Things to do when you're not dead

But first, a word from my mother.

Forgive me, if this comes off as a little crass. As you know, I always strive to make Confessions of a Crack Smoker a blog for the whole family. You’ll even note that I’m publishing this article in the evening. Hopefully, the kids have gone to bed.

You see, my mother insists that I share her latest invention with you.

She's coined a new word for the gradual death of her lady parts over time.

“Twatrophy!” she cackled, while we were exercising together one morning.

We've agreed to take credit as dual authors of the word since I'll be writing to the various dictionaries, petitioning for its inclusion in the English language.

And while I can't think of anything quite as catchy for corresponding male parts, recovery has inspired me to coin another new word, this time for the slow death of a soul.

Soultrophy! Okay, maybe it doesn't have quite the ring of my mom's contribution, but I like to think it says a lot more about the human condition. Especially to an addict.

I've experienced soultrophy firsthand. I didn't know it at the time, but my soul was in a state of decay. I think that's what happens to all souls that stop growing. They essentially eat themselves. And little by little, no matter how I struggled to keep my habit a secret, I began to wear that decay on my sleeve.

Eventually, everyone could see it but me. I had all but ceased doing my day job. It was a writing job from home — easypeasy, right? Well, not for a man in the thrall of just one thing. Relations with my partner were failing miserably. We ended up being little more than resentful roommates. Needless to say. reading books and long baths and anything that reeked of introspection dried up. By day, I was a crack-seeking missile, and by night, I was radioactive. My attic lair was my soul's Chernobyl where, night after night, I got high on what seemed like my own decay.

Dark night of the soul, indeed.

And what happens when we emerge from soultrophy? Well, nine months into recovery and I can scarcely close my eyes before the circus starts. It's like my brain says, 'Fuck sleep stages 1, 2 and 3 – let's get to the good stuff.' Bring on the dreams!

At first, all those frenzied reveries were a problem. Dope always took the starring role. I was always smoking or scoring – and holding my breath for so long I woke up panting.

As an addict, I don't think I dreamed at all. Then again, I never went to bed the way normal people did. There was no brushing of teeth. No fluffing of pillow. And hardly a cup of Sleepytime tea on the nightstand. Addicts don't go to bed. They pass out.

And what do I dream about these days? Well, gloriously ordinary dreams. I'm a Little Prince-like astronaut, exploring quirky new planets. I’m a superhero, a pirate, a ninja or just someone who falls in love with a stranger and wakes up a little heartbroken. There are nightmares too. And, boy, are they ever vivid. But I'm grateful for all of it.

Then there's the nightly rollover. I awaken suddenly with a fresh idea for a blog, maybe even two. Or I'll have worked up a whole new chapter for my book. I write it all down feverishly in the little red notebook beside the bed.

I might also imagine going back to school, or a second book – this one for children and absolutely not related in any way to crack, I swear.

There's growth everywhere else too. My body has even begun to reflect this newly robust soul. And relationships? Well, my former partner and I talk more than we ever did while together – like genuine conversations between people who care about each other. My jokes are landing much more frequently too.

Then there's my relationship with my mom, which suffered mightily in the past. Now, we exercise side by side every morning, often breaking into ridiculous dance moves, while I play DJ.

We're so close, in fact, she didn't hesitate to lean over to me the other day, all excitement and mischief: "What do you call it, you know when, as you get older, your vagina atrophies?

Twatrophy. Nice one, mom.