My position seeks to value life, affirmation, and resilience, echoing Camus, Nietzsche, and Kierkegaard. It proposes an interpretation of despair not as an end, but as an opportunity for criticism and lucidity.
For those who are interested.
What I am looking for here is not to collect slogans or recite steps like mantras. I am not saying that this is of no use to anyone, but it does not nourish me. What drives me forward is real speech, the sincerity of testimonials, when someone dares to say: this is what I am experiencing, this is what I am losing, this is what I am gaining.
For me, sobriety is not a miracle that comes from outside. It is a choice that I renew, often reluctantly, sometimes with force, but always with lucidity. It is accepting to live with my limitations, with my pain, with my fatigue. And despite that, or perhaps because of it, continuing to say yes to life.
Here, I want to write as I am. Not to please, not to protect myself behind clichƩs, but to lay bare what I am going through. Because it is by facing what is real that I feel I am making progress. Even if it is chaotic, even if it is fragile, it is still alive. And that is what matters.
To continue, here is Francis Baconās Figure in Movement from 1976. I think it fits well with what Iām saying.
It makes me want to think about it. 
What an extraordinary painting! 
Baconās Figure in Movement speaks to me because it shows a deformed body, enclosed, as if crushed in a space that overwhelms it. Everything seems claustrophobic, humiliating, as if movement itself were made impossible by conventional barriers. But this humiliation is only an illusion: this tension, these gestures, this struggle to break free, is my will to exist. The orange base, banal and concrete, then becomes the anchor point of my sobriety: a reminder that, despite everything, reality remains, tangible and accessible.
My sobriety resembles this. It is not made up of straight lines or harmonies. It is made up of chaos, limitations, pain, but also of that inner movement that always seeks to break free from illusion. What matters is not perfection but the fact that it is alive. And saying yes to life, even like this, is already a form of serenity.
My next image analysis focuses on Julie Mehretuās painting āOf other planes of thereā 2018-2019. It is a canvas measuring 275cm Ć 305cm. It looks like a drapery, something tribal. It is very inspiring and I will reflect on it.
When looking at this canvas, you never know where to focus your gaze. The layers intertwine, scratches and veils, bursts of bright colors piercing through areas of shadow. It looks less like a painting than a primitive surface, stretched like skin. The skin of a deer or aurochs, torn from the living world, then worked, stretched, and painted to carry a memory.
What is inscribed on it does not follow the order of words: lines, streaks, and bursts seem to emerge from an older attempt at communication. It is as if the pictorial gestures wanted to give form to the unspeakable, to those invisible forces that run through existence. The layers of transparency and opaque fragments are reminiscent of markers of timeāmemories of wounds and new beginnings.
Contemplating this painting, I had an intuition: perhaps our ancestors painted in this way to approach the spirit world. In the intertwining of lines and colors, they sought to translate the visible, to express their understanding. It is a map of dangers, joys experienced, all kinds of emotions and places understood and known by the same clan. It is an attempt to explain without reducing, to represent without confining.
What is striking is the impossibility of grasping everything. Each gesture opens up an emotion: anger, vertigo, stupor, courage, confusionā¦ all coexist and overlap, like an inner chaos heard by one or more human beings. It is not disorder, on the contrary, it is a sensitive logic.
It is a skin of memory where the intimate meets the collective, where personal history encounters the oldest of quests: understanding what is beyond us.
Your posts make me want to write about courage. We need courage.
Misfortune has befallen us, pain has pierced us and still pierces us excruciatingly. But we must continue to live, strive to live life beautifully, while being painfully aware that we have wasted it. It takes courage to do that.
Here is a woodcut by KƤthe Kollwitz, which she simply titled āThe Widow.ā
It depicts a young pregnant woman protecting her unborn child with her hands. Following the death of her husband, she is now alone and abandoned. Look at the pain and helplessness on her face. Her entire body language conveys vulnerability.
Given the choice between sailing with my demons or with gurus, I choose to jump ship, even if it means drowning. But experiencing this moment of courage, this struggle for my unattainable dream, this need to feel the serenity of being myself, is the beginning of my whole life.
And who knows what will happen?
Sculpted by Dia Al-Azzawi. Do you like it?
A very bad night. First, I was out of sync (I took advantage of this to finish my book), then I kept my eyes wide open for several hours, determined, and when I was satisfied and ready to fall asleep, the mosquitoes started attacking me. They have radar! I stayed calm. Then the cat meowed to be let out, and dawn arrived with the ballet of construction trucks in front of the house. But everything is fine because the coffee is excellent.
For the first time, I am experiencing a major turning point in my life much more clearly. It is my responsibility, my choice.
It is not a game. My life is not a game, a game in which I can give up or cheat. It is about rebelling against alcoholism completely, entirely. I am capable of living with this discipline.
Itās about not drinking alcohol anymore, one day at a time, which is more concrete than imposing a ānever againā on myself. But above all, and most importantly, itās about having a life plan, fulfilling myself every day, working on my integrity.
Without taking action on the future, in my recovery, I leave my biological brain on standby, with the neural plasticity linked to alcohol consumption. Remaining inactive means refusing to adapt to a life without alcohol.
I have to integrate new experiences to break the reward circuit, which has been completely disrupted by my habit of consuming the product. Acting without alcohol means gradually creating virtuous paths that will lead me away from it.
Iām doing that right now.
Thank you for your diary
I just had a meaningful dream.
I am a boy locked up in a camp. I know that if I stay, I will die. I understand the passages, the dangers, the looks. Armed adults patrol. Some help, but none really protect. I flee. The world outside is still full of predators. Swamps, beasts, mud. I move forward anyway.
