I had been clean for two months, but that day was a busy shift. The sound of my sighs was drowned out under the speakers' bass as the bodies sardined and stacked on the glowing dance floor thumped brazenly, shaking the very core of the earth with jubilee. I was serving the VIP guests at the back of the bar. The men sported shades that hid their gaze from curious eyes, and the women wore skin-tight dresses. It was another birthday, and entitlement oozed from the celebrant like pus from a weeping wound. I can't tell you the number of laps I ran back and forth trying to please her; nothing seemed like enough. Between the piling school assignments, two other campus jobs, extracurriculars, and family expectations, I cracked.
Everything around me fell out of my awareness, and all I could focus on was the pink vape beside the bedazzled purse of the celebrant.
I knew I shouldn't, but that didn't stop every cell of my body from begging for a hit.
I tried to stop it, but the anticipation had settled on my chest, eager for satisfaction, and before I knew it, it was in my hands, slipped away from the table in the midst of all the commotion.
I stole away into the night, dragging the viscous nectar in and out of my lungs until the nicotine had sedated my heightened nerves. I tried to convince myself, against my better judgment, that it was a “treat” and that I somehow “deserved it '' for all my hard work. But the shadow of demons I thought I had defeated began rearing their ugly heads.
I kept that vape, and once it ran out, I bought more. That cycle went on for 3 months until I decided enough was enough and threw my vape into the trash. But the next day, like a scavenger, I dug it right up and pressed it to my lips in shame.
That’s the funny thing about addiction: it's a loser's game. One in which your flesh actively works against your success. Under the guise of self-control, you engage without realizing you were never in control anyway. Drugs flood the body with a release of neurotransmitters—dopamine, norepinephrine, and serotonin—produce such intense activation of our reward system that normal activities pale in comparison. It becomes hard to enjoy simple pleasures when a torrent of physical and emotional pleasure is just a few feet away. Eventually, that pleasure is not enough, and more and more of the addictive substance must be taken to stave off cravings. All focus, attention, and awareness are funneled into the object of addition. All the while the body suffers, consistently inundated with toxic chemicals it needs to clear from its system.
Suddenly, that innocent urge to self-medicate, to temper the emotional pain, is hijacked into a never-ending negative feedback loop you have to fight to escape. It’s no surprise that rates of addiction are on the rise, especially considering our modern-day mental state. A culture defined by isolation, instant gratification, and craving for material distractions can only produce neurotic fruit. Most of us hang from the rotten tree, hoping that the next hit will set us free.
It won’t, We know it, and yet we go for it again and again and again.
This cycle continued for me until the chest palpitations became undeniable, the shortness of breath more obvious, and the morning phlegm more dense, this time laced with blood. I realized I had to make a change. As a dancer, my lungs were what sustained me. To kill them would be to kill my hopes and dreams.
At first, my endurance had been shot from years of consistent smoking. But I tried to not let that stop me. With one foot after the other, I propelled myself forward, feeling the rush of air through my lungs. I noticed the beads of sweat as they blossomed and fell down my forehead. The music blasted in my ears, and I did my best to sing along, distracting myself from the craving that was nipping at my heels.
I ran faster.
Pushing my muscles, my lungs, and my blood vessels into overdrive. I was making them work harder than they had in months, and once I began to slow down, I realized the most beautiful thing. I was high. This time it wasn’t the nicotine, it wasn't the weed, it wasn't the alcohol, the coke, the LSD, or the molly. It was just me and my body—nothing but the flesh and the breath. It was surprising to learn that if I put int the work I could harvest joy from my body naturally. Since then, I have found movement to be the best of all medicines in my journey towards recovering from addiction.
It's the best because it does not cost a dime, and it is always with us. As long as we are embodied, we have 24/7 access to the same rush of endorphins, serotonins, dopamine, and norepinephrine that can be had after a 30-minute bout at the gym, a yoga session, a jog, a walk, or whatever it is that gets you moving. When cravings itch through your skin like insects threatening to rip you apart, you can always find solace and reprieve in your body. As you move, you begin to move your mind as well, away from the neurotic obsession with your vice and the stressors in your daily life and towards a deeper awareness of the present moment.
The more you engage with the present, the easier it is to begin to mend the relationship with the body—a relationship that is often severed by addiction and poor mental health. When we engage with our vices, we are often doing so at the expense of our bodies. Despite the negative side effects such as a lower mood, hangovers, insomnia, and a faltering appetite, we continue to ingest whatever is harming us because, in the short term, it feels good. Little do we know that the body loves balance. So the heights of our highs are often followed by the depths of our lows. And when we are in the trenches, it becomes easy to beg the substance that brought us there in the first place for another taste. We are no longer listening to the signs and signals our bodies are giving us to stop. It is impossible to pause and really listen when you are constantly bouncing between two extremes. So we continue to override our natural limits for the sake of that next high.
That high can be anything; here I’ve shared my vice of choice, but I invite you to consider what that is for you. Maybe it’s sugar, caffeine, social media, work, video games, porn, validation, or money. The list goes on and on; virtually anything can become addictive under the right circumstances, and it is important to be aware of how we relate to these pleasures. When we listen to our bodies, we become more aware of what we need. So instead of reaching for our vice when we are stressed, tired, hungry, angry, sad, or simply bored, we become better at identifying our feelings and their root causes so that we can meet our needs properly.
Movement isn't the end all be all. Nothing is. But it is a useful weapon to have in your arsenal when recovering from addiction—one that you can yield any time stress and difficulty try to knock you down. Not every day will be perfect; there are still times I find my skin itching for that next hit and when I slip and fall. I pick myself up, dust myself off, and remind myself that it's okay. I am fighting the good fight, and I will keep going as long as I need to.
Comentários