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Peculiar Pleasure of Struggling Without a Crutch
There is, I have discovered, a peculiar dignity in suffering untainted. One might even call it artisanal anguish—pain in its purest, unadulterated form, free from the chemical counterfeits and fleeting frivolities of the numbed and narcotized. To struggle without addiction is to sip despair neat—no chaser, no chill, no comforting cocktail of escape. It is, in a word, exquisite.
And yet, the world frowns upon this flavor of masochism. It whispers seductively of shortcuts: the cigarette for the soul, the glass of good cheer, the endless scroll of digital dopamine. “Go on,” it purrs, “you deserve a little relief.” Ah, but therein lies the trap—the treacherous transition from tranquilization to torment. The reprieve is brief; the reckoning, ruinous.
The addict’s cycle is a cruel carousel: a dizzying dance of relief and remorse. The initial sip, puff, click, or swipe feels like a lover’s kiss—warm, understanding, indulgent. But oh, the aftermath! The betrayal! The comedown’s claws sink deep, dragging one’s mood from fleeting euphoria to existential audit. The high, once heavenly, morphs into a hellish hangover of regret and self-recrimination.
How much simpler, then, to stay in the storm—to weather the wind rather than chase the calm! The sober struggler suffers steadily, stoically, and without the added insult of having engineered their own undoing. Misery, when left unmedicated, becomes oddly manageable; predictable, even companionable. One learns its moods, its manners, its mild sadism. It becomes, in time, a houseguest rather than a hostage-taker.
There is, I concede, no glamour in this path. The unaddicted struggler has no anecdotes of wild binges, no tales of tragic relapse to regale their therapist. But they do have something rarer: consistency. Their lows are low, yes—but they are honestly low, organically cultivated through the diligent discipline of despair.
Perhaps this is why the cleanly struggling soul so often radiates an irritating calm. They have, by refusing the refuge of vice, discovered the paradoxical pleasure of prolonged discomfort. Their pain is honest, their fatigue authentic, their mornings clear. They are like monks in a monastery of modern malaise—chanting softly in the echoing halls of their own endurance.
So yes, dear reader, struggle. Struggle nobly, nakedly, needlessly. Let your suffering be sincere, your agony artisanal. Eschew the easy ecstasies of intoxication, and you may find, to your astonishment, that misery—when faced without filter—has its own subtle, stubborn sweetness.
After all, sobriety may not soothe you. But at least it won’t lie.
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