Addiction

153. TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS IN RECOVERY

When I turned 27 years old, I stood at the edge of a cliff. It would be three more years before I sobered up, and the time between the worst of my addiction and my surprising salvation was to be hell on Earth. I started breaking down with tremendous strides, both physically and mentally. My pace back then was a handle of vodka a day. I did, however, manage to keep working, though looking back, I don’t know how. My boss (who I’m still friends with today, go figure) was either oddly sympathetic or just didn’t care. In any case what was required of me, I accomplished for the most part, so repercussions were rare. Since I was a one-man crew and no one else relied on me showing up, I would often blow off my duties in favor of staying home and getting hammered. Putting off my workload was rather easy since it required no sacrifice (other than broken expectations) on the part of the customer, so this “logic” justified my ever-increasing incompetence.

During this period I was sent north to scrub and wax a TJ Maxx in Fort Collins, one of many such similar trips. I usually felt like garbage, but this night was especially tough. After being left alone to my duties I decided to call a hotline looking for help, mental help, and all they did was repeatedly ask me if I was going to hurt myself. I said no several times, but they were persistent with the question. They ultimately asked me if there was anything in the store I could hurt myself with, which startled me. I remember saying I suppose I could take a running start with my head down at a brick wall. When I told them that, they called the police department. Luckily the front doors were locked with just a turn bolt inside (they normally were keyed on both sides) and after talking for a couple of minutes through the glass, I reluctantly let them in. They didn’t officially arrest me, but they did shuttle me to the station after contacting the store manager.

I had acting normal down to a science even when I was falling over inside, and they were surprised to meet with someone who was outwardly, quite calm and stable. I passed a breathalyzer so there was nothing they could charge me with. We talked about my issues but little else came of the incident. They were kind, and after a few hours they brought me back to my truck and I drove home. Looking back these days, I understand why the cops were called. The person on the other end of the phone could not act unless I was a danger to myself, so they played the script they had. I disagreed with their motives, but to them they were warranted.

The horrors of the days to come couldn’t have been described by Dante’. My trips to the bathroom were always a bloody mess, literally. The first time I turned the toilet red I almost passed out from the sheer sight of it. The second time, I didn’t care. My urine was consistently pink, and I could spit blood. Nose bleeds were common too. My bouts of dipteral tremens were exceedingly common, and blackouts, once something I had sidestepped, became the norm. How I managed to live through those times could only be described as astonishing. How I got out was miraculous.

Today I celebrate my 27th year in recovery. Twenty-seven years ago I was a liability to anyone who knew me, and truthfully, to most people I met casually as well. On the 28th of July in 1995 I took my last drink and have been actively in front of my demons since. I have so many things to be grateful for these days and constant practice of this attitude feeds both continued resolve and a life of abundance. There’s nothing on earth I would trade my journey for.

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With Love and Compassion, Daniel Andrew Lockwood

147. A BLOODY CHILDHOOD

My childhood was lived in fear. I never had any siblings so I was sole the victim of my mother’s rage several times a week. Many times she would set an alarm clock next to the counter where I was washing dishes and if it went off before I was done, she’d start beating me with coat hangers at the sink. If I missed even one speck of anything, same consequence. I was screwed either way. Yes, I’ll admit I was indeed slow and I hated doing it. Gosh, I wonder why? When she was too lazy to vacuum, she used to make me crawl around picking things out of carpet while she pointed out what would catch her eye, and if I missed something, WHAM! Usually my whippings would not commence unless she made me strip totally naked first. As a little kid, even as young as kindergarten, I was often left home alone, and on the way out the door mother would take great pleasure in turning around to say, “When we get back you’re going to get a spanking.” The waiting was always worse than the actual incident; mental torture combined with physical pain.

All too often I’d go to school bruised, bleeding through my clothing. No one ever noticed that I knew of. I was the primary target of her mental instability and usually for some sort lousy excuse like “You’re not like other children, you’re much worse.” At the time I thought I actually was the catalyst of her behavior. As a result I spent a good deal of my childhood in introspection. Looking back all I can think is, wow. I was six, seven, eight, nine years old, who does this to a little kid? I was fed, clothed, housed, and so on, but to be honest, I never felt loved.

By default my father was just as guilty as my mother because although he was aware of what was happening, he never tried to stop anything. I didn’t realized this until it was pointed out in my early thirties. THAT sucked.

It’s a good thing my parents never had more kids. Who knows how they would have turned out.

