On Waterboarding.

Phones are annoying, aren't they? Always beeping and reminding us about things that can wait.

Well, one day last week, out of the blue, I received a notification that it had been six years, five months, seven days and eleven hours since my last alcoholic drink!

"Cool", I think I said out loud. And then had a bit of a ponder.

In fact, I spent a good few moments reflecting on that particular day, and the extent to which my then addiction had come to dominate my life (and the lives of those around me).

That "last drink", as I recall, was a litre bottle of Glenn's Vodka, accompanied by 40 Marlboro Red, sat outside a detox centre in a rundown Bradford industrial estate. Oh, the glamour.

The staff did eventually persuade me to go inside and what followed remains pretty much a blur if I'm honest. Memories flash, emotions stir and just for a few moments I'm hurtled back to a life that is now long gone.

Trigger Warning: The following post contains descriptions of alcohol withdrawal, seizure and hallucinations. Please see disclaimer below.

I’m lying on the bathroom floor, my body convulsing violently as if I'm being electrocuted. The cold, hard tiles press against my face, but they offer no relief from the searing pain that consumes me. I feel like I'm being waterboarded, each desperate gasp for air met with a wave of nausea that threatens to drown me.

My lungs begin to burn as though I've inhaled pure fire, and my throat constricts, choking on the bile that rises from my stomach. I cough and retch, the sound echoing off the closing-in walls like a twisted, agonising symphony. The acrid taste of vomit still lingers in my mouth, a bitter reminder of the poison I've been feeding myself for so long.

Sweat pours from every pore, soaking through my clothes and pooling beneath me. I'm shivering uncontrollably, my teeth chattering so hard I start to worry they might all fall out. Yet at the same time, I'm burning up, my skin is on fire with a fever that feels like it's consuming me from the inside out.

The tremors wracking my body are relentless, my muscles spasm and twitch as if they have a mind of their own. Like another person is fighting to get out of me. I try to breathe deeply, to hold myself still, but it's like trying to stop a freight train with my bare hands. It’s impossible. My arms and legs flail around wildly, slamming against the bathroom floor with bruising force.

My head pounds with a vicious intensity, as if someone is drilling into my skull. This pain... it’s blinding, white-hot and searing. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it does nothing to dull the agony. Instead, it only amplifies the terrifying hallucinations that dance behind my eyelids.

Grotesque figures loom over me, their faces twisted into leering, demonic grins. They reach for me with clawed hands, tearing at my flesh and dragging me down into a bottomless pit.

I try to scream, but my voice is a strangled whisper, lost in the cacophony of my own breaths.

The craving for alcohol is all consuming, a hunger that gnaws at my insides like a ravenous beast. "Alcohol will stop this." "Alcohol will stop this." It's like a thirst that can never be quenched, a need that overrides all reason and logic. I would literally sell my soul for just one sip, right now, one moment of relief from this unrelenting torment.

But I know that even if I had some, giving in now would only prolong the agony, trapping me once again in the vicious cycle of addiction and withdrawal.

I've been here before, too many times to count, frankly. Each time, I've sworn it would be the last, that I'd finally break free from the chains of my addiction. And each time, I've found myself back in this same hellish prison, a slave to the bottle, to the poison.

Tears stream down my face, carving hot trails through grime and sweat. I’m crying with the pain and for the life I've wasted, for the opportunities I've squandered in pursuit of the next drink. I’m crying for the people I've hurt, the bonds of trust I’ve shattered with my selfishness and lies. Perhaps most of all, I’m crying for the hollow shell of the person I've become, like a ghost haunting the ruins of his own existence.

But even in the depths of my despair, there is a flicker of hope, a tiny spark that refuses to be extinguished. It's the part of me that still believes in redemption, in the power of choice. The part that knows I am more than the sum of my mistakes, more than the addiction that has ravaged my mind and body.

