Whispering Wyrd

A couple of evenings ago,
after a day and night of snowfall,
we went out for food at one of our favorite places.
When we came back outside,
the sky looked like it had caught fire.

New Mexico sunsets are always beautiful,
but this one felt… alive.
Pink and gold poured across the clouds,
as if the mountains themselves were breathing light.
I took pictures, of course,
but photos can never capture what the moment really was.
They never hold the way beauty enters the chest
and quietly breaks you open.

These days, that kind of beauty brings me to tears.
After everything my body and mind endured in withdrawal,
I feel moments like this with a tenderness
I never knew before.
Life no longer feels endless or disposable.
It feels fragile.
Sacred.
Here, now, and not guaranteed.

And it reminded me, again,
how much place matters when we are trying to heal.

I tried to get off benzos many times in Texas.
Again and again I failed,
ending up back in my doctor’s office,
the dose raised,
the fog thickened.
The environment wasn’t wrong in some moral way,
it just wasn’t right for me.
The land, the pressure, the fear,
the silence around who I really was…
my nervous system couldn’t find rest there.

Here, in New Mexico,
something in me finally exhaled in relief.
The mountains.
The sky.
The sacredness of this wide, open land.
And most of all,
the love and steadiness of my family.
Everything aligned in a way it never had before
and healing became possible for the first time.

Five days from now,
it will be one full year since my last pill.
One year free.

Even in the most beautiful place I’ve ever known,
getting off benzos was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
But now I am here,
awake inside my own life.
No chemical fog.
No muffled emotions.
No false calm.
And no anger.

I feel things now.
Really feel them.
Joy.
Fear.
Grief.
Wonder.

And for the first time in my life,
I am honest with myself about what I feel.
I no longer tell myself “I don’t care”
when something hurts or scares me.
I care deeply.
And that honesty,
that simple, clear truth,
has changed everything.

It has also changed how I live with my past.
I am finally able to look at what was done to me.
And what I did to others.
Not to punish myself
but to heal.
Alcohol once helped me bury it.
Later, eight Klonopin a day helped me forget it.
But you can’t heal what you have hidden and numbed.
You can only heal what you are willing to look at and feel.

And one of the deepest truths I had to face
was what I truly believe.

For decades, living in the “Buckle of the Bible Belt”,
I learned to stay quiet about my own spiritual heart.
To keep it hidden.
To survive.
I didn’t know how many others were doing the same
until I left.
Until I began to speak my truth.

Being silenced, especially about something so intimate,
slowly erodes a person’s soul.
It makes you feel small,
judged,
alone.

Now, I am free not just from substances,
but free from pretending.
Free to be genuine.
Free to believe what I believe.
Free to be myself without apology.

That freedom has made me gentler.
Kinder.
More real.

And it is why I keep writing.

I write because it heals me.

And because sometimes, quietly,
someone reaches out to say,
“I thought I was alone.
But your words found me.”

For those healing from addiction,
I see you.
For those who feel silenced for who they are or what they believe,
I see you.

Keep walking.
Even if it means changing everything.
Even if it means leaving a place behind.
Peace is possible.

I am living proof.

May you find peace.
May you heal.

Amituofo
 ~ Buck