like a tool in the hand of a master smith  
And if you’re worthy, you’re not picked up gently. You are tempered. You are tested. You are forged in flame hotter than any hell you've survived. I’m not saying I’m righteous, but I damn sure ain’t the same.
______________________________________________






Chapter 12: One Season at a Time
Song: “Higher” by Creed
"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven."
(Ecclesiastes 3:1, KJV)

March 16th, 2025

The day finally came.
Freedom.
My sponsor was coming to pick me up in two hours. My bags were packed, my journal closed, and my mind? Racing. And that’s when Smiles came out.
No jokes. No grins. Just that stillness he always carried like a shadow. He said, “Let’s walk.”
So we did. Quiet. Fifty steps, maybe. Then he looked at me and said, “Are you ready?”
I told him, “I think so.”
He nodded and said, “Most men who did what you did here would've gone  walked out or been dragged out. But you stayed. You know why you never finish anything?”
I said, “No.”
He said, “Because you love doing it too much. You don’t want it to end.”
And damn, he was right.
Finishing this book? These last chapters? They’re harder than the darkest parts. Because once it’s done  it’s real. The pain, the change, the growth.
But I will finish.
When I left Wild Flower, I finally reached out to Taraysa. She answered. She told me we were done. She said she’d been seeing someone else. No friendship. No rekindling. It was over.
I cried. Quietly.
Then my sponsor picked me up and  of all places  took me straight to a liquor store. Not for booze. For the slot machines. The car reeked of cigarette smoke. And I realized, this wasn’t the fresh start I’d imagined. But maybe  just maybe  it was still the right one.

Journal Entry 4/19/2025 – Reflecting at the Desk
As I sit here, surrounded by stacks of books, some worn, some barely cracked, it hits me. I’m pulling from every direction to write this story, and it’s funny, because on the surface these sources are worlds apart, but to me? They all say the same damn thing.
Whether it’s the Big Book of AA, the Bible, or my own scribbled notes on torn out pages  somehow it all bleeds together. It's all one voice. One pulse. One truth whispered in a thousand tongues. When I open the Anonymous Big Book, I always find something dense, something meaty  that grabs me by the gut and pulls me back to center. It’s like opening a window and catching a breath of air you forgot you needed.
When it comes to the bible, it doesn’t even matter what book you flip to. I’ve cracked that thing open at random and found peace staring back at me, more times than I can count.

 Psalms, Luke, Isaiah  it’s all alive. That book talks if you know how to listen.
Strong’s Complete Dictionary of Bible Words has been a lifesaver too. Latin, Hebrew, Greek  ancient tongues feeding modern wounds. It’s more than a dictionary. It’s a decoder ring for the divine.
Then there’s my journals.
I’ve got journals for everything. Work journals, Bible study journals, random "jot down crazy shit before I forget it" journals, and Alice in Wonderland. That one deserves its own mention. It’s the journal I used for a big chunk of this journey. And I mean it when I say: the damn cover alone hits harder than most sermons I’ve heard.
I’ll get into that journal later. The scribbles, the symbols, the stuff I was barely brave enough to write at the time. But just know  when I say “Alice in Wonderland,” I am not just talking about the book. I’m talking about the rabbit hole I dove into, and the mad tea party I found at the bottom.
Everything’s connected.
Everything’s code.
And I’m just trying to crack it while the ink’s still wet.


Before leaving Wild Flower, I already knew deep down  an Oxford house wasn’t gonna cut it. I needed privacy. I needed quiet. I needed peace. I needed to not constantly be counting my things or wondering who was walking off with ‘em. I didn’t want to sleep in a trap house with 15 different dealers on speed dial all living under one roof.
I talked it over with Calvin, my sponsor, and he agreed. He said I could crash at his place for a while, help out a bit, get on my feet. It seemed fair.
But the moment that car pulled up to take me away from Wild Flower, I knew the road ahead was gonna be rough. I recognized the driver, another ex user, the same circles, the same ghosts. Before I could even settle in, we made a stop, a liquor store that doubled as a damn casino. 

