This is an anonymized experience record that has undergone risk screening and language refinement; it does not retain the original author's identity, location, or identifiable details.
The Nightly Craving Rises Like a Tide
Five years ago, I was an outright alcohol-dependent person, drinking myself into a stupor every night. Waking up with a splitting headache and overwhelming regret, I would spend the entire day listless and exhausted. I made countless vows to quit drinking, but as night fell, the craving from the depths of my heart would surge like an unrelenting tide, growing higher and higher until it finally swallowed my reason. My determination to quit was like the ceaseless sun—rising at dawn and setting at dusk.
That year, a colleague was diagnosed with stomach cancer during a routine checkup and passed away within six months. The shadow of death entered my life for the first time, and I realized he was me in a few years—his fate would be mine. From then on, every time I binged, I imagined a grotesque, bloody mass growing and thriving deep inside my body. Yet even so, I couldn’t overcome my craving for alcohol. I knew the path led to death, but my legs kept moving forward against my will.
An Accident That Halted My Steps
An accident changed everything. One night, I accidentally cut a deep gash in my hand while opening a bottle. Blood gushed out, but I felt no pain—only a faint itch. At the same time, a strange calm settled over me. I didn’t tend to the wound, just watched indifferently as the red liquid trickled down my fingers, pooled in my palm, and dripped along the lines of my hand like a crimson hourglass. For the first time, my steps toward craving truly stopped. The craving was still there, but now it was infinitely distant—a place I could never reach in this lifetime. I stood up with the bottle, walked to the sink, and held my injured hand over it. Gripping the bottle with my other hand, I tilted it slightly, letting the white liquid wash away the red. Sharp waves of pain surged through me, but I didn’t pull back. For the first time, I was fully aware: this wasn’t moving closer to death—it was moving away. Life had turned its back on death at the very brink.
Quitting alcohol completely was no easy feat. In the days that followed, I bled daily to trade for my craving. My mind grew clearer, my will stronger, and life became easier. One night, as I was about to add another cut to my scarred arm, the knife hovered in the air but didn’t fall. After a long pause, I slowly lowered it, gently tracing the old wounds with a newfound calm. I no longer needed to bleed for peace—I had successfully overcome my addiction.
Emptiness Seeps In From All Sides
Joy welled up, but soon gave way to new troubles. Fleeting happiness couldn’t compare to the weight of suffering, because nothing could truly contain this fragile joy. Threads of emptiness seeped in from all directions. It was bearable during the day, but at night, it felt like a many-limbed black creature licking at my suspended heart.
I had to leave the house, wandering the streets late at night. Few pedestrians were around, and only the occasional car sped past. One stopped not far away, and a woman stepped out. She wore alluring clothes, her makeup flawless, every movement exuding charm—the night only enhanced her beauty. My breath nearly stopped; the emptiness seemed to have found an anchor. She entered an inconspicuous shop by the roadside and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Unthinkingly, I followed. The ground floor was a narrow hall with a massive aquarium, vibrant fish swimming lazily inside. Upstairs, a heavy perfume filled the air, followed by a group of coquettish women who circled me, batting their lashes and laughing coyly. I couldn’t tell which one I’d seen earlier—nor did I need to. In certain situations, women were just an abstract concept.
Women were more addictive than alcohol. A warm, lively body could drain a person’s energy far more effectively than a cold, silent liquid—especially when that body came with a silver tongue. Alcohol attacked the mind; women attacked the heart. The former was desire; the latter, love. I won’t deny it—I fell in love with countless women, more than I could believe myself.
Fear Made Me Flee, But the Cycle Didn’t End
These women carried not only what fascinated me but also what terrified me. I noticed dense, reddish-brown bumps forming on my legs—painless, but enough to drag me into despair. Worried I’d contracted some disease, I scoured the internet for symptoms, growing more horrified as everything matched perfectly. In my mind, I’d already diagnosed myself. In desperation, I went to the hospital—only to be shocked by the results. I’d dodged a bullet. Even more miraculously, the bumps began fading rapidly the very day I got the clean bill of health.
After that experience, I never dared return to those places and had to cut ties. To suppress the craving, I resorted to my old method—my arms became scarred again, but my heart found peace.
To endure the long nights, I forced myself to wake early, exhausting myself by day so I’d fall asleep the moment I touched the pillow. But this was only a temporary fix—it just shifted the emptiness from night to dawn. Fortunately, during this time, a warm-hearted girl entered my life. Introduced by a colleague, I was struck by her healing gentleness at our first meeting. We quickly became a couple and soon moved in together. Finally, I didn’t have to face the emptiness alone. We had plenty to do, enough to forget the passage of time.
We loved each other, finding joy in devotion. It was real love, lasting a full year. We worked hard by day, caught movies after work, dined out, then returned home to enjoy each other’s company. On holidays, we traveled, seeking beautiful sights and delicious food.
Until one night, while planning our next vacation, we realized we’d been everywhere worth visiting—the remaining options were either hard to reach or underwhelming. Hours passed without agreement, and tension suddenly filled the air. That night, instead of easing the unease as usual, we slept back-to-back. Though she returned to my arms by morning, I knew something had irreversibly changed.
The Craving Turns Toward Something More Dangerous
Not long after the breakup, a new craving stirred inside me—not for alcohol, nor women, but something far worse. My heart refused to acknowledge it, but I began feeling a strange nostalgia for the knife that had cut me so many times. When this thought crystallized in my mind, I knew things had fundamentally reversed. Once, I’d bled to resist craving. Now, blood itself had become the craving. This was no longer a craving for life—but for death. Resisting the craving for life was survival; resisting the craving for death was dying.
I dug out the knife from the drawer, ran outside, and threw it into the river. But when I returned home, I noticed even sharper objects among the disarrayed items. My gaze swept the room—countless sharp objects came into view, each brimming with deep longing. I couldn’t discard them all. My hands reached for them unbidden, gripping them tightly. My hands surrendered to them, and more and more parts of my body followed.
Suddenly, I realized something and flung them far away—several thuds later, dents were left on the floor. But I had no time to dwell on it. I rushed straight to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of liquor from the deepest corner of the cabinet—it had been so, so long since I last drank—twisted it open hastily, and gulped down large mouthfuls. Minutes later, I lay peacefully on the floor, the craving for blood gone forever.
In that moment, I understood: addiction does not end easily—it merely changes its face. I needed to confront myself anew, to seek help again. There are no shortcuts on this path, but at least I know I'm still walking it.
Addiction may shift forms; reaching out is the first step to break the cycle.