I cling to that hope like a lifeline, like a rope thrown to a drowning man. I focus on it with every ounce of strength I have left, using it to pull myself out of the trauma. I see the faces of the people who love me, the ones who have never given up on me despite all the pain I've caused. I try and imagine a future free from the shackles of alcohol, a life filled with purpose and meaning.

Slowly, agonisingly, I drag myself to my feet. The bathroom spins violently, and I’m close to collapsing, but I grip the edge of the sink like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

I look in the mirror, at the stranger staring back at me with haunted, bloodshot eyes. The face is bloated and pale, etched with lines of pain and sadness. But peering beneath the surface, I see a glimmer of the person I once was, the person I would be again.

Turning on the tap, I splash cold water on my face. It feels like a shock to my system, a jolt that brings me somewhat back to my senses. I take a deep breath, then another, filling my lungs with the kind of air that tastes of hope and possibility. I try squaring my shoulders, straightening my spine, and taking a fragile step forward.

Each movement is a battle, my body screaming in protest with every inch. But I keep have to keep going, one foot in front of the other, a slow, shuffling march towards an uncertain future. I know that the road ahead will be long and hard, filled with obstacles and setbacks. The siren song of the alcohol will always be there, whispering seductively in my ear, tempting me to succumb to its embrace.

But even in this moment, I know that I am not alone, that there are others who have walked this path before me, who have emerged stronger and wiser on the other side. I know I have a good people around me, loved ones, friends and professionals who will be there to catch me if I fall, and guide me back to the light.

Most importantly, I have myself.

I have the strength and resilience that have carried me through countless trials and tribulations in life so far, the sense of an unbreakable spirit that refuses to be extinguished.

I am a survivor, yes, that's it, a warrior, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of my own destruction.

This addiction will not define me. I will not let it rob me of the life I was meant to live. I will fight, with every fibre of my being, to reclaim what I have lost, to build something new and better from the rubble.

Yes, I am an addict, but I am also so much more than that. I am a brother, a son, a friend. I am a human being, flawed and fragile maybe, but also braver than I think and resilient. I am a work in progress, a masterpiece in the making.

I will not be defeated. Not by the tremors that wrack my body, not by the hallucinations that haunt my mind, not by the cravings that fester in my mind. I will rise, again and again, as many times as it takes, until I am free.

Because I am worth fighting for. I am worth saving. I am worth living.

A sudden need to vomit. My head spins. The nausea returns, the feeling of drowning in my own sweat and tears. Each breath is a struggle, a desperate gasp for air that never seems to be enough. My chest heaves with the effort, my lungs now burning as if they're filled with broken glass.

But even as I feel myself slipping beneath the surface, I refuse to give up. I kick and thrash, fighting against the current that threatens to pull me under. I claw my way back to the light, back to the land of the living.

Because I know that this is not the end. This is not where my story ends. This is just another chapter, another obstacle to overcome on the long and winding road to recovery.

I will face this demon again, a thousand times if I have to. I will stare into that abyss and watch it blink first. I will emerge from the depths of despair, battered and bruised but unbroken.

I am not a victim. I am not a statistic. I am a survivor. And I will never, ever surrender.

Another step, and then another. Keep going pal.

I stumble out of that bathroom, out of that building, out of that life. I walk towards the future, towards the unknown, towards the person I know I can be.

With each step, I feel the chains of my addiction loosening, the weight of my past lifting from my shoulders. I feel the warmth of the sun on my face, the fresh air filling my lungs.

I feel alive, truly alive, for the first time in years. And I know, with a certainty that comes from the very core of my being, that I will never go back.

And I will never, ever, be held captive again.

Disclaimer: Alcohol withdrawal can be fatal. If you are experiencing such symptoms as a result of your drinking, please do the right thing and seek urgent medical attention. Never attempt to simply ride out alcohol withdrawal (or coerce someone else to). Call 999.

Here's another thing:

Colours Run Prime.

Reflections on physical and mental breakdown, seen in the rear view mirror.

Reticulate.David Henzell