ADDICT: Thoughts of a Guilty Man

Who Else Is There To Blame?

Curled up into a ball, he thinks to himself, "What can I do? There's literally nothing I can do. I'm an addict. I need help but I don't want to admit it. I don't want any help from anybody." He is afraid to let go of the pleasures of this world in order to seek Christ and make it to Heaven above. He is ashamed of what he's doing but had long ago accepted it, relied on it, depended on it to get him through dark times. But all it ever did was place him into deeper trouble, and he knows it.

Stretching his legs from the fetal position, he says, "I wish things would change." But he knows fully well that in order for that to happen, he will have to do something about it. He understands completely that it's all up to him, but he doesn't want to leave his comfort zone. Years ago, he had spun his own little web of lies, and for years has been living in it, calling it home. There have been times when it would tear, but eventually he would patch it up. Same old, same old. He had grown accustomed to his little zone, so much so that it always came as a shock when people would find his web in a corner of a dark room. Help would find him, carrying brooms, and would sweep the room clean. He would accept the help, sincerely even, and sometimes would even lead the help to his web. But, like every good spider out there, he would always have one string remain, attached. Chained to him. Not that he lost the key, no. He had it, but never used it. From a distance the room would look clean, and maybe even smell nice for a little while. But give it a few days, and if you know where to look, you will find a small web in the corner. Made from transparent string, he is oblivious as he spins another web, calls it home. Eventually he finds out he had been made, but little would he care as he weaves his space. As long as help doesn't come around broom in hand. He continues living his lie, deceiving nobody but himself, blissfully unaware of the bullet hole in the back of his head killing him slowly.

He is an addict. A fox in the desert, trying to hide from the sky. A snake in a garden, trying to avoid the grass. He is a fool. He is alone. A coward on the run. He is helpless. He is ashamed. He is an addict in desperate need of help but he is too proud to accept it when it comes. Too attached to leave his nest, his web, his comfort zone. The only life he ever knew. Or at least he feels so.

He is a man, he is a child. He is a son. A disgrace to his name. A shame to his mother. A burden on his family. His sister.

Himself.

He had worked so hard to keep his room, his web the very same even when his surroundings changed. Fighting so hard to keep it alive. Adjusting, masking, risking, daring in all the wrong things. Clinging onto false hopes, one after the other. Calling out, crying out for help but refusing it each and every time. Never walking onto the firm foundation. He settled down in his own world, watching life pass him by. Many a good Samaritan has come his way, stopped and offered him a helping hand. But he was not ready, not willing to let go. And now when he finally feels like accepting it, he fears he is too late. All the Samaritans have come and gone, he is still there. Deep inside, he still believes that hope is still alive.

It has to be.

He wants to believe, he really does. But caught in a place between guilt and shame, and self-blame, his faith has weakened over the years. He has enough faith, but he doesn't believe in himself as he should. He just can't trust himself to make the right choices, do the right thing- especially for himself. Not anymore. He believes in God, he knows God loves him and calls him His own, believes in him; but he is having a hard time accepting that love. Surrendering. He has come to love his surroundings, he has formed attachments he knows he shouldn't have. Thus, he has learned to love God from a distance. All he knows to do is to take. He recieves God's love only when he wants to, seek Him only when he wishes so.

A biased love, a broken love.

He is an addict, set in his ways, stubborn as a mule. He has spent years adapting to his constantly changing surroundings. Getting used to a life of love, and of loss. Swallowing the bitter pill that nothing lasts forever. He has watched happiness come and go, with no one to blame but himself. He would use, and he would abuse. He would take a mile when given an inch, never knowing when to stop. He spends so much time thinking about what could have been. If only, if only.

He knows better, always has, but he never actually acted on it with the right kind of faith. Not in recent years. When he was younger, back then when emotions we're still capable of being row, he would act on the better that he knows. He would sincerely seek forgiveness and start over, believing that he had been given a clean slate. But with every time he would backslide, he kept growing weaker and weaker. Each time, a chip off of his faith. He grew up learning to bottle up emotion, learning not to feel. Learning how to be selfish. Learning to adapt. To keep secrets. To lie. He learnt how to lead a double life even though he was being taught the exact opposite.

He is an addict, trying to escape the chains of his addiction. He is a man on the run. A fugitive, fleeing the long arm of the law. He knows deep down in his heart that something has to change, something has to break, but he questions, is he ready to give? He is afraid of that word- change. Because he knows that once he does, there is no going back, only moving forward. Is he really ready to change? Is he capable of not looking back? What's so different this time than all others before this one? What is there to stop him from relapsing once more? These are the questions circling his head as he is going about his day: cleaning, eating, taking a shower.

"But no. Enough is enough," he says to himself as he sits up. He is a son to a father, a child to a mother, a brother to a sister, a man with his whole life ahead of him. He is tired of dancing with his lies, the same steps over and over again. He made his bed, he slept in it, but now it's time to wake up. And in that moment, something stirred inside him. He is not sure what it is, but he is sure of it. Something moved within him, something shifted deep inside, and he knows that whatever it is, good and only good will come of it. He is an addict, on the path to redemption.

If only things were that easy. He relapsed. Again. Twice over. And he blames himself because frankly, who else is there to blame?