Why I stopped writing

How do I even begin explaining myself.

Life's been a crazy ride for me since 2012. Not the good kind of crazy. For 4 years, there's been a chaotic tug of war in me. It's been a vicious cycle of "Will I ever be free from this?" to "I'm claiming my victory!" only to fall back to the black hole of self-blaming, self-confirmation, and self-loathing. It's like being in a dark room, finding the switch, eyes a bit hurting from the brightness but finally seeing the mess around me. I start cleaning up for a bit, only to be so frustrated and anxious from all the work that needs to get done that I turn the lights back off and just sit still in the darkness.

"It's not the future that you're afraid of. It's repeating the past that makes you anxious."

I stopped writing because there was nothing good to write about myself. As far as I can remember, journaling was my thing. But how can I write about my experiences and share my memories when the mere thought of it brings so much shame? I wanted to hide a lot of who I've become, so that's what I did. That's why I didn't bother writing anymore.

The past 4 years was a wild ride. It began when my sister had depression in 2012. I couldn't handle the reality of things back then so I escaped to partying, then partee-ing, until it go to a point where the high was too much for me to contain I'd end up hooking up with different strangers on the many occasions I was high (I never thought I'd lose my virginity to a random guy but I did). Then, from that screwing around season, came a spin off (LOL). I eventually coupled up with one of the dudes I've been having casual sex with. That's when things got way out of hand. It's like I completely gave up the control of my life and let Drugs and Lust take over.

When I ask myself now why I even allowed myself to be in a relationship with a low life drug addict, I have so many reasons, but not one is love. It's simply because we had intense physical chemistry, and to put it blatantly—I was a low life drug addict too. I just wanted to be with someone I can use and trip with. There was nothing romantic or deep about the whole thing. The entire relationship was founded on sex, drugs, and misery that needed company.

I stopped writing because I started using, and when you're using you couldn't care less about anything and anyone but yourself and chasing that perpetual high.

I finally mustered the courage to let go of that toxic relationship 6 months later (wish it could've been sooner), but like dealing with an aftermath of a disaster, I didn't know where to begin. I didn't even know how to deal. So I did what I do best—escape. Again. To be completely honest, some chunks of my life seem to be a blur now. I don't remember much, all I know is I messed it up. I kept the habit of using even if I dropped the man I used with. Probably because it's been my source of comfort way before I even met him. I started smoking up to numb myself when I got date raped at 17. I did it again to deal with the aftermath of a season of kawalwalan, and then a shitty relationship, but only this time it wasn't just weed that's involved. I experimented with other stuff and lived off cocktails of alcohol, capsules, joints, and pills. It was anything I could get my hands on that I can milk for a little bit of pleasure.

Finishing fivers and pills wasn't the end of escaping. I'd still manage to find another way to soothe myself. There's also porn and masturbation. I used and abused them too. There were just too many emotions, too many painful realizations that I just couldn't bring myself to confront them. How could I? To face my worst demons, I needed an armor. I didn't have any. Or maybe I did, but I refused to wear it and gear up for battle just yet. My heart wasn't ready.

Giving in to lust whenever it tempted me became another way to feel good, albeit temporarily. The high it gave was so short-lived, I needed to keep doing it over and over and over again until I was numb. Netflix worked for me too, so I just watched hour after hour, every single day.


When you're desperately running away from a monster that scares the living shit out of you, there's a chance that you run to anything that promises a little bit of comfort, and be blinded by intense fear to see that it's still shit.

I ended up running around in circles chasing the next best thing that can soothe the pain, only to realize I was only patching bandages all over me when I should be getting a surgery to close the wounds to finally recover, and then fully heal.

See, these are the things I couldn't bring myself to write about before. I didn't want to end up writing over and over my vicious cycles of self-destruction. It seemed exhausting.

I stopped writing because I was ashamed of this part about me. This addictive personality I have. And for the last 4 years of my existence it's been the greatest struggle of my life. It still is.

I thought addiction is something you can just detach yourself from and leave behind. That if you tell it how much you hate it, it's gonna run the opposite way and never bug you again.

I couldn't be any more wrong for thinking that.

"Just 'cause you got the monkey off your back doesn't mean the circus has left town."

I remember starting a blog (partysexjesus) to deliberately talk about my life back when I was using. At that time, I was so sure of myself that I'm over it, that I won't fall back into it anymore, that I'm free from it for life. Truth of the matter is, I wanted to talk about my struggles and stories for all the wrong reasons. Because I wanted to show the people I used to party with that I'm a different person, that I've changed for the better. If I'm gonna be completely honest, I wanted to prove to them that I was better than them because I didn't do drugs anymore.

I got cocky, and ultimately God humbled me.

Pride comes before the fall, and indeed, I fell hard.

Sooner than later I found myself back in my same old cycle—using alcohol, drugs, porn, and masturbation to self-medicate from whatever emotional low I was at.

Again, it's the main reason why I stopped writing. There's just so much shame and pressure from myself to get things right first before I went spilling my thoughts back online.

But I'm done letting it get in the way of me sharing my life and my story.

I don't wanna live afraid, scared of being labeled as a hypocrite—a self-love advocate who's dealing with addiction, self-destruction and self-loathing. What a joke, right.

I went to see a psychiatrist. I needed help figuring myself out. I wanted to understand the roots of my issues, and to check everything was alright with me, in my head.

She said I wasn't a hypocrite. She said if anything, this desire to be a better person and preaching about self-love is a projection of who I really want to become. It's an obvious manifestation of the ideal me that I'd like to be someday. She said my struggles and addictions are there merely out of habit, but it's apparent (to her) that I am self-aware on acknowledging that it's time to grow up and rid myself of them.

I felt better about myself after that conversation. I saw myself differently. Objectively, without judgements and condemnation, like how I always do whenever I beat myself up after a slip that makes me lose my "streak." I admit, I focus too much on perfection sometimes that I lose sight of what's even more important: progression. I set standards too high for myself and set deadlines too soon—that I end up getting so disappointed that I slip back to self-destructive behavior just to confirm how much of a failure I am. Just to self-confirm that maybe, sobriety and living fap-free is impossible for me.

I need to write to start distinguishing the lies from the truths about who I am.


I may be struggling and tripping and stumbling now, but I know my God didn't give up His life on the cross for me to stay this way. I know I will be redeemed. I'll get there because He will finish the work He started in my life.

Being this vulnerable is new to me, but I'm going for it it anyway. I want 2017 to be a year of authenticity, even if it means sharing parts of me that aren't really worthy of praise—parts of me that I'd rather keep hidden.

If this is how I process and make sense of certain things in my life, so be it. If I exhaust myself going over and over certain issues, fine. As long as I don't run away anymore.

It's time I confront my demons and writing about it is how I'm making peace with them.

"We never lose our demons, we only learn to live above them."