D.K. Sanz/Kyrian Lyndon's Blog, page 4

YOU ALWAYS HAD THE SHOES

Grateful to Be Alive is now available in Kindle and Paperback.

Woman with red shoes image by MJ Jin from Pixabay 

LOVE AND RESPECT FOR ALL HUMANKIND

People say, “You can judge a man by how he treats his inferiors.” I say no! We don’t have inferiors! Some people have more apparent talent or money, better positions, fancier cars, higher functioning brains, or genes that make them appear more attractive, but there is no reason for anyone—and I do mean anyone— to hang on to an illusion of superiority.

There’s a lockstep mentality that passes from generation to generation. Parents teach bigotry, and, to many, their parents can never be wrong. With a subconscious or even conscious fear of not being accepted or not fitting in with their loved ones, these children embrace the ideologies passed on to them and, in doing so, form alliances that continue to reinforce them into adulthood.

In terms of religion, I never want to shut people down for believing or not believing what the various holy books say. I can’t dismiss the cherry-pickers seeking to find a safe middle ground. If a person has genuinely “lost their way,” they can find it again. I’ve met good, kindhearted people of just about every faith, so simply believing and practicing a religion isn’t the problem. People are entitled to their beliefs so long as they’re not committing or otherwise condoning crimes against humanity.

As someone who is fifty percent Latina, I’ve also experienced racism on a minor scale, and it gave me some idea of what it might be like for people who experience hate, discrimination, and oppression on a much larger scale. If you are a member of any group that is oppressed to one degree or another, you are acutely aware of the global and systematic imbalance. As a result, many of us have a pretty good idea of how terrorizing it can be when your rights are denied, or you’re not treated with the respect and dignity you deserve.

For me, opposing bigotry is not about being “politically correct.” Having empathy for others is simply correct. People go to war over bias and entitlement. They discriminate and violently target others based on the same. It becomes a case of “We hate the same faction, so it’s clear who the enemy is.”

It’s not about tolerance, either. There’s a lot of destructive and harmful behavior that I can’t and won’t tolerate. But who am I to merely “tolerate” a person’s ethnicity, sexuality, socioeconomic status, or religious philosophy? Those are things to be welcomed, not tolerated. I don’t want anyone’s rights to be denied any more than I’d want my own rights restricted. There was never a time when that did not feel inhumane to me.

Detractors are fond of saying that people who defend the rights of others who are denied whatever privilege they enjoy have a “savior complex.” When I first heard that, I allowed myself to ponder it for a bit, given that I’ve been speaking out against bigotry since I was twelve. It was instinctive then, and it’s instinctive now because I never wanted to live in a world where bigotry was normal. It never made a difference to me if people on either side were happy or unhappy about my stance.

It always made sense to me that you cannot know a person just because you’re aware of their race, ethnicity, religion, or sexuality. No group is perfect. You need to get to know individuals because we are all different.

For many people, when someone who is not like them hurts them, they postulate that it reflects on that group’s culture. They won’t consider their own people who’ve done the same thing or worse. Without having genuine relationships with the people from whatever culture they shun, their impression is based on limited experience. They go by stereotypes or by what they’ve read in the news or learned from TV.

I’ve experienced unprovoked attacks from people who did not look like me, but I’ve also been attacked by my “own” people, and although my worst experiences of sexual trauma were at the hands of white, Italian Catholic males, I’ve always known that not every white, Catholic Italian guy is that way. That same benefit of the doubt should be extended to people who belong to different groups.

Among the things I’d been taught, what truly stuck with me in life was the whole “love one another” thing. Yes, I really liked that part. Isn’t it a fundamental theme in all religions? No one is perfect, but if we can do better, we should. Life’s hard enough, and it helps if we cheer each other on along the way.

If we must keep influencing our children with our thoughts, let those thoughts be reminders that we are all divine, and divinity surrounds us, and in that way, we have much more power than we realize. We have that power for a reason. We don’t see everything yet, and we don’t know everything, but we are creating the future—the world we want to live in, and the world we will leave our children. We can keep evolving toward a much higher consciousness and create the idyllic world we envision.

I read something recently that said we should treat everyone as sacred until they begin to believe they are. That is the ideal way to live, isn’t it? It might solve many problems in our world, individually and collectively. I’d love to commit myself to that, to remind myself of that always.

So, whoever you are, you are beautiful! You are a divine creation and the very essence of love. Don’t let anyone take that away from you!

