Until the age of 6, when we moved out of the city I was born in, I had the most horrifying recurring nightmare. It was always the same one: this man hiding inside our home, who wanted to kill me. The dreams were so vivid and so real that at times I would wake up and be afraid to open my eyes, knowing he was standing right next to my bed. I could feel his breath, sense his body heat and I would pretend to still be asleep. Praying he would go away. There were times I would sit in the back of the car and look back to our living room window and see him standing there, staring right at me.

When we moved, the nightmare stopped and he never found me again.

Three weeks ago, the nightmares started again.

This time, nobody is trying to kill me. This time, there is no man hiding in my home nor am I being chased by the boogey man. This time, I land in a place where nobody knows me. I am still in Los Angeles but there is nobody left who knows me or with whom I have any kind of history with. I am as much a stranger to them as they are to me. And all my memories, all my history is contained just within me; without anyone to validate it or even collaborate with. I walk by an apartment building, remembering how I once visited a friend who lived there. When I go up to the lobby, his name is not on the directory. Nobody has even heard of him and I just stand there. Crying, scared, alone.

I start running down the street, trying to find something, somebody who can validate that I even exist. To prove that I am here, as a person, with a life and a past. Something. Anything. Somebody. Anybody.

With my heart racing, it feels like I am choking as I continue to run……

And then I wake up.

As much as I want to go home and visit my mother, I still haven’t booked my ticket. I talk about it with my mom; about how great it will be to come home and visit. I still haven’t booked my ticket.

Because I am afraid to go home and visit.

Because my mother will be 61 years old this year. My father was 55 when he died.

Because I found out 3 weeks ago that somebody I knew died and I was reminded how precious life truly is.

Because I am afraid that this visit back home might be my last visit back home.

Because I am afraid of what will happen when I become an orphan.

Because I am afraid of who I will be when I lose my roots; my history.

Because I am afraid of nobody knowing who I really am.

When I wake up, there are tears rolling down my face and I stare at the ceiling. Reminding myself, convincing myself, that it was just a bad dream.

My eyes closing again, I let myself get lost in the emptiness of my bed.

Once, I used to be too high to cry…..

My name is Sven. 

We all know that I am not perfect. I have never pretended to be perfect, nor do I really aim to be perfect anymore. It is way too much pressure and quiet frankly perfection is highly overrated.

With that said, I have been asking myself these last couple of days why it has been so hard to admit to people that I relapsed 10 days ago. Which is what happened. I ended a 103 day continuing streak of sobriety by going out on a Sunday. And I can’t really give you a reason why I did it. Because there is not a good enough reason to have relapsed. Was I stressed about my deposition for my lawsuit? Yes I was, but that wasn’t a reason to relapse over. That was a reason to have asked for help and support. Was I thinking that maybe after 103 days I could just do it once more and be okay with it? Probably yes, but I know better and I should have used the tools I have been given in those days to intercept that destructive thought process. Was I trying to self sabotage like I have done so many times in the past? Probably, 32 year old behavior doesn’t change overnight so why should I expect it to do just that with me.

Do I feel ashamed for having relapsed? No, not really. Not anymore and I will tell you why. My last time going out brought home so many more points that before hand I may have known but never truly realized nor understood. I now know that addiction is a disease. A disease for which there is no known cure other than to take it one day at the time. A disease that kills if it is allowed. In many ways it is so very similar to having HIV, another disease for which there is no known cure and that will kill when allowed. I remembered the reason why I got sober again, because in a matter of minutes I was back in that same dark and lonely place I had been in for so many months when I was an active user. That feeling of being a victim, of being misunderstood. Of feeling that doing drugs is my only option in order to survive in a world that is cold and lonely. And I realize that it is cold and lonely BECAUSE I do drugs. I realize that it is dark and lonely BECAUSE that is what my disease does to me. It darkens the light that is my spirit and makes me believe that I am all alone in all my problems and issues. With no other options available to me other than to continue to get high.

Did I enjoy my high? No not really, because as soon as I got high I realized I had made a mistake and opened a door that has to be forever left closed in my life. It is a door to a room that is full of demons, of delusions; of distorted realities that make me believe (even in my high) that I am undeserving of anything good in my life, that I am a bad person (which I am not), a loser and a quitter with no right to a happy life and no claim to joy or love. It is the door to a room which houses a committee that consists of all the demons of my past: dad, Garry, Wyatt, John, work, Sven.