There’s no doubt I was different and weird, still am, proudly I might add. Even as a boy my thoughts and behaviors were odd. “I’m learning patience, I’m learning what NOT to do to others when I get older, I’m finding other ways to eke out joy and peace from other avenues.” I was admittedly prone to be self-centered, loud, and pushy. These were traits I (hopefully) eventually grew out of as I became more and more self-aware.

Now, my life was NOT constant torture. I got birthday and Christmas presents. I had a few friends. I never went hungry. My parents did fight at the top of their lungs at least once a week, but they did not do drugs or drink, and of the two channels that we could get in the mountains, at least one that came in clear got my go-to, get away from reality show five days a week, Star Trek!

For years I blamed my adult misfortunes on a messed-up childhood. When I finally sobered up in 1995, my recovery came with a gift that allowed my burden to no longer be a matter of any consequence. I stopped blaming the past and started owning the present.

There’s another definition for removing blame from our lives it’s called…

FORGIVENESS.

Read on with a little courage and you just might find some peace.

Now, forgiveness is NOT what most people define it to be. It’s not saying you’re okay with what the other person did. It IS saying that you’re going to simply drop all those feelings of bitterness, hostility, rage, angst, revenge, darkness, and so on you may have toward someone. Why? Because no matter what, no one can take away your pain, no matter how much they may want to, no matter how much you want them to, you are the one who must drop it. You are the only one with the power to let go of the feelings that are ruining your life and giving you cancer.

Get it now? They cannot feel or remove YOUR pain, ever. No one is capable of that no matter how much of an empath they claim to be.

Good. I’m happy you understand.

My parents were, and still are, just screwed up people, and that’s all. In the middle of a shared insanity they had a kid who was caught in between. When I realized this it broke my heart. I have pity for them now. Their pain is something I do not have the power to remove. I wish I could.

You know, I was drinking two-fifths of vodka a day in the mid-nineties and it eventually caused an aneurysm while I was driving, yet I’m still here and so are you.

I have a great life. I have a beautiful wife who also is my best friend, a very good, well-paying job, a nice home, my credit rating is about as high as it can get, we take nice vacations, and we have plans for the future that include all kinds of pleasant things. Many years ago I would have used a gun on myself had I owned one. Glad I didn’t.

All the miracles and gifts I’ve received since my mental rebirth have been because I refuse to blame anyone for anything in my life anymore. NO ONE AT ALL. By the way, this includes everything labeled both good and bad.

Can people get over childhood neglect and abuse? Yes, and when done right it’ll propel one to the stratosphere of achievement.

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With Love and compassion, Daniel Andrew Lockwood

143. 26 YEARS SOBER

When I stopped drinking, I found I was dying of thirst. Yes, I had a temporary longing for what I’d left behind, but this wasn’t the REAL issue; my mind was suddenly parched. Just as stated in my entry, 140. A BRAND NEW LIBRARY, I went full bore into the ocean of new information, and while I spent my early days on the beaches of exotic mental locations, these days I find my wanderings to be less adventurous.

The winter of my life is nearing, I’ll be 57 this year, but this doesn’t mean I’m approaching the end, it simply means my outlook has shifted to different priorities. I no longer see the world as something to be conquered, I do not see life as a competition, and I certainly have no need to prove anything to anyone other than myself. That being said, I do still have high aspirations, and when I die, I plan to leave behind a full calendar of appointments and pursuits. What does bother me a little is my speed has slowed somewhat. I watch TV when I don’t need to, I waste time when I could be making the next move on my chessboard, and worst of all, I talk about what I want to do more than just doing it.

Time to shift gears.

For some reason I’ve begun to equate comfort with peace, and while I’ll always seek peace, it’s not necessarily incompatible with occasional doses of chaos. A comfortable life is, in a word, boring, and I’ve become way too comfortable, predictable, and repetitive. I’m NOT looking for discomfort, it’s a life of surprise, stimulation, and challenge which has been missing for far too long. Anticipation and excitement, in the proper proportions, are wonderful ways to spice up life. There’s nothing wrong with status quo if it’s what someone wants, but it’s not for me.

Today marks the completion of my 26th year of recovery and to celebrate I’m making a resolution to be in a much different, much better, and more rewarding place a year from now.

We’ll see in a year if my resolve has been strong enough. Don’t bet against me.

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With Love and Compassion, Daniel Andrew Lockwood

132. TWENTY-FIVE YEARS IN RECOVERY

12 Step Jewelry Alcoholics Anonymous 925 Sterling Silver Men's AA Unity Ring with Turquoise

“Stick around and the miracle will happen.”