“For to be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.” —Nelson Mandela, former President of South Africa, political leader, philanthropist.

“If we accept and acquiesce in the face of discrimination, we accept the responsibility ourselves and allow those responsible to salve their conscience by believing that they have our acceptance and concurrence. We should, therefore, protest openly everything… that smacks of discrimination or slander.” —Mary McLeod Bethune, political activist, organizer, and educator. 

Feature photo at the top by Ehimetalor Akhere Unuabona on Unsplash

“Make People Feel Loved Today” photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

I BELIEVED THAT HE LOVED ME

However, all the while, l clung to the belief that he loved me. He was a brave, modest man, generous with his assistance and advice—there as a rock, always. As a child, I worried obsessively about him when it was near time for him to come home from work—that something would happen to him, and he might not make it home to us. I guess you can say my love for him was as out of proportion as my fear of him.

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Feature image of father and child walking and image of father with baby by StockSnap from Pixabay 

WELCOME TO MY TOTALLY ABSURD DREAMS

It was a recurring dream for many years.

I’m in the bleak underground, waiting for a train. There’s just enough light from the incandescent lamps to cast a dingy yellow glow. Trains pass, but they look ancient. Still, they are un-defaced by familiar graffiti. Near the passenger doors, the stops each train would make are listed on a flipping board. I don’t recognize any of these places.

Rooted to the platform, I ask strangers for directions. None of them have ever heard of this place I want to go to—never heard of Woodside, Queens.  Lost and disoriented, I feel deep distress and despair.

In my mind, I recall Manhattan’s glittering skyscrapers seen at a distance, beyond the river and the bridge. I remember my train rumbling speedily toward the heart of Queens, passing through the tunnel into sunlight. Sometimes, I’d catch the sunsets when my train emerged from the tunnels, and I was in awe of the dark navy sky and its sweeping reign over the houses with their golden-lit windows. Or the trail of light orange and the vibrant, darker orange that faded into a pale gray sky.

The strangers around me finally mention places that sound somewhere near where I want to go—still far, but I have some hope I’ll get closer. I’ll get there eventually. And I’m willing to settle for that.

Oddly, we’re outside now, still on the platform, but it’s more colorful here. I see trees and recognize the stranger beside me, but he’s barely an acquaintance. The train chugs along, but it’s too crowded when it arrives. I can’t get in, but he does. There’s simply no room for me. I don’t fit.

Suddenly, another train barrels toward me, its rapid arrival quite unexpected. I hear the beeps and clangs, and I think, “That’s the one.”

Without hesitation, I scramble on board. I never check where it’s headed. We travel farther and farther away from all that’s familiar. Soon, I am far from the place I call home and everything and everyone I had ever known. We pass an endless green sea with a boat in the distance. We are somewhere remote. I don’t recognize this place.

My dreams are vivid, yes, and colorful, and my recollection of them is thorough.

In another persistent dream I’ve had since my recovery, and until recently, I ride a motorcycle that I’m so proud to be riding. (I’ve only ever ridden on the back of one.) As the dream progresses, the motorcycle becomes a bicycle, which I did ride as a kid, and, in the dream, I’m still thrilled because I’m cruising everywhere, including up and down the dark streets of Woodside, my old stomping ground.

I’m experiencing freedom in this dream, and I’m celebrating it, so I’m happy. Except that the bike gets smaller and smaller until I’m on a tricycle that I’ve obviously outgrown.

There’s also a recurrent nightmare where I have to get home from Roosevelt Avenue—that walk home at night from the park I’d dreaded as a kid, as well as the route home after work from the train station when I lived in Woodside. It’s light at first in the dream but gets darker and darker until it’s completely dark. I’m never a kid in the dream, but, still, the dilemma frustrates me and plays out as an obsession. Whatever way I choose to go, that long, seemingly deserted hill can’t be avoided, which in reality is true unless I take the route from the crowded, brightly lit storefront area on 61st Street. Even then, I’d have to go past the place on Woodside Avenue where it’s eerily quiet at night.

More recently, I dreamt that I was stranded somewhere and ran into my parents. I asked for a ride home, and they refused for some reason that made no sense. At first, I thought, well, it’s beginning to snow now and starting to get dark, but I’ll make it. As I walked, it continued to grow darker. The snowfall became heavier, so I tried running. Creepy people tried to lure me into alleys. Somehow, though, I got past those creatures and arrived home.

