The process

The recovery wasn't magic or a heroic act. It was daily work, emotional relapses, and learning to live with myself without anesthesia.

My recovery wasn't a smooth climb or an epic tale to share anywhere. It was a bumpy road, full of setbacks, internal struggles, breathless nights, and days when simply being on my feet was enough. And before I go on, let me make this clear: I never had the urge to drink. Never. Not a single thought. Not even a "maybe I could." I closed that door once and for all. What came after had nothing to do with alcohol, but with what lay beneath.

When I stopped drinking, everything that had been dormant was brutally awakened. Unfiltered emotions, impulses that came from nowhere, anger I didn't know where to direct, fear of abandonment, fear of being alone, fear of myself. It wasn't a craving for alcohol, it was a craving for relief. That feeling that something is missing, like a void you don't know how to fill. And that's when the mind starts improvising cheap solutions: compulsive purchases on Vinted, chocolate as if it were oxygen, liters of Coca-Cola. I wasn't looking to drink; I was looking to silence the noise. It was a dopamine fix to get me through the day.

The anxiety attacks were another monster. That feeling of the world shrinking, of my chest giving out, of me collapsing at any moment. I had to learn to stay still when everything inside was screaming to run. To breathe when my mind was racing a hundred steps ahead. To weather the storm without breaking anything, or myself. Sometimes I managed. Other times I was left completely shattered. But I kept going.

And then there's the profound loneliness. Not the kind you have to be alone at home, but the kind that comes from finding yourself without any kind of anesthesia. When you no longer have noise, parties, consumerism, speed, or excuses to hide behind. That's where true self-discovery begins: seeing yourself without filters, with your old wounds, your untamed fears, your undisguised emptiness. It's not pretty. It's not comfortable. But it's real.

Therapy has been my safety net to keep me from falling completely. Psychiatry, where I've had over 150 visits monitoring my chemistry and stability. Individual therapy, over 150 sessions dismantling my patterns since adolescence. Group therapy at the health center, almost 100 sessions, where I learned to listen and to be heard. ARVIL, where Paco supported me when I was basically an emotional shell and taught me not to drink from day one. And the CRL, where they finally told me bluntly what no one else dared: that I wasn't indestructible, that my limits exist, that trying to live the way I used to would break me in two.

None of this has been perfect. Nothing has been quick. It's been real. I've rebuilt myself through sheer patience, clumsiness, and breathing when everything was burning. I've contained impulses that consumed me, I've navigated painful silences, I've learned to be with myself without running away. And I'm still here. Not by force. Not out of heroism. I'm still here because this time I've decided not to abandon myself.

And above all, I keep going because of Lobo. Because he's the only thing that never lets me slack off.

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