What you need to understand is that when I am sober these people are no longer demons in my life but rather teachers who have taught me some incredibly valuable lessons and have guided me to where I am today on my path. When I get high, I allow my disease to put a mask on them and make them into hurtful and mean spirited people. In my sobriety I understand that they are all on their own path in life and I have been blessed enough to have been guided by them.

And while I may have lost my winning streak of 100 some days, I didn’t lose my 103 days of sobriety. I still have those under my belt and they will serve as a great and solid foundation as I continue with my sobriety. I pride myself on the fact that I was able to be sober for 103 days uninterrupted for the first time in my life. Between alcohol, marijuana and crystal meth I have never had a sober run in my life that was this long, this great and this joyous. And all that I still have to build upon. That, my friends, is an amazing achievement that I am so very proud of, because I never intended to get sober in life. I never intended to turn my life around because I was done with life in so many dark and desperate ways. To have been given 103 days of sunshine in my life has made me stronger than ever before and more determined and spirited than I have ever felt before.

So, with all that said, I am in many ways happy that I relapsed for all the realizations it allowed me to make out of it. Good, healthy, logical understandings that allow me to feed the light of my spirit and to keep boldly walking on my path. A path that I enjoy walking because it is the one thing in life that is truly and completely all mine and mine alone. It is something that God has put me on and that I have the option to turn into something amazing and wonderful, one hour at the time; one day at the time. It is a path that I will never have to share with anyone or that anyone other than me can ever take away from me. It is the most amazing gift I have ever received, as it is truly the gift of creation.

And as I believe and as I do, I create.

I created myself, sober today.

My name is Sven

I love my life, I really do. And I am once again beginning to love my body and my mind. I weigh almost 215 lbs again, the most I have weighed in 10 years and for the first time I find myself smiling when I look in the mirror and see myself. Because I look good, both inside and out. And I am proud of that because I worked hard for it, damn hard.

It is only Tuesday and already it has been some week! On Saturday I received notice that my unemployment benefits had run out, not the most pleasant news to receive. And while I did have a mild anxiety attack on Sunday, overall I remained calm and instead focused on my plan of action without having to even fight the urge to escape. I took another baby step.

Jumping into gear on Monday morning, it only took two phone calls before my hard work was rewarded: Social Security confirmed that my request for disability benefits had been approved. This in itself is a two fold victory for it not only relieves a lot of my immediate financial pressure it also strengthens my lawsuit. I now have confirmation from the US Government that I am indeed disabled and can use that to argue both my disability insurance company as well as my old employer in my lawsuit for HIV Discrimination and wrongful termination.

As I am going on my 71 days of sobriety, there are a lot emotions that are beginning to surface that are now asking to be dealt with. Not all of them are pleasant; some of them are rather terrifying to me. But the one thing that I am only now beginning to realize is how truly evil and wicked of a drug crystal meth is. I mean, I have always known what it consisted of but I never really understood the tentacles it has until I started dreaming again. As my body is slowly eliminating all traces of it from my system, Miss Mess fights back with full force; attacking me when I am at my most vulnerable, when I am sleeping. For those of you who have never done drugs or Miss Mess, it is hard to understand what it is like to drug dream. They are the most pleasant and amazing dreams to have, they put a smile on your face as you grab your pillow and seemingly recall the joy and pleasure you once derived from getting high. Preying on the fact that now your conscience is unable to tell you that there was very little to no joy or pleasure, it instead lures your subconscious with distorted fantasies and memories. Fantasies and memories so intense and wondrous that I have woken up several times this past week shaking, craving to get high more than ever before; I have woken up high from the memory itself. And as I open up my eyes my conscious brain has to make a serious effort to once again subdue Miss Mess and shut off her illusion machine, I am tired before I even start my day.

A lot of you have asked me how often I was getting high, a question that made me extremely uncomfortable and I often refused to answer. It makes me uncomfortable because it brings out feelings of shame and guilt. Shame for being an addict and guilt for having lied to so many of you for so long. And there is fear, fear of losing my friends now that I finally and honestly have gotten sober and I need you all the most.