My son was asleep in his room. I must’ve gone to sleep, too. In that same dream, I awoke in the dark to find the door locks broken off the door. A sign was on the front door saying, I hate you. I will destroy you. It was written in blood. People with cold, angry eyes and a few angels floated around the room. They did nothing to physically harm me, but they were holding my son captive, so I charged in there like a martial arts movie hero, kicking them all. They had an invisible shield I couldn’t penetrate, so I went to the door, opened it, and began screaming and begging for help. No one answered.

Now, I can easily interpret what that awful nightmare meant, but David said, “You should never go to sleep. Your dreams are horrifying.”

That had me splitting my sides, and he was equally amused.

Transportation is a common theme in these dreams, and I am moving by bike, train, or on foot. I think, symbolically, it has to do with where I’m going—my path or journey, my goal, and whatever happens in getting there. There’s the persistent question of whether I’m heading in the right direction, and, according to a book I’d read a about dreams, train stations represent transformation. I don’t think any of these dreams suggest I am lost, but I am consistently unable to go home, and I don’t fit or belong there.

The destination is always Woodside, although I haven’t lived there in decades and will never have to make that walk again from any street. Woodside, with its good, its bad, its horror, and its beauty, will always be special to me, and I get those bittersweet pangs of nostalgia when anyone so much as mentions my hometown of Queens. However, my fear at the time I lived there was possibly intense enough to carve out a permanent space in my subconscious mind. Or, it merely represents a place of origin because I’ve wondered if, in order to persist with your ultimate goals, you can’t go back.

The “threats” in my dreams are all of the obstacles.

Interestingly, I was about to say I hadn’t had a “train” dream in a while, but one occurred the other night. In this one, all the subway stops had their names changed. Some were crazy names like Anywhere You Want to Go, while others simply said 50th Road or some other ordinary thing. Per the usual, I had no idea where any of those stops would leave me on the way to Woodside. The platform on this station was perilously narrow, so I had to be careful, even sidestepping rocks while navigating what little room I had.

On a lighter note, I once dreamt I was a cookie, and mobs of people chased me, wanting to eat me. Amused, I told David that I’d had that dream.

“Of course, you did,” he replied, and we shared a good laugh.

Excerpt on ‘Dreams’ from Grateful to be Alive – My Road to Recovery from Addiction by D.K. Sanz

Woman sleeping/night moon feature photo by IceRedfield from Pixabay 

Train image by annca from Pixabay 

Monster in window image by 1tamara2 from Pixabay 

Train station image by Igor Ovsyannykov from Pixabay 

Gingerbread man image by artistlike from Pixabay 

A DAY IN MY BEST LIFE

Sometimes it takes a while to realize you’re overwhelmed, your patience is wearing thin, and you’re stressed. But the moment you acknowledge that you’re overwhelmed, the situation can go from chaotic to manageable.

In these past couple of weeks, I have been getting CT scans and bloodwork. Two days or so ago, I had an MRI. The scans showed no metastasis of the stage 1 cancer, so they scheduled my surgery for May 26 to remove the malignant polyp. They seem optimistic that I won’t require further treatment, but they can’t be sure until they do a biopsy. All of that is great.

In the meantime, however, it’s been, “Can you just swing by here tomorrow and sign an authorization? And on the day you go for the surgical pre-testing, just swing by the doctor’s office to pick up the instructions and other stuff. You know where he is, in Great Neck. Oh, and It’s a good idea to get a Covid booster before surgery if you’re not up to date.”

I love the “swing by” stuff, like everything is right next door. Anyone who knows me knows I’m not exactly the “just swing by” type. I also have a dental appointment next week, and my annual physical is the week after, so I need to do some juggling.

Meanwhile, I’m planning an online virtual book tour and working with an audiobook narrator for Grateful to Be Alive. I’ve been listening to her tapes and making editing notes for her. She thanked me profusely for the edits because other authors never worked with her on the script, whereas I even gave her the exact marks on the tape. I can’t fathom why anyone would not do that. I mean, it’s your book, and you want it to sound right. You also don’t want it to take forever, so you help move it along.

Besides all of that and no matter what, we have to make time to do the things that give us moments of bliss. I’m alternately working on my fantasy novel all the time, which makes the mundane tasks doable. Also, finding time to read. Fresh air helps, and music helps. Streaming is a nice escape too.

Of course, as we all know, there are the usual things we have to do on top of whatever project or crisis we’re dealing with. There’s work, laundry, shopping, making important phone calls, and, oh yeah, blogging. I think about the package in the hall I have yet to open. I think about so and so and make a note to drop a message saying I hope all goes well with such and such.