Well, the miracle happened…

These words were spoken early on from those who encouraged me, and I still hear them frequently when attending meetings. At the time I had no idea what the “miracle” was. All I wanted was to just not hurt anymore. That alone would have been, and eventually was, a blessing in and of itself. It was astonishing the amount of misery I put myself through, throwing up several times a day, every day. Seeing blood pour out of my mouth (and everything else that came out of me) was a ritual I got used to. I’d shattered the vessels in my face so many times I looked as if I had a permanent sunburn. I hadn’t had a real night’s sleep in years, choosing to pass out, day, after day, after countless, pointlessly lived days. Such is the insanity of self-destructiveness.

As my recovery finally began to move diligently forward, the hurricane of pain slowed and eventually subsided to the point where I began to function somewhat normally; yet this was STILL not the miracle. My sleep improved, and my horrific nightmares dwindled; and this was still NOT the miracle. I began to laugh, enjoying the smallest of what most would consider mundane moments while looking forward with enthusiasm to whatever tomorrow had to offer; this too was not the miracle. On a leap of faith I switched jobs. I went from working over a decade and a half of mostly graveyard shifts to the beginning of a career that still supports me. I moved into an apartment on my own without a net under me. I began to pay my bills on time. My refrigerator always had food. I got a decent vehicle. I met the woman I Love. The list is long, and continues to grow, but all these things do not define the miracle spoken of in the Big Book.

Although I had read it several times, the passage had escaped me, droning on frivolously in my mind while I went through the motions of repetition. I must say, once I zeroed in on it, the revelation was both astonishing and, in my case, accurate. In the fourth edition of the Big Book, in the chapter “Into Action” at the bottom of page 84 and on to the top of page 85 it says this –

“You will seldom be interested in liquor. If tempted, you will recoil from it as you would from a hot flame. You will react sanely and normally. You will find this has happened automatically. You will see that your new attitude toward liquor has been given you without any thought or effort on your part. It just comes! That is the miracle of it. You are not fighting it, neither are you avoiding temptation. You feel as though you had been placed in a position of neutrality. You feel safe and protected. You have not even sworn off. Instead, the problem has been removed. It does not exist for you.”

There was a time where I thought of alcohol every minute. Every minute; and I’m not kidding. When we choose to carry chains, we are never unaware of their presence, so the best we can do is justify their existence. Alcohol was my calling card. It was my foundation for blame as well as my attempt to escape. I spent so much of my life pointing and running, and then the day went by where I just stopped. I didn’t think “today I will stop”. The monster withered when I ceased to feed it. It quit tapping me on my shoulder every time I had a Pavlovian trigger. I quit looking for liquor stores on my way home. On the other hand when I saw a billboard or commercial advertising booze, I thought nothing of it. There was neither a feeling of superiority over thinking I had beaten my demons, nor a fear I might slip. As said in the text above, I was placed in a position of neutrality. Do I see it these days as something I’ve beaten? Nope. Instead I have a knowing that my path of progress, or recovery to be more specific, will continue to nourish tomorrow and starve yesterday.

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With Love and Compassion, Daniel Andrew Lockwood

122. SOBRIETY VS. RECOVERY

 

I’ve met people have who have twenty-plus years of sobriety… and not a day of recovery. I don’t want to come across as some sanctimonious finger-pointer, that’s not my intent. It’s just when listening to those who have a long history of nothing but abstinence, as opposed to one of growth and improvement; well, it shows. It shows in the amount of bitterness, regret, hostility, judgement, and most importantly, blame they project. Thankfully I realized quickly just who I wanted to align with. Yes, there were those I felt drawn to who displayed a caustic exterior, BUT they did so with a twinkle in their eye, and it was also presented as a challenge to those worthy of commitment to a program. True desperation equals the willingness to do anything, which in turn allows others to hold a mirror to my faults while my defenses are lowered. I wasn’t looking to purge the result of my problems, (drinking) I was determined to eliminate the cause of my problems. I was so sick of being sick, and I was willing to do anything to eradicate my ever-deepening spiral of self-destructiveness. I wanted more than anything to be around those whose lives had obviously improved, not the ones who were able to rid themselves of the object of addiction and nothing else. 