That first night sleeping arrangements, Couch. 
For the first time in over four years, I had to sleep like that. I remembered the feeling of homelessness all too well. It wasn’t just uncomfortable, it was humiliating. I slept maybe two hours, tops.
The next day, I learned about the basement. Concrete floors. Dust and grime. It wasn’t pretty, but it was mine for the moment. Calvin said there was a mattress I could use, so I cleaned up my corner of that concrete cave, and for the next two weeks, that space became my sanctuary.
It was in that cold, quiet basement, I started writing this book.
Meeting my case manager, Molly, for the first time hit me like a sucker punch I didn’t see coming. She was stunning  but not just on the outside. That girl was brilliant, sharp as hell. I could tell by the way she carried herself that she’d walked the same twisted roads I had. She just made it out before they swallowed her whole.
I didn’t even know her, but for some reason, I wanted to make her proud. Maybe it was the way she looked at me  like she already knew what I’d been through, like she saw the wreckage and the rebuild all in one glance. There was a ghost behind her smile. Same one I’d seen in my own eyes. But hers didn’t haunt, it warned.
Dolly was tall, and the questions she asked were difficult,direct. “Whats gonna get you where you need to be Tee?” “You need to be there for yourself, fuck whoever wants to direct your path. That's your path, not theirs.” These are things Dolly would tell me with conviction..warning.
She didn’t play the office game. She came to the house. Sat down with me. I talked like a real one. This wasn’t just case management, this was connection. And somehow, that connection made everything else fall in line.
I landed my first job at a pizza joint up the street. Just weekends, nothing fancy. But before I even slid a pizza into a box, the second gig dropped in my lap. Roofing company, tech support, phone work. I took to it like I was born for it. Breaking sales records. Living clean. Living differently.
How the hell did this become my life?
Everything had flipped. The old me had burned away. This new me was walking out of the ashes like a man finally forged. God wasn’t just out there in church pews or scriptures anymore. God was in every gesture. Every laugh. Every damn bird singing at sunrise. It wasn’t code. It was clarity.
I was happy. Alone, sure  but not empty. I’d become someone I liked.
And then there was Taraysa.
I kept begging her to bring me my stuff. I just wanted that last tie cut clean. I kept trying to talk to her. Hoping for some  closure, peace, maybe even grace. Instead, she told me the truth. She was seeing multiple people. Playing the field. One of them? Might’ve been a friend of mine.
That burned. Rage tried to rise.
But I made a commitment to God  to be in love. To carry peace. To walk without vengeance.
So I did the only thing that mattered.
I packed away her picture. That same picture that stayed next to me every night at Wild Flower. Through every step of this storm.
I put it in the suitcase.
And I haven’t opened it since.
Eventually, she agreed to bring me some of my things. After 90 days of waiting, of hoping, of praying  man, all I really wanted was to see my damn dog. That was it. I didn’t expect some big family reunion or her to fall into my arms. Hell, I knew my family didn’t want to see me. She didn’t either. But the dog? That was my heart.
I made her a promise back in December  standing on that porch, shaking from withdrawal and heartbreak  that I’d come back. I even kept a tuft of her hair in my wallet, pressed flat like it meant everything, because it did.
But when the time came, Taraysa refused. Wouldn’t let me see my dog. Said she’d bring me a few things instead. And she did  kind of.
Some of my clothes showed up, covered in my dog’s fur. That hit me hard. Like a ghost brushing past. But they smelled damp, moldy  like maybe the basement hadn’t been touched in weeks. Like I’d been gone too long for anything to matter anymore.
She brought a box too. I got excited for a second  it had my rocket on the side. One of my prints. Something I’d poured my heart into.
But when I opened it?
Empty.
Just a shell. No rocket. No fire left.
That’s when I saw her. I really saw her. First time since the Hope comment scared her away at Wildflower. She turned to leave, No warmth in her eyes. No light. No spark.