Isn’t this all of us, though? Or maybe it’s most of us. I don’t know, but we are good, aren’t we? We go on and on and on. We find ourselves here, and as we grow, we do everything possible to make things work—make our lives work. We do everything to improve our situations and keep everything under control, the things that are there for us to manage. We accept the challenges.

The issue is for me right now (and for many) is keeping it simple. It isn’t easy to relax under pressure, but we kind of have to. I forget to drop my shoulders, breathe, and stay in the solution. What can I control, and what can I not control?

I learned about KISS (Keep it simple, stupid) in a twelve-step program. Wikipedia says it’s a design principle noted by the U.S. Navy in 1960. It means things have gotten too complicated, and it’s time to “uncomplicate them.”

What helps me is I’m a list maker. I have to make lists, or I will forget to do something or another, and I have to constantly prioritize. Lists are revised as needed as often as needed. When I’m overwhelmed, that makes me breathe a little easier. What first? What next? One step at a time.

And when it comes to the mundane, I tell myself I don’t “have” to do these things; I “get” to do them. There’s a lot I can do that will save my life, a lot I can do that will help me, and a lot I can do that will strengthen me. I am creating and living the life I love. I got this.

Actually, I am one of the lucky ones. I am one of the happy ones. So, “Bring it on,” I say. I’ll be fine.

If you are feeling overwhelmed right now, I’m rooting for you, and I hope this helps.

@fencebadcliffe

“Keep It Simple Stupid” – Michael Scott – Fence Badcliffe #keepitsimplestupid #theofice #newsong #michaelscott #dwight

♬ KISS (Keep It Simple Stupid) – Fence Badcliffe

Feature photo way at the top by Myriam from Pixabay 

LIFE IS AN AMAZING ADVENTURE

AVAILABLE NOW ON AMAZON

You will find paperback edition here for now: GRATEFUL TO BE ALIVE (Paperback)

D.K. Sanz

Story Playlist

SOBER BY THE GRACE OF GOD

One of the most significant concepts of the 12-step program of recovery can be difficult for those whose beliefs don’t align with the typical vision.

I remember being told in meetings that “EGO” was, essentially, “edging God out.” Not mentioning “Him” or crediting “Him” for your success in staying sober would raise many eyebrows.

We were told that “A.A. works for people who believe in God. A.A. works for people who don’t believe in God. A.A. never works for people who think they are God.”

I was also taught, in meetings, that “A.A. isn’t a religion. We can’t open the gates of Heaven and let you in, but we can open the gates of Hell and let you out.”

All of it confused me, as a newcomer, all those years ago.

The program literature clearly states that we surrender to a power greater than ourselves—as we understood that greater power to be. It’s important because we’re told that our journey to wellness begins only when we surrender to that higher power.

Sure, for many people, that is the Abrahamic God. Others rely on the deity or deities of a different faith. And, for some of us, there is our ancestral religion and the polytheistic or pantheistic worship of nature as the divine.

The program was never meant to exclude atheists or agnostics, either. They may see their higher power as their higher consciousness and moral compass. You don’t need a religion to have either of those things.

God can even be a celebration of all that is good, believing all that is good is God. GOD, as many have said, also stands for “good orderly direction.”

When we look at it that way, the program’s God-related slogans apply, regardless of our vision of the divine.

Let Go and Let God.

Trust God.

If God seems far away, who moved?

But for the Grace of God, there go I.

And because we are advised to pray daily, we are reminded, in the program, that trying to pray is praying, and that prayer can be well wishes, good thoughts, positive energy, and just sending love and light.

Spirituality is the ability to get our minds off ourselves and to rely on better judgment, regardless of where that comes from on a day-to-day basis. And just wanting to be a decent human being counts. It counts a lot.

Feature photo at the top by Artem Sapegin on Unsplash

Sober graphic made by D.K. Sanz on Canva

YOU BELIEVE WHAT YOU NEED TO

AVAILABLE ON KINDLE NOW:

Do unsettling truths bring harsh judgment? They do, but the price of denial is steep.

D.K. Sanz’s story begins in the drug-infested New York City streets of Woodside, Queens, during the tumultuous HIV/AIDS pandemic of the Eighties and Nineties. It offers a glimpse into how a now often-overlooked pandemic impacted Sanz’s nuclear family. 

