For Whom the Cherry Trees Bloom

I remember vividly that in the depths of my addiction, my father was accompanying me to see a doctor in the methadone substitution center. It was scary. I was so afraid. It was one of the lowest points of my life. 

On the way there, we passed a blooming cherry tree. My dad said, “Look how beautiful it is.” And I remember thinking: But I can’t feel that beauty with all the fear and shame inside me. The cherry tree is not blooming for me. 

This became a powerful reminder. Every time I think about giving in to the addiction, I remind myself: “I want to be someone for whom the cherry trees bloom.”

Lately, my addictive tendencies are getting worse. Am I still someone for whom the cherry tree blooms, even if barely? I’m scared because I don’t know the answer. 

I need to remind myself I didn’t go through the brutal detox just to return there. I never want to see the Pavilion 8 from the inside again. 

And I never want to see the methadone substitution center again, too.

When I passed the cherry tree on my way to the methadone substitution center with my dad that day, it was so scary. The place was a dilapidated concrete structure better suited as the setting of a post-apocalyptic movie than a medical facility. I was there for an initial examination, not the methadone, but the rough-looking young men waiting inside were. My dad later said that he was glad he came with me, because everything about it looked dangerous.

Inside that scary-looking place lay a surprisingly peaceful doctor’s office. It was quiet, and a scented candle was suffusing the air with a soft, comforting fragrance.

I was in so much pain. I was feeling so much shame that I felt I didn’t deserve to exist. I felt like human trash. 

I haltingly explained to the doctor how I had landed in a Z-drug and benzodiazepine addiction, and she said it would be better to go to the hospital, but I was too scared of hospitalization by that point. So she said we can do it without going inpatient. But she gave me bad advice. Looking back, I believe that in my situation, continuing Z-drugs while tapering benzos made things worse, because the short-acting Z-drugs kept me in a state of near-constant withdrawal. I should have done that the other way around.

So I ended up in the detox after all. And after it ended, after they had released me, I felt so happy. I felt I got my life back.

And then the prolonged withdrawal struck.

I went days without any feelings at all. I remember watching a show with my dad and not getting anything at all from it because I was so completely detached, I didn’t understand in that moment why to bother.

I had so intense anxiety that I was shutting down, curling in a ball, and falling out of consciousness.

And nobody told me this would come. I ended up getting the information, the proof I was not going crazy, from BenzoBuddies, a forum for people quitting benzos. No doctor told me what to expect. Nobody told me how to continue.

And nobody told me how to keep on being alive.

The anhedonia, lack of feelings, has transmuted into a lighter version, the lack of good feelings. I don’t feel joy. I don’t feel happy. I don’t feel good.

And it’s so hard to keep going on when you don’t feel anything positive that would give you a moment of relief, a reason to go on. 

Day after day after day.

The only small relief I get is on the days the caffeine works, and I can write.

But relying on a substance, no matter how harmless, can be dangerous in the long run. It opens doors to other addictions – when the caffeine doesn’t work, when it isn’t enough, I start craving more.

And sometimes, I start acting on it.

Because the substances are the only things that can lift me from the anhedonia and allow me to experience something good, even if for fleeting moments.

Ironically, the aftermath of getting clean is what draws me back to the addiction.

My therapist told me that the moment people come to terms with their addiction is when they see that their life is better without it. But my life isn’t better. It’s worse. And it has been for the past two years.

Will I end up back where I began? Will all the effort and all the suffering be for nothing? I don’t know. I desperately hope that I can hang on, fight tooth and nail to keep from that abyss.  

But will it be enough?

Only time can tell.

If this resonated with you…

I write personal essays about AuDHD, mental health, grief, identity, and figuring out how to live a life that feels like your own.

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