It wasn’t her anymore.
Or maybe it was, and I was the one who changed.
I stood there, realizing maybe the code was right all along. Maybe the Taraysa I knew  the one I loved  was gone. Lost somewhere back there, in all the wreckage I helped create.
And maybe that’s okay.
Because Tee was gone too.
Now, I’m just TJ.
A few days later, there was a knock at the door. Not a friendly one, not a pizza delivery or a neighbor checking in. This knock had that cold rhythm that makes your stomach twist. It was the Sheriff’s Department.
They were there to serve me a no contact order.
I stood there holding the paper, feeling like the world just cracked open again. The reason? A text. Just a damn text. I’d messaged her something like, “That will always be our bedroom. I still want to come home.” That’s it. Nothing threatening. No violence. Just longing, grief, and maybe a little too much hope bleeding out of me.
But she twisted it. Somehow, that turned into fear. Or at least something that gave her the green light to shut the door for good. Maybe she really was scared. Or maybe she needed to be. I don’t know.
The friend of mine she’d been sleeping with? 
 I messaged him too. I asked him how he could call himself a friend and still do that to me. No response, just blocked. And I guess that was the trigger. That’s what brought the Sheriff to my doorstep.
I wasn’t threatening anybody. I was just trying to understand how the pieces of my life got scattered so far I couldn’t pick them up anymore.
Meanwhile, I was grinding. Working weekends at the pizza joint, holding it down best I could. The roofing job? Man, I was killin’ it. I was breaking records, pushing through, staying focused. God was still showing up in weird ways, whispering through the noise. And I thought, maybe, just maybe, I was climbing out.
Then the bottom fell out again.
My phone? Man, that thing had history.
It wasn’t just some device I used to scroll or text, it was a damn vault. That phone had been with me since the early days with Taraysa. It held pictures of Goose, of vacations we took, of smiles I thought I’d never lose. It was the last piece of “us” I still had in my hands. I had already given up everything else: my home, my comfort, even my identity. I guess deep down, I knew this phone was next.
And I was right.
The number was lost. SIM dead. Locked tighter than Fort Knox. Useless. A brick with memories.
My only option? One of those recycle machines in a Walmart lobby. You drop your phone in, they spit out a few bucks. Cold. Soulless. Just like the chapter I was leaving behind.
Before I did it, I stopped. I prayed. Real quiet like. Just me and God and that busted up hunk of plastic that somehow held my entire past.
I said, “Lord, if it’s time to let go, give me peace. Show me the path.”
And they did.
I dropped that phone into the machine. It blinked, whirred, then spit out a number that made me pause. Over $200. From a phone I thought was worthless. I blinked again just to make sure I wasn’t trippin’.
I walked into the phone store, figuring I’d end up with some off-brand flip phone with buttons too small for redemption. But nah.
I walked outta there with the same damn phone, just a newer model. Better service. Cleaner screen. And I spent less than a hundred bucks.
That’s not luck. That’s God math.
That’s what happens when you stop clutching the old and let go.
 When you trust the Creator who wired every molecule of your soul  and every circuit in that busted up phone or car, THEY know exactly when it’s time to trade the past for the future.
And I’d barely even started.
Little did I know, what was coming next would change everything.
Calvin relapsed.
Started smoking crack in the damn van. Didn’t even try to hide it. No meetings. No accountability. No apologies. Just a spiral.
And watching him fall? That shook me. It hit too close to home. I started looking in the mirror a little too long. I started questioning myself. Started hearing those old voices, the ones that tell you this is who you really are.
It’s hard to keep pushing when the people beside you stop walking.
And in that moment, I felt like I was right back where I started. Choking on disappointment. Drowning in silence. Wondering how the hell I was supposed to stay sober when the world around me just kept lighting matches.
But I kept going. Barely.
Because that’s what this life demands: motion. Even when it hurts like hell.
I didn’t know how I was gonna make it. But I knew I had to. My time in that house was always going to be limited. That place was a halfway point, not a home.
