Every time a binge ends, I look back hating the version of myself I was on it.
Every binge ends the same way. An intense feeling of guilt, sadness and even embarrassment.
I like who I am when I’m not taking anything, even if I have far less motivation. I am happy. I am funny. I am content. And I am the REAL me. Especially in this past month that I was able to stop—for the longest stretch I’ve gone in almost a year—I had felt happiness I hadn’t in a long time.
But I always find an excuse to do it again, and the cycle starts over. I’m not trying to throw a pity party. I know there’s only one way to stop. And the emotional core of my being is screaming for it. But the rationalizing part of my brain can’t be completely overridden, because I don’t want that source to get cut off forever in case I “need” it.
I’ve done pretty bad things because of this drug (see the Stop Speeding page if you want to know, I’m not going to rehash it here). I thought those things would finally be the end, and I do think they were a turning point where this drug just didn’t feel good to me anymore, which has helped me at least be able slow down a lot compared to the last couple years.
I know what I have to do. However I can’t seem to be able to make that final leap.