The definitions we assign the words we choose for our inner dialogue is massively influential, both positively and negatively, and of course both consciously and subconsciously. I’m a huge stickler for this, so much so that I still look up words quite frequently. The fifth commandment contains a good example of misinterpretation. It says rather simply, “Honor thy Mother and Father.” Most people translate this as “Love Mom and Dad.” This is NOT what it means. One of the definitions of “honor” is “to do better than” which makes sense from a spiritual perspective. We are duty bound to be better than our parents, and our children better than us. I Love my parents but I’m more obligated to become greater than they are, at least from a Christian perspective. This small example led to my insistence in using the proper language. I’m not nearly as good at it as I’d like to be and it shows most in my writing. I try, but, my skills in this arena are mediocre at best. I do pay for an editor for that which I plan to publish, but on this blog you’re going to get my best effort without professional critique. Writing does help me to refine my ever-lengthening list of words and this in turn helps with my speaking skills. 

I’m a firm believer we cannot manufacture happiness from the outside in. I’ve said this many times both on this blog and in person. That which brings us peace and contentment must resonate from our center. If our priority in life is to nurture core attributes, this will eventually magnify outer abundance. If our primary focus is to gain outer abundance this, will lead to atrophied inner qualities. Sobriety is essential to a healthy life, but if this is all one wants, one will eventually end up empty. It’s an action designed to work from the outside in. Abstinence is better than indulgence, that’s for sure, especially for those around the person who’s a train wreck to begin with. Recovery, on the other hand, is designed to promote growth, not just stop disease. Sobriety, in my experience, prunes the branches, and it helps. Recovery eventually heals the entire tree.

Make no mistake, sobriety comes first. It’s the most important step of all. If we equate addiction with another action, say vandalism, then alcohol (or any hedonistic practice) would be the sledgehammer and our motives would be the need or desire to vandalize. Sobriety is, therefore, the absence of the sledgehammer, which is a wonderful thing, especially for that which is being destroyed. What remains, is of course, the impulse to demolish. In this scenario I’m sure it’s easy to see how the need to drop the “weapon” comes first. If, however, this is ALL that’s done, another “weapon” will present itself to accommodate the motive to destroy. This is why it’s essential to address the reasons behind the “need to swing.”  It ALSO explains why those who drop their bludgeon must never pick it up again because doing so will trigger all the reasons to use it.  

Sobriety was and is my first step, it being the same action over and over, but recovery isn’t. It’s the evidence I’m improving and it’s a track record I intend on extending until I die. So, how long have I been sober? Twenty-four hours. How long have I been in recovery? Over twenty-four years. 

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With Love and Compassion, Daniel Andrew Lockwood

 

 

118. TWENTY-FOUR YEARS SOBER

Well, here I am, one year away from the quarter-century mark in my recovery. I must admit it doesn’t seem like it, but truthfully that’s a pretty good thing. Sometimes it feels like only a few months since I last drank. I still occasionally have dreams I’ve broken my sobriety, and while they are extraordinarily realistic as well as deeply frightening, I am nonetheless grateful for their continued presence. It keeps me reminded what I don’t want and sometimes that’s more valuable than knowing what I do want. I never think about alcohol in my daily life even though I’m besieged with ads, billboards, and commercials, not to mention a liquor store every two blocks whenever I get behind the wheel. None of these things sway my interest in the slightest. I was lucky in that I never really enjoyed the flavor of alcohol, I just chased the effects of it, so there’s no Pavlovian response to my five senses, thank God.

What breaks my heart the most is seeing others who are where I was and knowing I can’t really do anything to help them, although knowing this doesn’t stop me from (gently) trying. I understand how hopelessness feels, I empathize with what it’s like to want to live AND die at the same time. I wish I could hand over the experiences and knowledge I’ve accumulated to those who need it most, but in the end the best I can do is let others know I was once where they are now and try my best to be an example of someone who managed to find a way out. Looking back on the past two dozen years I’ve done a lot to get where I am now. At the beginning of my recovery I thought it would be an uphill battle, one with overwhelming challenges and unforeseen obstacles. Nothing of the future I had envisioned has come to pass. What I’d feared or wished for never happened. Disaster never struck and fortunes surpassed even my most hopeful of fantasies. Most of it’s been fun, surprising, and completely rewarding. Yes, there have been times of challenge, but my fortitude has easily outweighed every so-called setback. Nothing on my path has been a burden. It’s almost as if I exchanged ten years of my life in payment for what I consider to be a Utopian existence.

