As I stood on the precipice of the anniversary of my dad’s death, the weight of the DMT experience still lingering in my consciousness, I braced myself for a meltdown of an entirely different magnitude. The dreams I shared with my dad were vivid, hyper-realistic, and frequent, making me feel closer to him than ever before. It was as if he had been trapped inside his fragile mortal coil for so long, and it was only in death that he was finally set free to explore and experience the boundless wonders he had always yearned for. This newfound connection left me with an overpowering sense of emptiness that threatened to consume me. At long last, I had the relationship with my father I had always desired, but it existed solely within the confines of my dream state. In my waking life, I was left adrift, grappling with my addiction and aching for a connection to the other side. With no one around me who could relate to the intensity of my emotions, I found myself sinking deeper into my pain. I drank obsessively, drowning my sorrows in a sea of alcohol, hoping that each bottle would carry me one step closer to the dream world where my father awaited. My days became a blur of amber liquid, numbing my body and mind to the harsh reality of my loss. As I turned to the bottle for solace and comfort, I sought refuge in the reassuring ritual, the burn of the alcohol in my throat a reminder that the physical pain could dull the emotional turmoil within. The scent of the liquor enveloped me, its fumes filling my lungs with a warmth that momentarily quelled the icy grip of grief. Each day bled into the next as I drank to forget, to escape, to chase a sense of serenity that seemed forever out of reach. The world around me seemed to fade into the background as the alcohol blurred the lines between dreams and reality. My thoughts swam in a dizzying haze, a dance of disjointed memories and fragmented visions that only served to heighten my desperation. I began to rely on the drink not just as a means of coping with the emptiness of life without my dad, but as a crutch to carry me deeper into the realm of sleep. I clung to the fleeting moments of solace that my dreams provided, drinking until my eyelids grew heavy and the pull of sleep was too strong to resist. Yet, as the sun set on another day, and the darkness enveloped me once more, I couldn’t help but feel that I was losing myself in the process. In my quest for connection, for communion with my father, I was becoming more of a prisoner of my addiction, a darker shadow of the person I once was.

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