But I don't have much else to go on beyond purple and coffee and you are not your mistakes.
I fix a frozen dinner, bring it to the couch, scoop soggy green beans to my mouth. They're more palatable than this chapter.
A Ten Step Checklist to Finding Yourself After Addiction.
One. Eat Well.
I stare at my Lean Cuisine. This is well. Ish. I never paid much attention to what I ate when I was using. It was whatever was around. A bagel from the break room. A takeout sandwich at the place near the office, whatever Ross was eating.
I guess I can work on this one.
Two. Exercise.
In progress. I'm doing this yoga recovery program. And sometimes, I do weights at the gym. But I don't really enjoy it. Or focus on my body. I tune out with pop-culture podcasts that don't quite hit the spot.
Three. Make amends for past mistakes.
Uh… Next.
Four. Find sober friends.
Not going that well. I force myself to go to Narcotics Anonymous (NA) meetings, but everyone is so… positive and encouraging and it feels weird. Wrong. Fake. I don't click with those people.
I can talk to my classmates and my adviser and my supervising psychologist about research. But it never gets deeper than that. I tried telling a friend about rehab. Alice was as interested in addiction research as I am. She was open-minded. Hell, she was madly in love with some celebrity who had just publicly admitted to his history of drug addiction.
But as soon as I told her about rehab, she stopped returning my texts. She started avoiding me in class. She acted like I didn't exist.
If an informed PhD candidate can't accept my past, who the hell can?
Five. Get enough rest.
Coffee makes this difficult. As does staying up all night, poring over past mistakes.
Six. Figure out your goals.
This one is done. My next five and a half years are devoted to my goal—becoming a research psychologist.
Seven. Keep a journal.
Eight. Read.
Nine. Find new hobbies and passions.
Ten. Accept yourself.
I toss the book on the couch and focus on scooping my TV dinner. The green beans are still mushy. The steak is overcooked. The potatoes are far from crispy.
It's food.
It satisfies my hunger.
But it's not enough. Not really. I want something good. Something better.
Maybe I can learn to cook.
That's a hobby. A passion even.
That—number nine—is where I need the most help.