Every A.A. birthday I’ve had since I started this blog I’ve written a post to express my gratitude and to share my journey with others. The chances that this particular entry matches closely some of the other ones I have written wouldn’t surprise me. On occasion I go back to read and share other entries, but not the ones published on my birthdays, and I have a very specific reason for doing this. I want what I feel at this moment to be written down without self-bias. I don’t want to taint my connection with spirit. If it so happens to match what I said last year, well, does it really matter?

As a closing thought I will say this, my intuition, my insight, my inner voice tells me that something very, very big is on the horizon in my life, something good, something miraculous. We’ll see what I have to say next year.

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With Love and Compassion, Daniel Andrew Lockwood

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

108. HOW I STARTED IN A.A. – PART ONE

big book 3

Long before the first time I walked into an A.A. meeting I was well aware I had a problem. Embracing the idea I was a drunk and letting others know gave me wonderful excuses to avoid anything approaching a life of responsibility. Often I would be called to do something on a whim or at odd hours only to be more than ready to tell my supervisor I was too hammered to drive. So be it. They knew, and as a result I could keep pounding away at my lifestyle. In the early nineties I maneuvered myself into a way to live on the upper west coast where all my bills were paid including everything but food. Rent, gas, electricity, phone, and even vehicle maintenance were covered by my supervisor. I thought I was being crafty and clever, but in reality I was putting a noose around my neck. Those gentle winds of change marked a coming hurricane of chaos I never saw coming.

I won’t lie, it was intoxicating at first. I was living in a new city, alone, traveling, and often making my own work schedule, but, I was poor in the truest sense of the word. I had nothing to come home other than a ten inch TV and of course, alcohol. My actual paycheck, past all those prepaid bills I mentioned, was only about one-hundred and twenty dollars a week. The cash I did have was spent on alcohol and food, in that order. I also dropped about twenty dollars a week into pinball machines, so my wasteful spending had more than one outlet.  I spent about two years in Seattle from mid ’90 to  late ’91 and through a huge mistake on my part I was eventually shipped off to Des Moines to do the same work under the much worse conditions. Upon arrival I was actually sober for almost a month, white-knuckling it as it were. All too soon I found the availability of booze was much easier here than on the west coast. Grocery stores handled it, whereas in Seattle all liquor outlets were state-owned. At the time this was part of their “sin tax” program that was a substitute for most state tax programs. This has since vanished as far as I know.

By this time my days of blissful incoherence were a distant memory, one I still blindly chased, totally unaware I was even doing it. I was always sick and it showed. My diet, as unwholesome as it was, almost matched my skills of self-destruction with the bottle. When I did eat it was only after drinking a pint or two of very cheap vodka (usually taking less than twenty minutes) and never unless it was on an empty stomach; I wanted what I called “the sledge-hammer effect.” Frozen pizza with sour cream was my favorite meal after getting blitzed. The best way I could describe my existence was as if I were becoming a copy of a copy of a copy and so on. Each day my resolution faded a little. The structure was still there, but the details were slowly disappearing. Nothing that interested me only a few years prior held any appeal. Reading, writing, and art were collecting dust as reminders of a time when simpler, and honestly more productive and creative endeavors, held value.

I began to spend more and more time on the road. Half-star motels fueled a made-up need to drink more away from my lovely piece of crap apartment. The one I had in Seattle was actually somewhat nice compared to where I ended up. It was wasn’t modern or fancy, but at least it wasn’t built around the turn of the century. The building I was living in at this time was so old the storage bins underneath used to be horse stalls. Wooden floors, metal cabinets, radiators, and a refrigerator that only came up to the middle of my chest had replaced what I taken for granted in my previous residence. I used to describe it as living in Sam Spade’s apartment.

Once I arrived in Des Moines whatever sense of responsibility I still clung to started deteriorating rapidly. I began blowing off more and more duties in favor staying home and getting sloshed. All too often I would get out on the road and show up late just so I could go to a motel and lose myself in the bottle. The area I covered was from the Quad Cities to Lincoln Nebraska and down to Kansas City; quite a large triangle. I’d call who I was supposed to show up for that night and reschedule for the following evening. I continually talked myself into believing I wasn’t inconveniencing anyone since I was being locked into the store and no one else had to be there anyway. It was a wonder I was able to keep my job let alone drive. The people I pissed off were too numerous to count, and that included my then supervisor back in Denver.