From her earliest days, Sanz was the easily forgotten stranger, always a little out of sync with the rest of the world—a tough but naive kid and aspiring writer.  Her triumph over illness and addiction includes amusing anecdotes and nostalgic, heartwarming memories.

Deep-dive into Sanz’s confessional self-sabotage, self-destruction, and the harrowing downward spiral she almost didn’t survive. Her never-before-told story ranges from recklessness and impudence to empathy, forgiveness, and love.

Sanz has since published several books under the name Kyrian Lyndon, primarily poetry but also a novel, and she continues to work on sequels and an all-new fantasy series. You’ll find some of her poetry at the end of this book.

Whether struggling or not, you will find Grateful to be Alive is a story of hope, defying insurmountable odds, finding joy, and a gradual transition toward authenticity and becoming the person Sanz always wanted to be.

“Addiction, at its worst, is akin to having Stockholm Syndrome. You’re like a hostage who has developed an irrational affection for your captor. They can abuse you, torture you, even threaten to kill you, and you’ll remain inexplicably and disturbingly loyal.”  -Anne Clendening

Addiction is the only prison where the locks are on the inside. — Unknown

Feature image at the top by Khusen Rustamov from Pixabay 

HOW WOULD YOU DEFINE BEAUTY?

Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart. – Khalil Gibran

It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity there is beauty and there is strength. – Maya Angelou

COMING SOON!Grateful to Be AliveMy Road to Recovery from Addictionby D.K. Sanz

Do unsettling truths bring harsh judgment? They do, but the price of denial is steep.

D.K. Sanz’s story begins in the drug-infested New York City streets of Woodside, Queens, during the tumultuous HIV/AIDS pandemic of the 80s and 90s. It offers a glimpse into how a now often-overlooked pandemic impacted Sanz’s nuclear family. 

From her earliest days, D.K. was the easily forgotten stranger, always a little out of sync with the rest of the world—a tough but naïve kid and aspiring writer. Her triumph over illness and addiction includes amusing anecdotes and nostalgic, heartwarming memories.

Grateful to be Alive delves deep into Sanz’s confessional self-sabotage, self-destruction, and the harrowing downward spiral she almost didn’t survive. Her never-before-told story ranges from recklessness and impudence to empathy, forgiveness, and love.

D.K. has since published several books, primarily poetry but also a novel, and she continues to work on sequels and an all-new fantasy series. You’ll find some of her poetry at the end of this book.

Whether struggling or not, you will find Grateful to Be Alive is a story of hope, defying insurmountable odds, finding joy, and a gradual transition toward authenticity and becoming the person D.K. always wanted to be.

“When you begin this book, you will not put it down. You will immediately be drawn into Sanz’s bold narrative of a woman, throughout her life, passing through “every forbidden door,” as she says of herself. It is a book of continual growth through experience, defeat, and triumph. The prose is swift, concise, full of irony, truth, and poise. You will not find a more startling, revealing memoir. Highly, highly recommended.” ~ Jason T. Masters

If you are interested in obtaining an ARC copy, please e-mail me at dksanz@yahoo.com.

Feature image at the top by Ana_J from Pixabay

DON’T TAKE YOURSELF TOO SERIOUSLY!

There was a time when the people I dealt with were merely making appearances in the soap opera that was my life, or so I must have believed on some level. I starred in it, directed it, and expected each actor to play their role as I created it. Under these circumstances, less-than-favorable outcomes are magnified and often unendurable. Even petty slights are infuriating and upsetting.

In twelve-step programs, it’s called “Rule 62”—Don’t Take Yourself So Seriously! Becoming aware of that and then understanding it and accepting it was another thing pivotal to my recovery.

We have to be able to laugh at ourselves! Have you ever noticed that people who take themselves too seriously are the perfect target for internet trolls? I observed one guy on Twitter complaining that trolls wouldn’t leave him alone. It was evident from his feed that he’d been sitting around, answering them for quite some time. That is a waste of energy because trolls are devoid of empathy.

Bullies tend to throw stuff out there to see what will stick. They know it when they hit a nerve, and they’ll use that to provoke you. The more misery they cause, the happier they are. These are not people you can reason with or convince. If they can’t get a rise out of you, it’s not fun for them. So, it’s best never to “feed a troll”—not so much as a crumb.

We don’t have to tolerate bad behavior, but we don’t have to live in agony because of other people’s behavior and perceptions. And we don’t have to be obsessed with damage control. That’s a full-time job, with plenty of unpaid overtime. And it’s exhausting! Allowing people to infuriate us and rob us of our serenity gives others way too much power over us. Humility saves us from ourselves, keeping us aware that we’re human and flawed.

