I think I've realized that my prison isn't sobriety or active addiction. Sounds cliche and cheesy, but it really is my mind. Or perhaps, better, the walls in which I've created in order to protect myself. Just like the drinking and drugging turned sour, so did my mental isolation. I imprisoned the most pure, innocent and caring piece of me. No visitation. That person needed comfort and I built an 8x 12x brick cell instead.

"Brick by brick my citizens. Brick by brick." And day by day. I can get there. I will get there. I have to. I need to know the feeling. I'm not sure what "living" can feel like without it being a lie. I'll get there, eventually. I'm choosing to believe that right now. For my sake and sanity, sure. Mending my soul and trying to heal my spirit, more so.