So I did what I’ve always done when the world kicks my ribs. I got up, shook it off and asked for more.
I started leaning into my job, into the people around me. I made friends with the folks at work. I started to see some light again.
And that’s when I met B.
Now, I’m not speaking in metaphor, I'm talking about a real person. A living, breathing kind of B. One of my coworkers at the pizza joint. She was going through some of the same battles  addiction, rebuilding, trying to find her footing again. It was like looking into a mirror, but one that smiled back.
One night, she pulled me out of the dark.
She didn’t ask. She just said, “We’re going out.” Took me to some country bar in Kansas City. Me, the guy who dances like a broken vending machine  just posted up in the corner with a bottle of water in hand while everyone boot scooted around me.
But B? She lit the room up.
And when the music faded and the night slowed down, we ended up back at her place.
Then everything shifted,again.
She showed me her art  walls full of it. Paintings she’d done years ago. Colors that bled emotion. Lines that screamed without a sound. And as we talked, I realized something was happening. Real communication. Not just words.
It was like she was answering questions I hadn’t even asked out loud. Not just that night  but questions I’d been screaming inside my head for years.
She didn’t know it. Or maybe she did. She’d had a few drinks. I was sober on Sunday morning. But it was there, plain as day. In the way she spoke. In the way her paintings stared back at me. It was like a cipher I didn’t have to decode, just had to feel.
And in that moment, I knew,This woman was meant to be part of my life.
Not as some romance. Not as some rescue.
But as a friend. A real one. A lighthouse in a storm I didn’t even know I was still sailing through.
B reminded me what this whole damn journey’s been about  connection. Presence. Purpose.
And maybe, just maybe, God’s been painting through her hand this whole time.
Calvin came home from detox with that same look in his eye  the one that said something was coming, and I wasn’t gonna like it. He called me upstairs.
The house had been going downhill for a while. Plumbing was shot. Ants were making a damn army downstairs. It wasn’t home, it was survival. And now, it was eviction.
He looked at me, calm but firm. “It’s time, man. You gotta start lookin’ for a place. Now.”
No discussion. No delay.
I didn’t know where to start. My brain started spinning. All I could think was  not again. Not another concrete floor. Not another basement. Not another fucking reset.
My first call was B. I hated doing that. Hated putting that kind of pressure on a friend. But I didn’t have many options. I just needed help… any kind.
She tried. God, she really did. But there wasn’t much she could do. Not right away. And I could tell it killed her not to be able to swoop in and fix it. But this wasn’t her burden.
This was mine.
And here I was again  on the edge. Back against the wall. Nowhere to go but forward, or fall.
But I wasn’t gonna fall this time. Not again.
To quote Captain Jean Luc Picard, “The line must be drawn here! This is far,  no farther!”
And damn if that didn’t strike my soul like a freight train.
I saw the darkness creeping in again, like smoke under the door. That old familiar chill, the one that whispers, “You ain’t gonna make it this time.” Things weren’t looking good. I knew it. I felt it. If I didn’t figure this out  for myself  there’d be no next chapter.
One Monday morning  sun barely up, caffeine not even kicked in. I opened my phone and saw it: an email from an attorney. Now, I don’t know about you, but emails from lawyers don’t usually come with good news. But this one did.
The child support case I’d been dragging behind me like a rusty anchor for over four years, was finally over.
The court had ruled. Official. Documented. The child was not mine. I’d been released, no more battles, no more garnishments, no more black marks against my name. It was over. My record? Cleared.
I sat there staring at the screen for a long time. It didn’t feel real.
This chapter, yeah, it’ll get its own book someday. There’s a storm behind that part of the story that ain’t ready to be told just yet. But when it is  if God gives me the grace to write it  you’ll understand why that email felt like a resurrection.
With that weight off my back, I started thinking about next steps. One thing I’d always loved doing was rideshare. Hell, it wasn’t just about money or miles  it was about freedom. I could rent a car, work when I wanted, meet all kinds of people, and most importantly  I could move.
