Welcome to my detox spiral, where healing is feral and blogging is optional.
In the last month or so, I’ve quit Xanax, nicotine, and coffee.
I don’t know if I’m freeing myself or just torturing the absolute shit out of myself.
I didn’t even realize I was dependent on any of this shit — until I did.
And once I did, I wanted out.
I wanted freedom from all of it as badly as I’ve wanted freedom from Chapstick for the last thirty fuckin’ years… but as of right now, you can try and rip my Chapstick from my cold, dead hands..
Anyway, I thought freeing myself from this shit would lead to some kind of creative rebirth and wellness vibe. Instead, it exposed everything I’d been numbing and led to a withdrawal I’ve only seen in the movies.
It turns out that chemical dependence doesn’t care whether your Benzo use was under the supervision of a trusted physician or your nicotine use resulted from the misguided, but relatively innocent judgment of your 13-year-old self. Either way, it ends with you lying on the floor of your home office, calculating how quickly a body can dehydrate from equal parts sweat and tears.
So yeah, the last couple of weeks have been… swell.
Withdrawal Doesn’t Spark Creativity — Who Would’ve Thought?
There’s this thing about energy. Sometimes there’s enough to create… sometimes there’s enough to survive. Oftentimes, there’s not enough to do both. It’s a struggle I’ve faced my entire adult life.
But the thing is, I’m learning that if I don’t express myself creatively, I will absolutely find some toxic shit to get into… which will cycle me right back into survival mode.
With that epiphany (okay, I saw something about it on TikTok), I promised myself I’d post weekly on this blog.
But, of course, it was easier to fall back into an old—but totally reasonable—pattern: survival over creativity.
And while that’s valid… I’m still determined to create through the chaos. Because if I don’t, this unexpressed creative energy will rot me from the inside out.
To be clear — I haven’t exactly figured out how to do that yet. But I’m workin’ on it.
The last couple of weeks, my inner monologue was screaming, “You should be creating something meaningful!”—and my body was like, “What if instead… we spiral?”
The problem is that I’ve been in survival mode for as long as I can remember.
I’m starting to wonder if I always will be.
But just like I’ve managed a million work/life/mom priorities while in full-blown survival mode, I can (maybe) do something for my soul in survival mode too.
Creating While Surviving
Sometimes I forget that my survival creativity doesn’t need to be public.
For so long, I tried to prove my worth through productivity (thanks, Dad).
When you’re stuck in that loop, everything you create starts to feel performative instead of healing.
Every post, every project, every carefully crafted line becomes a desperate little proof of life:
To prove I was fine.
To prove I was resilient.
To prove I was lovable.
To prove I wasn’t crazy for being overwhelmed and overfuckingstimulated.
So even my writing — my most sacred, intimate outlet — wasn’t immune. It always carried a trace of performance, no matter how raw it felt.
I’ve spent years bleeding onto the page, hoping someone would see the strength behind the mess. But here’s what I forgot: I can write — even if no one sees it.
And if I do decide to share it, I’m learning to focus more on the power of publishing than the fear of judgment. Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: I’ve felt seen in my darkest moments because someone else dared to say the thing out loud first.
What I write isn’t meant to move the masses. It’s meant to reach the handful of struggling, heart-heavy humans who need to hear that it’s okay to be a shitshow and still create something today… even if that something is ——————–
And also? It’s okay if you don’t feel like creating shit and a nap sounds better. Gotta do what ya gotta do, am-i-rite?
These Last Couple Of Weeks Weren’t Blogging Weeks
I’m just over here trying to strike a balance, because that’s what I need today.
Turns out, it’s hard to be prolific when you can’t breathe fully. Or poop. Or sit upright without your chest seizing up like an overachieving vice grip.
The last couple of weeks weren’t blogging weeks — they were a “don’t die in public” kind of weeks.
They were rage scribble a to-do list and create some meals that are good for the soul weeks.
They were, this is the price of being a little freer, soon weeks.
And sometimes that freedom doesn’t feel like enlightenment. It doesn’t feel like peace or progress or “new day, new me.”
It feels like withdrawal.
It feels like crawling out of your own skin.
It feels like chest tightness, rage-fueled weeping, two-hour couch naps followed by three-day insomnia, and the overwhelming urge to beat the piss out of anyone who says, “You’ll feel better soon.”
No. No, Susan. I don’t feel better, thanks. I feel like I’ve been exorcised by my old hypocritical Catholic priest.
But… today? It feels like I can write about it today… even if it took two weeks to get here.
I’ve Been Quitting Smoking My Entire Adult Life and Lying About It
No, seriously. I’ve been quitting smoking for thirty years. I’ve quit for days, months, years, DECADES—and somehow, I always end up back at square one.
And this time? I didn’t quit because I had a spiritual awakening or a vision board or a desire to “heal naturally.”
I quit because I was done.
Done smoking to relieve a withdrawal that only restarts the cycle.
Done lying to myself about it bringing me joy.
The only relief I got was from the discomfort caused by smoking in the first damn place.
I had to remember this old book I read — Alan Carr’s, “Easy Way.” It reminds you that nicotine doesn’t fill a void. It creates one. Quitting isn’t giving something up. It’s escaping a con that’s been robbing you for years.
But nobody warns you what comes next.
Because when you strip away the numbing agents, all the shit you survived comes rushing back. Loud. Raw. Pissed off. Unmedicated. Unhinged.
You don’t just remove the crutch.
You wake up in a collapsing building and realize the crutch was holding up half the fucking roof.
And now the roof is on fire — and not in the fun way, like when you’re underage in a club scream-singing what Rock Master Scott & the Dynamic Three said..
I don’t care what they said. I’m not tryina let this motherfucker burn. I need water. And snacks.
Help. It hurts.
This Hurts Because It Matters
I miss the buzz. The calm. The illusion of control.
But that relief came at a price… a steep, quiet, accumulating price.
And I hit a point where surviving wasn’t enough.
Where I couldn’t keep masking the misery with the very things stealing the parts of me I was trying to save.
So now I’m here.
Raw. Unfiltered. Wired and exhausted.
Avoiding every crutch I’ve ever used to survive.
And, ummm—it’s fucking awful.
I Don’t Know If This Is Healing or Just Hell
Some days, I feel strong. Capable. Even proud.
Other days, I wonder if I’m just punishing myself for existing.
Because healing is not fun.
It’s not linear or glamorous.
It’s not a green smoothie or a Facebook quote.
It’s grief.
It’s rage.
It’s bowel irregularity and skin eruptions and crying over absolutely nothing—and everything.
It’s wondering if I even want this “new me” I’m supposedly building.
And it’s realizing I don’t miss the substances as much as I miss the person I was before I needed them.
And then realizing I needed them by the time I was 13 and going into full blown existential crisis because of that realization.
So yeah… there’s a bit of a struggle going on over here in the Survival vs. Creativity war.
But I’m Still Here
I’m still fucking here *eyeroll.
With my tight chest.
And my exhausted nervous system.
And my pathetic decaf green tea with lemon balm and honey, like it’s gonna fill the void.
Because some part of me still believes I deserve better.
Some part of me is still choosing life — this messy, miserable, underwhelming life — over oblivion.
God, it’s boring.
Maybe I’m torturing myself.
Or maybe — just maybe — I’m digging myself out, bit by bit.
And maybe I’m about to go pour me a cup of coffee… because fuck that.
Have you also rage-cried into herbal tea while quitting every coping mechanism you’ve ever loved? Tell me in the comments. Misery loves company — and I bring snacks.