2KVYOT3.L0VE
Tukayote Helianthus v2
Walking away from suffering.Walking towards love.With intention.
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Three hundred days ago, I walked away from my drug dealer—and it came in a shiny, “natural” package. Kratom didn’t look dangerous. It promised relief, energy, healing. What it delivered was dependence. My opioid receptors didn’t care that it came from a plant. The withdrawals were brutal, the marketing still predatory, and the lie of “safe” continues to pull people in. This isn’t an anti-wellness rant—it’s lived truth. Kratom isn’t harmless. I’m grateful I got out when I did, and I’m speaking up because someone else deserves to know what they’re really signing up for.
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Emotional urges can hijack the wheel fast. You know the choice won’t help, you see the outcome coming—and sometimes you do it anyway. For me, that looks like food that spikes my blood sugar. Tonight, I didn’t use a skill I know works: Opposite Action. And I’m living with the consequence. But this isn’t about shame. It’s about agency. DBT skills don’t make urges disappear—they give you a moment of choice inside the chaos. That moment is power. And every moment after is another chance to use it.
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One month ago, I walked away from the IT industry—not impulsively, but out of necessity. What finally broke the spell wasn’t burnout or boredom, but a deeper realization: staying was costing me my emotional and physical health. This is the story of choosing emotional sobriety, radical self-love, and a different path forward—one rooted in recovery, integrity, and freedom. The road ahead is unknown, but it’s no longer the one that was slowly wearing me down.
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A spontaneous tattoo on Bourbon Street nearly killed me. What started as a tired, impulsive “YOLO” decision during a solo road trip turned into a severe infection and a real brush with sepsis. Years later, that same tattoo has become a daily reminder that time is finite and choices matter. I don’t read “You Only Live Once” as recklessness anymore — I read it as responsibility. One life. One body. One shot to spend my hours on what actually brings meaning, joy, and integrity.
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I was diagnosed with Bipolar I in 2007, but the truth is my war with myself started long before that—shaped by childhood trauma, military exposure, toxic relationships, and years of survival-mode coping. I lost jobs, housing, stability, and nearly my sense of self. What changed wasn’t a miracle cure. It was ownership. I got sober. I faced my history head-on. I learned my brain, my trauma, my patterns, and my parts. Recovery, for me, isn’t a finish line—it’s a daily practice of honesty, responsibility, and refusing to disappear. I’m not just what happened to me. I’m who I chose to…
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The last three weeks have exhausted me. I’m exhausted, restless, anxious, and juggling consequences from years of medications that keep me alive while quietly wrecking my body. Akathisia, brutal side effects, diabetes, sleep apnea, and yet another possible med change—all while quitting cannabis, nicotine, caffeine, energy drinks, and everything else I used to lean on. This is what recovery actually looks like sometimes: choosing the least dangerous path forward when every option sucks. I’m not giving up. I’m adapting. My body finally said enough, and now I’m listening. It’s heavy, but I’m still here—and I’m not done.
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Meet Roxy: my fiercest protector and most relentless firefighter. Her job is simple—keep me away from fear at any cost. Her weapon is dopamine. When alcohol and nicotine were taken off the table, she didn’t disappear; she adapted. Food became the new delivery system. What I’m learning is uncomfortable but crucial: addiction doesn’t vanish when you remove a substance, it shape-shifts. This year isn’t just about sobriety or blood sugar or weight—it’s about rebuilding trust with the part of me that learned to survive through stimulation. If I don’t understand why I chase dopamine, I’ll stay owned by it. Recovery,…
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