I had never been to Alcoholics Anonymous before, but one day, when my shame was really getting on me, (and I WAS sober, by the way) I finally made a phone call. Turned out there was a meeting within walking distance of where I lived. I set off on foot not knowing what to expect. The memory of that first meeting is burned into my consciousness. I recall walking into a rustic looking room, which was in the basement of a building, sitting down in the corner and saying nothing. I looked around at the various faces; happy, angry, peaceful, in pain, confused, determined. My first order of business was to silently judge everyone, at least that’s what I was wired for. The initial inclination I came to was actually correct, I was surrounded by criminals, and I was one of them. The place scared the hell out of me, but I sat through the entire meeting. People were talking about things I had no connection to. I knew nothing of the structure of this organization, let alone the Big Book. For the next year I went sporadically in between my binges. Occasionally I would be able to stay sober for a week or so, but I would always find myself with a bottle in my hand, sitting alone, full of regret and hopelessness.

In nineteen-ninety-three, out of desperation, I called my best friend in Colorado and asked him if I could move in temporarily while trying to sober up. Amazingly he and his wife obliged. I separated what I wanted to keep, left everything else neatly stacked in the middle of my apartment, and set off back to Denver without telling the building management I was leaving. I convinced myself the furniture I left behind  and other items were not going to be much of a burden to the owners of the apartments since they already offered furnished units stocked with whatever have been left behind by previous tenants. I ended up throwing away thirty paper grocery bags full of empty bottles that were lying around my place. It added up to close to four-hundred pints, and that was only about six months worth since I had cleaned up several months prior. Keep in mind I spent more time on the road  than I did in my own place, so the number was actually quite a bit higher as to what I had consumed.  After everything I owned was packed into the back of my van, I could see out the rear window from the driver’s seat. What I still considered valuable, the stuff I both needed and wanted, was truly quite sparse. I was 28 years old and had nothing to show for my life. Once I got back to Denver that’s when things started  getting REALLY bad.

Part two coming soon.

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With Love and Compassion,

Daniel Andrew Lockwood

41. OUTRUNNING THE DEMONS

Dark_eyes_wallpaper_by_ONLYMEAGAIN

I used to have nightmares that would make Wes Craven’s movies look like Sesame Street. The hellish visions seemed so real I would find myself jumping out of bed in the middle of the night in a sweaty panic, fighting off the ghostly images that would follow me into the realm of reality. My solution to this predicament was even more of what was aiding their appearance to begin with, alcohol. To be honest it would actually work on occasion and allow me a period devoid of all awareness, all interest, and all  feeling, so there were times I could escape the immediate threat of my inner twisted menagerie and float away on a sea of apathy.

Introspection is the perceived enemy to those who are their own worst threat. What I didn’t realize is that when I avoided looking at myself, those reflections would intensify and re-manifest in other ways. Part of my mind, the part that was fading quickly but still intact, was desperately doing everything it could to warn me of my inevitable demise. No subtleties in play here. The carnival of madness was in full swing, and I was both the audience and the main attraction. My personality was split between rationality and insanity. The war that I encouraged between the two almost killed me. I was a candidate for a straight jacket and there’s no doubt I would have passed whatever test would have been required  to acquire one.

On occasion I had times of sobriety (but NOT recovery) and physically this would feel great, but abstinence does not equal nor even add to mental health. Every time I went into a period of  self-restraint my ego would eventually re-assert itself. “I” would begin to think “I” could control the urge to do what I knew was wrong. The mistake was interpreting an attitude of smugness for resolve, and again I would find myself in deep trouble.

There came a time where I eventually painted myself into a symbolic corner. I had run out of choices. I had neither the balls to blow out my brains and end it all in one fell swoop, nor the stamina to keep on living. Empty, tired, and desperate I FINALLY started asking for help. Those that came to my aid knew what had to take place. They were the ones who spun me around and showed me for the FIRST time what I was really running from, self-judgment. The absence of self-judgment is self-acceptance, and it is  in this state of mind where conflict ceases. What was once broken became whole again. This is something I never could have done alone. The idea of attempting to face my demons on my own was too horrifying a prospect to even contemplate.

IF you are in a place similar to where I was, the only way to get free from that which feels inescapable is to drop your defenses (no more excuses) and ask for help. One of my first entries on this blog (for which I have provided the following link) will clarify just how to go about doing this.

“How to know if you’re on the right track”

The secret I have learned is this, those demons I was running from only existed when I refused to face them. They are shadows, reflections without dimension. It was my running that gave them strength, my denial that fueled their resolve. Where understanding is present, fear is absent. Where fear is absent, love exists. Where love exists, life persists. Where life persists, the possibilities are endless, and I intend to continue proving it.

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With Love and Compassion, Daniel Andrew Lockwood