I Didn't Know the Voice Was There
Self-talk is something I never paid attention to. I'm just that way. I was always like that. I thought I was how I was — a mix of genetics and environment — and I just went through life not noticing the things I told myself. I assumed my traits and my reactions were fixed. Just me.
It was only later on, when I was doing ICPM programming, that I learned the concept of self-talk
I realized that even the times throughout the last decade I'd made poor choices completely sober — every one of those times, my best thinking led me there. So why did I choose to go back? After small provincial sentences, after completing rehab — what drove me to use again, or to immerse myself back in street culture?
I believe now that a lot of it was the story I told myself. I was a drug addict. I enjoyed using substances. But did I really? I didn't feel like I enjoyed it anymore. I think at some point, a long time ago, I must have — but I can't remember a time I genuinely enjoyed getting high. The idea is always better than the act. I kept going back to something I didn't even want anymore, because the story said that's who I was.
The drugs made me do it. Once I'm clean, I'll be free. It's a substance problem.
I relapsed sober, with clear thinking. The thinking was the problem. The substances were where it took me.
More of a Prison Than Actual Prison
Street culture is more of a prison than actual prison. And I've been in both, so I can say that with some weight behind it.
In prison there's a count. There's a date on the wall. There's something to look forward to, days you can mark off, a release you can aim at. The mind-prison has none of that — no intake form, no sentence length, no parole board. And the cruelest part is that you're also the warden. You built the walls, you enforce the rules, and half the time you don't even know you're inside it.
The environment doesn't help. Methadone clinics, shelters, surrounded by people struggling— and at the same time, right beside everyday people just going to work, living in a completely different world. Two worlds coexisting in the same space, barely seeing each other. It's hard to tell yourself anything positive in that environment. Hope feels risky. Vulnerability feels dangerous.
That sounds strange to say out loud, but it's true — I had more hope inside than I did on the street. Prison at least had a structure. The street had nothing but the same story on repeat, reinforced by everyone around me running the same one.
I don't think getting clean automatically addresses any of this. People who've done treatment can recite all the acronyms, all the relapse prevention theory. I never remembered any of it. What I do remember is the self-talk: I fucking hate myself. I'm such an idiot for doing this. That general hatred of yourself for choosing to act against your own moral code — not the dope itself, but maybe you stole money from someone you love, or lied, or did whatever. That stuff is hard to address because you never share it. There's no release date, no parole officer. And even if there was, I don't think I could have told him those kinds of intimate thoughts.
You Can't Fix the Software Without Working Hardware
The first thing that has to happen is addressing the physical dependency and the health piece. You can't fix your software without working hardware. It takes time for your body to find homeostasis again, to balance back out. Many times I believed it wasn't possible to be happy again. I had no real hope that things could be different — and that's not a mindset problem at that point, it's a body problem. The brain is still in withdrawal. The nervous system is still raw.
The self-talk work can't really start until there's some ground under you physically. That part matters and it doesn't get said enough. You can't think your way out of a biochemical hole. You need some stability first — even just a little — before the inner work has anything to stand on.
What Actually Helps
I don't have a magic protocol that can fix you, or me. I wish it was that easy. There are a lot of quick fixes and expensive promises made in recovery. The statistics are bleak. The stories are even more bleak.
What I think helps — what has actually helped me — is being open. Starting the process of trying to articulate how I feel to a loved one, or someone in my support network. Having a consistent baseline of a few people who know me, love me, and genuinely have my wellbeing. Maybe that's how the story starts to change — not by fixing it alone in your head, but by saying it out loud to someone who doesn't flinch.
Because the prison of self-talk is partly kept in place by silence. Speaking it out loud to someone safe might be the first real act of parole.
I try to watch my self-talk now. I notice it at work, roofing. When I mess up a cut, or I'm pushing too hard, and I catch myself thinking I'm an idiot — I still do it. But I find myself taking a big breath and saying it out loud: that's not true, you're just worked up right now.
The body keeps score. I'm not sure it always knows what's true or not. Your brain and your self-talk influence more than we know. I'm still working on it. But knowing what the walls are made of is more than I had before.