So I fired up the app, updated my info, got everything lined up. But just as I was about to get rolling,
“You need a background check.”
Of course. God’s got jokes, remember?
I waited a few days, not worried. Not panicked like I used to be. Because now I had faith  not in the system, but in The Universe.
Then it came in. “There’s a problem with your background check.”
Old me? Would’ve spiraled. Would’ve thrown the phone, cursed the sky, blamed the universe.
New me? I breathed.
I already knew what it was. The case that was just dismissed. I went straight to the source. Pulled the official court letter, fired off emails to the background check company, then contacted the rideshare support line. Professional. Calm. Focused.
And guess what?
Both companies got back to me  positively.
Said it was being handled. Said things looked good.
That might not sound like much to some people  but to me? That was everything. Because I knew deep in my bones that this wasn’t luck. This wasn't a coincidence.
I do not believe in coincidence.
That was God.  Moving on Her timeline.  Not mine.  And I was finally okay with that.
Nobody could save me. Nobody would. This was between me, the silence, and God.
So I dropped to my knees right in front of that window. Cold hardwood pressing into my skin like the weight of every bad decision I’d ever made. I bowed my head and prayed. Not with fancy words. Not with shame. But with need.
“God, guide me. Show me where to go. I can’t see the road.”
And almost like it was scripted  like the whole damn universe had been waiting for me to finally surrender. My phone buzzed.
Just one alert. Just one app.
Rooms for rent  local.
I opened it. My eyes damn near popped outta my head.
 It wasn’t just a listing. It was a sign.
With just three days left and not a single plan in sight, I checked in with Charlie. I asked her to look into that app  the one that just happened to pop up right when I needed it most. She dug into it, ran it down like she always does.
Legit. All of it. Everything checked out. Now I had a decision to make. $214 upfront plus an application fee. My total? $290.
That's it. That’s all I had. And no time left. But when I looked at the pictures of the place  I knew.
God put this on my phone. She dropped it in my path like a breadcrumb in the wilderness. And just like that cold morning back in December, standing on that porch whispering a promise to my dog, I felt it again:
This was it. This was home. Same floors, same tile, same cabinet hardware.
Not the one I thought I’d be going back to.  Not the one with Taraysa.  Not the one with my past. But it was mine.
So I did what I’ve learned to do. I hit my knees, and I prayed. Hard.
Then I paid the fee. Paid the money. Every last cent.
And as soon as I clicked "submit" that weight lifted. Not just from my chest, but from my soul. It was like God reached down and pulled the pressure out of me with Her own hands.
I could finally breathe again. This wasn't just about a room. This was a resurrection. A brand new start. My new chapter. But damn,I missed my dog.
As I write these last few pages, I’m sitting in my new home. It’s week to week. But ain’t that the point?
One day at a time. One week at a time. One moment at a time.
That’s how you rebuild when everything's been shattered. You don’t jump to the top  you climb, bruised knuckles and all.
I still talk to God every day. I still miss my dog with a hurt that no one will ever understand. And even now, as I type these words to this page, I know God’s still tucking little messages in between the lines  still giving me hope when I least expect it.
I don’t know where these words are going to land. But I damn sure know where I would’ve landed if I hadn’t started chasing the truth buried in all those codes, all those hidden messages.
And the wildest part? It was never hidden. It was right in front of me the whole time.
Grab a Bible. Hold it. Talk to God, really talk. Tell them what’s on your heart. Ask for your sign. Then open it. Don’t scroll. Don’t hunt. Just look. Top left. First words you see. Your answer’s been waiting.
God doesn’t make mistakes.

I wish I had some fairy tale to end this with. I wish I could tell you I got a record deal, or that I solved the mysteries of the quantum world and rewrote science with a single theory.
But I didn’t.
This book ends with a man who’s still healing, who still aches for his family  but who’s learning to live anyway. To walk forward. To trust the path.
This book ends with a man who finally understands what it means to stop counting the days,
And start making the days count.