I recently completed the course Theories of Addiction and found the intricacies of relapse to be most interesting. According to the theorists, relapse is often the result of self-defeating thinking and putting oneself in high-risk situations. However, the road is paved with what’s called Apparently Irrelevant Decisions (AIDs). Which are small individual choices that one fails to incorporate into the whole. AIDSs are how people relapse, ruin relationships, lose jobs, become overweight, get into debt, procrastinate, and much more. It’s a failure to see the big picture or truly acknowledge the direction each tiny step is taking us.

My heart hurts for those who relapse. Societally, they’re often seen as stupid, lazy, irresponsible, weak, or even failures. But I imagine that walking out of an addiction is about as graceful as walking around an unfamiliar room set in complete darkness. If you stay there long enough, your vision will hopefully begin to adapt. Unfortunately, before then, there will be stubbed toes, broken lamps, and an abundance of fear and frustration. Frustration that can end with someone breaking and running to the only relief they know will work every time.

Why am I writing about this? Well, lately, AIDs seem to be the only decisions I know how to make. My eyes aren’t adjusting – or more to the point I’M NOT ADJUSTING. I’ve been in this dark room for over a year now, and I can’t handle another stubbed toe or bruised knee. And although alcohol and illegal substances aren’t my trouble, I see myself slowly sliding towards my drug of choice, and I don’t know how to stop. I remember the toxicity and understand why I let it go, but the room is so dark and I’m so tired, and I just need to feel better for a little while.

Approximately one second differentiates between someone in recovery and someone who’s relapsed. One small sip, puff, shot, snort… or touch. You can order the drink, fill the needle, roll the bill, but you’re still on the right side until that ONE SECOND when you take the leap.

I guess I’m writing for gravity, for the strength to keep both feet on the ground (figuratively and literally). In hopes that seeing my twisted, fragmented thoughts corralled into neat, sensible sentences might shake me from my folly… Or perhaps I’m writing to absolve myself for what I know I’m about to walk into. So that years from now, when these not-so-irrelevant decisions catch up with me and cause permanent damage, I can point back and say, “I tried! I swear I did.”

I’ve always lived by the saying, “Never make permanent decisions in a temporary situation.” But now I see that that statement presumes one’s knowledge of the situation’s status. Although I long for the mercy of an ellipsis, I’m being crushed by the weight and finality of a bold, brutal type-set period. My hope is too dim to see past this situation or the emotions it has elicited.

And so, in case you’ve ever wondered, this is how relapse happens. It creeps on like a virus, strategically shutting down or overtaking the parts of you that should be able to fight it off. After a while, you forget what it was like to be strong and healthy, but in desperation, you will remember relief. And the virus reminds you just where to get it and how good it’s going to feel. And you have about one second to decide if this moment is graced with an ellipsis, allowing you hope for a brighter tomorrow, or the tragic resolution of a period. I haven’t decided yet…