I remember walking out of the Cricket storefront, frowning at my new phone - an Android, of all things - with the new phone number that no one from my old life had.
I should have felt victorious. As if I were on the precipice of a great new beginning. I was "winning" at recovery.
Instead, I felt this crushing emptiness that scared me more than any craving ever had.
I was grieving.
It felt like a knife to the stomach to change my phone number. As if I were chopping my own arm off. It felt....mournful.
And no one had told me that was coming.
I wasn't mourning the meth - fuck that poison.
I was mourning HIM.
The version of me who felt powerful, desired, and uninhibited. The Dallas who could walk into any room and command attention (at least in my head).
The one who had a tribe, a purpose, a place where he belonged.
That Dallas was dead. And I had killed him.
And nobody - not one therapist, coach, or well-meaning friend - had prepared me for this funeral.
