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Just Some Casual Arson

 






Let me start by saying this: Mario Koran’s essay in The Guardian, “How Prison and Addiction Shaped My Life as a Writer,” hit me like a freight train. I related to his words on addiction so deeply that I almost spilled my coffee reading it—yes, coffee, because I’m one of those recovering alcoholics who has swapped whiskey for caffeine (a fair trade, in my opinion).

Koran writes about how alcoholism “stole years from my life and rewired my brain,” and let me tell you, that line deserves a standing ovation. Because if addiction is a thief, my brain has been the scene of the crime more times than I can count. Thankfully, my story doesn’t involve prison or setting anything on fire—unless we count the metaphorical dumpster fire of my life during my drinking days, in which case, hand me the extinguisher.

There’s a part in the essay where Koran describes drinking as “a way to feel brave, even when I wasn’t.” And oof, did that one cut deep. I can’t tell you how many times I chugged liquid courage to transform into the life of the party, only to wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, a vague sense of shame, and no memory of what I said to my boss’s wife at the Christmas party. (Spoiler: it wasn’t good.)

Koran’s honesty about his rock bottom—setting a fire in a blackout—is sobering (pun intended). For me, rock bottom wasn’t as dramatic. There were no flames, no handcuffs, just the quiet realization that I had lost control. I was standing in my kitchen at 3 a.m., drinking vodka straight from the bottle, staring at the reflection of a person I didn’t recognize in the darkened window. I wasn’t setting fires, but I was burning bridges—mostly with myself.

Koran credits writing as one of the things that helped him climb out of the abyss. He writes, “It gave me a way to make sense of all the chaos, a way to turn my pain into something useful.” Amen to that. I’ve learned that writing has a way of unraveling the tangled mess in your head. It’s like therapy, but cheaper and with less awkward silences.

When I first got sober, I started journaling. At first, it was just angry scrawls about how much I hated sobriety. But eventually, those scribbles turned into something more—stories, reflections, even jokes about how I once thought boxed wine was classy. Writing didn’t just give me an outlet; it gave me a way to reclaim the narrative of my life.

Here’s the thing about recovery: it’s not linear, and it’s not pretty. Koran admits, “I am still learning how to live.” Same, Mario. Same. Recovery is messy. It’s about learning how to feel things without numbing yourself, how to face your demons without inviting them in for a drink.

For me, it’s been a series of small victories: saying no to the beer at the barbecue, learning to laugh at my past mistakes instead of drowning in regret, and discovering that I can, in fact, dance sober (though not well).

Koran’s story reminds me that we’re all a work in progress, and that’s okay. It’s okay to stumble as long as you keep moving forward. It’s okay to have a past, as long as you don’t let it define your future.

So, here’s to Mario Koran and everyone else who’s clawed their way out of addiction. Here’s to the messy, imperfect, beautiful process of rebuilding your life. And here’s to all of us who have traded the bottle for something better—whether it’s writing, family, or, in my case, an unhealthy amount of coffee.

Koran’s essay ends with a reflection on the power of second chances, and that’s the real takeaway here: no matter how far you’ve fallen, it’s never too late to rise.

If you haven’t read his essay yet, I highly recommend it. You can find it here. Just make sure to bring a box of tissues—and maybe a cup of coffee.



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