Before I understood Rule 62, I told someone, “It’s not that I want to be better than others. It’s the opposite; I strive to be acceptable because I feel inadequate.”

Inadequate in my view because I aimed for perfection. I didn’t understand that I wore my inferiority complex inside out. I’d taken it to the superiority complex level, never realizing that those were two sides of the same coin. It never occurred to me that I held myself to a higher standard than others.

The first thing I had to do was take myself down off the pedestal. (Yes, we can put ourselves on pedestals, too.) I had to realize that I was not the star of everyone’s show. Things are happening to everyone on the planet—not just me.

Before I grasped “Rule 62,” I expected fairness, always, no matter what. I had to learn that there’s so much about this life that isn’t right, and life’s been far more unfair to others than to me. It’s all relative, and I had to process the fact that while we can fight for justice when appropriate, life ultimately isn’t fair, period. Accepting that removed a tremendous burden from my shoulders.

Humility, in my view, is something we continually strive for, not a trait we crown ourselves with because we’ve risen to sainthood. And none of what I’m saying here means we’re not important, or we shouldn’t have healthy egos. But if we try not to perceive ourselves as overly important (more so than anyone else, anyway), then we’re less biased when it comes to ourselves. We’re able to recognize certain things for what they are and not take so much personally—be it constructive criticism, a bit of teasing, or someone being an ass.

It helps me to acknowledge that I’m not this person the whole world is watching and with staggering expectations, hoping I will fail. Also, if we stop looking for adversaries, perceived enemies, and their agendas, for the most part, they somehow cease to exist.

It comes back to balance for me, but when you’re able to keep an open mind, discernment about what to take personally and what to blow off becomes more effortless.

As an author, I put my words out there in a world divided on many topics. The varying opinions don’t always come from someone with a reasonable frame of reference. Someone may read about a tragic event and say it isn’t an accurate portrayal. You can write about something that actually happened or describe exactly how it was, and someone might view it as a misrepresentation because that’s not what they experienced. People do have personal biases and triggers. Sometimes, they’re turned off by something that has more to do with them than with you. I’ve noticed fellow writers getting two-star book reviews for reasons unrelated to the book. Internet trolls may say negative things merely because they can. Also, the best writers out there have had plenty of critics.

But not every critic is a troll, which is essential to acknowledge. Some people don’t have a vested interest in us and are not biased, and, quite often, they’re right on the money.

A bit of lightheartedness and a good sense of humor are critical.

Years ago, I realized I could change my relationship with criticism by changing my perspective. Criticism isn’t comfortable, and we don’t like feeling uncomfortable, so we tell ourselves we can’t handle it. If we take ourselves out of that fear mode, acknowledging that we’re not comfortable but can handle it, it’s easier to decide how we’ll do that. Stressing makes things worse.

In those moments, it also helps to remember we’re not alone—others are going through it or have been through it. I tell myself I’m no less capable of handling it than they are, and it only seems so much worse because it’s happening to me.

Sadly, though, some people fear criticism and rejection so much that they don’t pursue their dreams or find true happiness.

As far as I can tell, we must keep listening to learn. On a personal and professional level, there’s always room for improvement. I am obsessed with learning more and more about things that knocked me for a loop when I had to deal with them in others or myself. I can’t help being grateful for these opportunities and challenges to overcome the obstacles that derailed me.

Falling in love with the process of learning, growing, evolving, and recovering helps us to succeed more and suffer less. It’s about wanting to be the best we can be. It’s okay to be vulnerable, but only as long as we know we are and how! Then, instead of worrying about how others perceive us, we do what we do from the heart. I tell myself this: I’m another person trying to learn and figure things out here. We are transmundane beings in an astounding old universe. We are vulnerable—not merely to the force of nature and random happenings, but to each other. Life gets better when we accept ourselves as a part of everything rather than the center of everything.

I maintain that until we fully heal from whatever we need to recover from, we remain in bondage to something or another and are prone to obsessions. Disentangling ourselves from that is a painful process, but as I witness people becoming who they were before the pain and unwarranted shame, I have no doubt what awareness can do. It tells me there’s hope for everyone.

*Excerpted from my forthcoming memoir, Grateful to Be Alive: My Road to Recovery from Addiction*

Feature image at the top by Stefan Keller from Pixabay