I meet men who want to listen. A journalist. A microphone. The boy begins to talk about what he has experienced. Then he says there is something worse. Something even more serious. And then, as an adult, I scream. I cry. I want to stop him from saying it. I know what it means. I know that this truth destroys illusions forever.
I wake up crying.
In reality, I was once ten years old. (I already told this story a few months ago here, but I needed to verbalize)
I am the youngest of three brothers. At home, I quickly realize that I am the one who gets picked on. The looks, the words, the gestures, the threats. There is fear, but also something more confusing, more shameful, that I cannot name. I am made to understand that I matter, but not in the way a child should matter. I am useful, I am singled out, I am set apart. And I feel that this puts me in danger.
One day, my brother points a loaded gun at my forehead. I donāt scream. I donāt move. At that moment, I understand that my life isnāt worth much. Iām ten years old and I make this calculation without words. Around the table, the bottles are there every day. No one sees. Or no one wants to see.
When Iām eleven, we celebrate something for me. At a restaurant. The adults laugh and drink. I drink too. Too much. I donāt understand why they serve me so much. I wake up in a bed upstairs. The party continues without me. Itās the first time Iāve ever passed out from drinking. I donāt yet know that a line has been crossed.
At home and at school, I have no safe place. My false friends mistreat me just like at home, sometimes even worse. I understand that to survive, you have to be cunning, keep quiet, and observe. So I play alone. I create worlds where I make the rules. Tournaments where, in the end, someone like me can win. I invent stories, maps, laws. Itās my way of breathing.
At fourteen, I drink alone among others. At sixteen, I smoke. At eighteen, I smoke something else. I think Iām fitting in, but Iām mostly just numbing myself. When I go to boarding school, I become attached to a single friend. Later, he will become dangerous to himself and others. I donāt yet know that I am mainly looking for someone who wonāt hurt me.
When I come back, I find a gang. I finally exist a little. But alcohol is there. So is theft. The first love stories. Everything is intense, but nothing is stable. I double again. Then I change worlds. I play the guitar. I write. I try to become someone else.
At twenty, a year of freedom, then the fall. Alcohol accompanies me everywhere. I fail, I start again, I run away. In Africa, without alcohol, I breathe. Back home, alone in an apartment, I drink again. This time, I understand that something has been set in motion.
The years go by. I stop doing drugs, stop smoking. I realize that alcohol has become both a refuge and a prison. I try to quit. For a long time. Often. I build a family. A real one. I donāt repeat what I experienced. Thatās my greatest achievement.
Today, I know.
I didnāt exaggerate.
I didnāt make it up.
I wasnāt weak.
I was a child exposed to violence that no one should have had to go through alone.
Alcohol didnāt create this story. It tried to numb it.
I couldnāt help the child I was.
But now I can live without denying what he went through.
And above all, I can stay alive, present, sober, for those I love.
I plan to spend New Yearās Eve sober with about 30 guys and girls, most of whom will just get high and drunk.
I know, it sounds stupid when you put it like that. Except that there is respect within this group. Most of them are long-time friends, and several have already congratulated me on my efforts toward sobriety.
Hi Christophe, congratulations on your 14 days sober! Gotta tell you - I hope you donāt mind - but this 
sounds like a perfect set up for failure. You are early on in your sobriety, youāve been writing about having cravings of late and nevermind that all your friends have congratulated you on your efforts, they donāt have to suffer the consequences. As you already wrote yourself - everyone else will be high and drunk that night. Are you sure you want to expose yourself to this kind of setting?
Thank you. No, Iām not sure about anything, but I need to see my friends, whom I hardly ever see. I feel completely socially isolated. Iām writing about it in my open journal, and Iām really glad youāre concerned.
Of course itās a problem. I still have 48 hours. I think Iāll bring a salad, apple juice, and sparkling water and leave around 1 a.m.
Iāll think about it.
Iām protecting myself for New Yearās Eve tomorrow.
Itās a fact that I accept everywhere: some people donāt want to change, not because they lack the ability, but because it would put their inner balance in danger. This is obvious during a festive occasion. Iām not going to try to convince everyone to stay sober. Itās my choice and I wonāt talk about it. Itās a deliberate withdrawal. I donāt want confrontation.
My tolerance is to accept that some people, including my friends, take drugs and get drunk in front of me. My role is to be true to my principles of abstinence, my efforts to stay sober. I donāt validate destructive behavior, as Iām sure everyone else at this party will do. We will be there to have fun, not to participate in disharmony and disorder. In our group of friends, there is a great deal of tolerance and kindness. Without alcohol, this matches my expectations, and that is why I want to be with them, not to ruin myself.
Everyone has the right to make mistakes, the opportunity to change their mind, and is not afraid to show vulnerability at one time or another. Our group is based on trust and respect. These are important values that mean a lot to me. Moreover, I will likely be the most lucid and therefore the most able to appreciate the groupās cohesion. This is in line with my desire to stay sober.
I know I should stop being so hard on myself, but my brain is constantly hypervigilant. I am at the end of my mental rope. Itās not depression, itās just that I have paid too high a price for the right to be lucid.
Iām lucid now, but itās as if I canāt get used to the idea that Iām no longer traumatized. Thereās nothing left to understand that poses a danger to me. I just need to live my life without having to survive. My brain no longer needs arguments, but corporal input.
My duty today is not to settle the past, but to not lose myself again. And I donāt need to solve my life tonight.
The Walking Man by Auguste Rodin
Iām tired. I need sleep to be effective tomorrow. I hope I get a normal nightās sleep.
Recovery isnāt about becoming stronger.
Itās about becoming less violent with myself.
My nervous system is still fragile. Every relational overload increases the risk of relapse. This is not a mental health issue, it is neurobiological.
So I am going to avoid overly heated discussions on the forum for a while. To protect myself.