Whispering Wyrd

Yesterday marked one year since my last benzodiazepine.

For so long, this date was a horizon I wasn’t sure I’d ever reach. A promise, a fear, a measuring stick. I waited with hope, dread, and exhaustion. Now it has come and gone. What I find is not fireworks or finality, but a quiet, surprising spaciousness where the constant waiting used to be.

And yet, last night, a brutal wave crashed through. A return of withdrawal symptoms. A nocturnal panic attack, my nervous system ablaze with the old, too familiar fire, robbing me of sleep and reminding me in no uncertain terms that healing is not a straight line. It was a stark, brutal companion for this anniversary.

A friend called to congratulate me yesterday. He once said something that has stayed with me, “Whatever time we have left is ours now.” He is right. This time, however much is left, is mine. Not borrowed. Not managed by a pill bottle. Not dictated by the fear of the next dose, or the next wave.

Mine.

That possession doesn’t mean ease. My faith promises no such thing. What it, Buddhism, has offered, over and over, is something more honest… the capacity to meet life as it is, without being crushed by it. Last night, that meant sitting in the dark, with mindful breath, while my body screamed. My faith didn’t stop the pain. It helped me stay. It helped me remember that fear is not a command, it’s a visitor. It comes, it stays a while, and it leaves when it leaves.

We spoke last night about how a Buddhist works the Twelve Steps. The question now answers itself in lived experience. The Steps aren’t about believing the right thing. They are about letting go of the illusion of control, telling the unvarnished truth, making amends, and learning to live without being run by fear and compulsion. As my friend said, “it’s about principles”. 

Buddhism asks something profoundly similar.

Not “believe this,” but “look deeply for yourself.”

Look at craving. Look at suffering. Look at all the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what we need.

My recovery has been less about becoming someone new, and more about an unburdening. A setting down and letting go of what was never meant to be carried this long.

There is grief in that. I won’t pretend otherwise. Grief for years dulled, moments missed, a life lived through a chemical fog. My faith doesn’t ask me to push that away either. Grief is part of love. Regret is part of waking up. But like a painful memory, it is not a place to live. I choose to live in the only place life can actually be lived, this present, this very moment. Here. Now.

And so, today, even within the lingering tremor of last night’s storm, I feel something else rising more strongly.

Permission.

Permission to live forward without waiting for a finish line that may not look like I imagined. Permission to feel sparks of joy even while my nervous system stitches itself back together. Permission to trust that whatever time I have left, years, months, or just this single, shaky breath, belongs to this life. Right here. Right now.

I don’t know what comes next. That’s just a fact. My practice has taught me that “not-knowing” isn’t a failure. It is a posture. A stance. A way of walking without armor, without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

What I do know is this…

I am no longer living under the constant, unrelenting shadow of addiction.
I am no longer counting pills, or days between doses, or “emergency exits”.
I am learning, moment by moment, how to be present for my own life.

That feels like enough for today.

And for the first time in a very, very long time, tomorrow doesn’t feel like something I have to survive.

It feels like something I get to meet.

Amituofo.
 ~Buck