Chapter 1: Confronting the Cycle of Addiction

Twenty-three days into my journey toward sobriety, I came to the realization that I would soon have to confront another addiction. Initially, when I stopped drinking and smoking, I turned to marijuana as a coping mechanism. My thought process was that it made sense to tackle one challenge at a time, rather than overwhelming myself by quitting everything simultaneously. This approach felt more manageable, but I also recognized it could be an easy way to justify my choices.

At first, I managed my cannabis use without too much difficulty. I found smoking a bowl helped ease the transition from cigarettes, offering a familiar action. Unfortunately, it didn't take long for my usage to spiral. Without alcohol to dull my senses, marijuana quickly became my means of escaping reality. However, my prior levels of consumption were insufficient now that alcohol was no longer in the mix.

It wasn’t until roughly twenty-five days into my alcohol sobriety that I truly grasped how out of control my marijuana use had become. One evening, I found myself chasing a high that just wouldn’t come; I felt too aware of my emotions. Despite smoking continuously and consuming two extra-strength gummies, I couldn’t achieve the relief I sought.

The way addiction infiltrates my life is astonishing. I might think I’m unaware of its grip, but the truth is that I underestimate how rapidly it can escalate. As I consumed more cannabis, I justified it to myself, believing I deserved some leniency after quitting alcohol and cigarettes. I even communicated to my husband that I would allow myself some leeway with food and marijuana, promising to eventually tackle my cannabis habit.

However, the irony is that this "grace" was just a cover for filling a void. I began treating both food and getting high as rewards for my efforts in sobriety. My internal monologue sounded something like, "I've done so well by quitting drinking and smoking, so it's okay to relax my standards for eating and marijuana."

This misguided sense of relief—defined as a soothing feeling following distress—was, in reality, a form of numbing. I’ve come to realize that when I numb my feelings, I'm actively avoiding them rather than processing them. Numbing doesn’t provide reassurance; instead, it breeds shame and regret, along with physical consequences like weight gain. I often sought to relive moments of "fun," only to feel sick the following day, anxious about my behavior.

I've lost countless precious moments with loved ones, often choosing substances over their company. The harsh reality is that I've forfeited far more than I’ve gained through these choices—time, memories, and genuine connections. This realization is gut-wrenching, especially as I find myself haunted by shameful memories that linger far longer than the joyful ones.

During a recent backpacking trip in the Grand Tetons, I found myself consumed by past drinking memories. The physical toll of my lifestyle hit hard, and for the first time, I considered abandoning the trek out of fear of slowing my friends down. I felt paralyzed, grappling with shame at every turn, whether I was hiking, relaxing, or appreciating the beauty around me. Fortunately, I had a close friend by my side, one who knew my struggles without judgment, providing the emotional support I desperately needed.

On one occasion, I chose to skip a planned side hike to confront my feelings. I intended to write down my memories and forgive myself, believing that showing compassion to my past selves would help me move forward. Acknowledging my self-blame over events long gone was enlightening, yet it didn’t lead to immediate sobriety as I had hoped.

As we usually do on these trips, we planned for relaxation in the evenings. I decided to forgo alcohol entirely, opting for weed instead. I thought it would be easier to manage. However, when my friends left for their hike, I ended up getting heavily stoned instead. The haze of marijuana allowed me to confront painful memories, yet it was a false confrontation—I was still avoiding true engagement with my feelings.

It wasn't until day three of complete sobriety that I recognized this pattern of using substances to face my shame. One day, unexpectedly free from work due to a snowstorm, I attempted to tackle my to-do list but ended up feeling overwhelmed by my disappointment in myself for not accomplishing my personal goals.

Even with a productive day, I found myself fighting tears in the evening. My husband, lovingly concerned, asked if something was wrong, but I couldn’t articulate my feelings. I realized that my emotional turmoil stemmed from my old habits of coping—when faced with discomfort, I would typically resort to substances. With those tools no longer available, I felt lost.

Despite my day being manageable, I was overwhelmed by negative self-talk, a pattern I’ve relied on for too long. I had trained myself to shut down feelings instead of confronting them, often resorting to blame, both towards myself and others. This avoidance has been my modus operandi, using various addictions to escape the discomfort of my emotions.

Ultimately, I’ve been unconsciously choosing addiction over genuine relief. It’s time to shift my focus and truly feel my feelings, seeking real relief instead of temporary numbing.