There’s a classic dream many students share: you’re sitting in a classroom, the test is in front of you, and you don’t know a single answer. Scientists say dreams help us work through real-life stress and unsolved problems.
Last night, my brain decided my version of that test would be this: So I dreamt, Whiskey Kitty was stuck in the toilet.
That’s the kind of anxiety my mind is trying to process these days. Health tests. Breathing problems. The quiet question mark that hangs over the future. When your body starts sending warning letters, your subconscious starts writing novels.
And somewhere in the middle of all that worry, I reached out to an old friend.
Not because I had a dramatic crisis. Not because something terrible had happened. Just because I felt alone inside the storm.
I told him the truth: the medical tests scare me. I don’t want to sound like a quitter, but I want to reconnect with something stronger than fear. With family tensions and health concerns piling up, faith feels harder to reach. But sometimes an old friend can remind you where the door is.
He didn’t preach. He didn’t push. He just said he was there.
Sometimes that’s the whole miracle.
Then came the part I didn’t want to admit.
I told myself I wasn’t going to smoke this morning.
And then I bought a cigar.
That’s addiction in its purest form. Logic says one thing. Fear says another. The craving speaks louder than both. When you’re facing health risks, breathing issues, and doctor visits, you’d think cigarettes would be the last thing you’d want.
But addiction doesn’t negotiate with reason. It whispers survival while quietly stealing it.
I even caught myself thinking the hard thought: I’m killing myself.
My friend’s response was simple and grounded. You’re not a quitter. You’ve survived worse. Worry, he said, is paying interest on a debt you don’t even owe yet. And he’s right. Anxiety doesn’t prepare you for the future. It just taxes the present.
He also said something that stuck with me: if addiction is powerful energy, maybe the answer isn’t just stopping it. Maybe it’s redirecting it.
Trade a destructive addiction for a healthy one.
That idea has weight. Deep breathing. Art. Writing. Caring for Whiskey. Building the art business. Those aren’t distractions. They’re life pulling energy back from the fire.
Faith came up too. Not in a heavy-handed way. Just the idea that believing in something higher can ease the loneliness. That turning things over to God, even if it feels counterintuitive, reminds you that you’re not carrying the whole world alone.
I’ve seen that work for people. In recovery rooms and outside of them. Some quit through programs. Some through faith. Some through sheer stubborn will. In the end, every path leads to the same truth:
You’re the one who has to do it.
Support helps. Environment matters. Friends matter. Faith matters. But the decision lives inside you.
Right now, I’m in what I can only describe as a tornado. When you’re in the middle of it, your vision narrows. Everything spins. Everything feels urgent. Everything feels bigger than it really is.
But I’ve been here before.
I’ve quit before.
And this time, the stakes are higher. Health. Breath. Time. Life itself has moved from theory to reality.
My friend told me something I’m holding onto: maybe God is patient. Maybe He’s always there, just waiting for the door to open. Not forcing it. Not judging. Just waiting.
And maybe the bigger challenge isn’t convincing God of anything.
Maybe it’s learning to love myself enough to walk through that door.
Because here’s the truth beneath all of it:
We’re all going to die.
But we choose how we live while we’re here.
Today, I’m choosing to keep fighting.
Choosing to reach out instead of isolating.
Choosing art over smoke.
Choosing breath over panic.
Choosing hope over fear.
The tornado is still spinning.
But I’m still standing.
Once again, I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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