"Trapped" (Fiction with a Message)alcoholics narcotics cocaine anonymous recovery rehab drugg-free addiction
When he awoke consciousness seemed to fit him like a pair of shoes, three sizes too big. His senses still throbbed with disorientation. The knotted mass of fibrous tissue, once known as his stomach, writhed and twisted about in his abdomen. The once intricately-wired, computational organism (otherwise known as his brain) seemed to rattle in its shell, apparently shrunken from its original mass. Dehydrated. He not only ached with every movement -every thought- but simply living saturated every thread of his being with anguish. Mentally and physically he was the embodiment of Hell. It was as if his entire body had become a tremendous pair of testicles… Testicles beaten, bruised, bloodied, and kicked beyond recognition. |
Days passed. Days spent in starvation, hopelessly calling for help. Laments arose, bursting from the pit, until his voice fell victim to hoarseness. Surely he recognized the approach of death. He felt the chill of its desire numbing his skin with its icy embrace. He smelled death’s odor, its fetid breath falling thickly against his face. In desperation he prayed. The situation was hopeless. In defeat he collapsed. He laid silently awaiting the moment when black nothingness would free him from the suffering consuming his every molecule.
He would have died then, without question, if not for the unlikely arrival of a pair of travelers. Two individuals, quite different from one another, in their own ways, yet traveling together for convenience. The first, a woman thoroughly gifted with culinary talent. She was renown for her knack at manipulating ordinary sustenance into nutritious manifestations both life-giving and delicious. The second, a man ordained by the highest religious fellowships around. His faith was immeasurable; his devotion was without blemish.addiction anonymous rehab recovery drug |
they stood. They called to him down in his Hell. And despite malnutrition, despite the impending death that hung upon him like ragged, musty clothes, he heard their words of encouragement. He knew -for the moment- he was not alone. Somehow his voice found new life. He cried out in need. In despair, he begged his visitors for a solution to his predicament.
But, alas… After much consideration, they realized they hadn’t the means to free him from the pit. No rope had they to extend into its darkness. No ladder had they to cast downward, allowing him to make his much-needed climb. In spite of their wondrous abilities, talents, and skills neither the nutritionist nor the holy-man could free the subject of our tale. But surely they knew the gravity of his situation.. Surely they realized his life would soon end. The woman tossed downward a care-package, brimming with the finest foods, in hopes that its nutrition might allow him the strength to free himself. The priest offered prayers to Heaven so sincere that tears tumbled in sloppy spoonfuls as he prayed.alcoholism drug addiction narcotics anonymous help rehab recovery cocaine change detox
Still… The reality of the captive’s situation remained. |
"The Desperate Man" (1844-45): Gustave Courbet. |
The visitor appeared.
It was just an old man, his hair was wild and the color of dirty snow. His face was leathery and deeply furrowed with lines surrounding a set of stern but empathetic eyes.
The visitor, after having assessed the situation, threw himself into the pit.
The prisoner’s eyelids flew wide in disbelief, the eyes they shaded bulged from their sockets in horror. Our subject now found himself not only dizzy from starvation but falling sick with shock. The visitor, after regrouping himself from the formidable but survivable fall, saw the confusion on his face. The visitor’s expression became calm yet as serious as the grim environment they now both shared. The visitor, this apparent madman, fool-enough to throw himself into the life-threatening confines of hell, drew himself closely to the prisoner and spoke. He said, with the conviction of a father holding his child for the first time, “Relax… I’ve been here before, a couple of times in fact… As long as you’re serious about escaping, I can show you the way out.”
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*This story is fiction, of course. It’s an extremely revamped version of a parable -if you will- that I first heard at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting a long time ago. I’ve smothered its lines with exaggeration, perhaps so ridiculously that it’s become gaudy. Nonetheless, I believe the underlying message to be so sound that despite my metaphors, euphuisms, and personifications it cannot be shaken. The inspiration responsible for this story is a simple idea… The concept that quite often those most suited to help someone with any given problem are those who have had the misfortune of living through an equally -even identically- wicked situation. This belief is one of the most prevalent cornerstones to any support group. And although mine is but the opinion of one overzealous writer, it is my opinion that this belief is valid. |
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