You see, when I first confessed about doing drugs it was November of 2001. And hard words were spoken and tears were shed and for a while there the support I received from my friends was great. And then Miss Mess found another way back into my life, only this time she became a lot more evil and taught me how to become much better about hiding my habit from all of you. Prior to November of 2001, I had only shot up 2 times but after I went out on leave in March of 2002 I bypassed the single digits in no time.

What I am about to tell you may make you feel really uncomfortable. If it does, I apologize but please understand that it is just as uncomfortable for me to write about it, along with the fear that I may alienate some of you. However, if I am going to continue to stay sober, I have to do it with honesty and respect. Honesty and respect to both myself and to my friends.

I have never borrowed money from my friends to buy drugs; my conscience would never let me. I have borrowed money to cover my bills and to buy food because I did spend my own money on drugs, maybe that is still the same as having borrowed money from my friends to buy drugs but in my mind at the time it was a huge difference. The other thing I need to share upfront is that I have never stolen from any of you or have sold anything you have given me to buy drugs with. It is important for me that you know that first and foremost.

After my habit returned in full force back in March of 2002, it didn’t take me long to find a way to find new and clean syringes online (I have always been big on hygiene and cleanliness!) by ways of pretending to be a diabetic. Each box of syringes counts 100; I have ordered and used a total of 6 boxes between March of 2002 and December 1 2003. If you do the math, you will figure out that I shot up at least once a day, every day for 20 months uninterrupted. The reason why I have no revealing marks on the inside of my arms? Two reasons: for one I was very good at administering myself, the other one is that I used the outside of my arms most of the times. I was a sneaky little bastard.

I have shot up a total of 600+ times with Miss Mess, each time using at least .25 grams. That means that over the last 20 months I have injected close to 5 ½ ounces of battery acid, cat litter and liquid plumber into my veins, not counting the ounces that I managed to smoke as well.

I am not proud of any of it, I am not. I am disappointed in myself, I am angry at myself and I am sad that I thought so little of myself that I had the need to inject so much poison into my body that I could have killed myself. I could have gone insane, developed psychosis and god only knows what else. I am not proud of any of it and I am not proud of having been untruthful to all of you.

It is not a pretty picture to paint of myself which is why it has been so hard for me to come clean about the extend of this.

I now realize that my addiction is a disease for which there is no cure other than to live each day one minute to the next. And with each minute and each day that I stay sober, I walk one step further away from the lie that once was me.

I apologize for having lied to you for so long about so much.

I am deeply sorry.

My name is Sven.

I swear, one of these days he is going to catch on. I can’t believe he hasn’t yet. I barely blinked the entire time we talked. He must know something is up, I was all over the damn map.

2 Whole days. I did good for 2 days. And shit, the first piece of bad news I get, I have to get high. This is so stupid. I can’t believe I am this much of an addict. Have I really gotten to the point where I can’t stop anymore? I hate feeling like this. This antsy, guilt ridden, nausea. Ugh. Why the hell do I even get high? I got to hop in the shower, again. I am drenched. This is such a waste of time. Like I have nothing else to do. I am supposed to be looking for a job, trying to pay some bills. Gross, I am sweating. I hate sweat. I’ll never quit, let’s face it. I’ll be 65 and doing tweek. God what a thought.

That’s great. Now I am so frustrated that I got high, I am not even able to enjoy my freaking high. That’s just super. Will that damn phone never stop ringing!

“WHAT!? No, I am fine. I just had a little too much coffee and now I am all jittery. You know what I mean? Yeah, I am just going to take some aspirin. I’ll call you back.” Fool. Coffee my ass.

Oh damn, I got therapy today! Only you Sven, only you. Only you can shoot up, get pissed off and still make it to therapy all in one afternoon. There has to be something wrong when you can do a ½ gram and still actually function. I should just take a small break, bring my tolerance down. Make it fun, remember?

Okay, almost done. Get dressed; put some concealer on my arms. Not too bad for a junkie. Scars are almost gone. Only took 5 months. A rusty nail never knew it could do so much damage. NOT.

If they ever find out, I’ll have no friends left. Hell, I’d walk out on myself if I could.

Okay, where is the pipe? One hit and I am out the door.