In mid-February, loneliness, joblessness and lack of motivation got the best of me and I relapsed again. Seeing no future, I was only leaving the flat to replenish my stock of booze, food and fags.
There was depression. There were anxiety attacks. There were tins eaten without being cooked. There was almost total absence of hygiene. There were appointments ignored. There were my laptop and mobile switched off all the time. As usual. However, this time there were also crazy ideas about giving in and returning to the old country: To my birthplace, where I still could be sure of a roof. To my last place there, where I still have a friend. To my old rehab, not for the sake of fighting addiction, but for the sake of having company.
I think that one day I even shed a tear or two.
After a week and a half, though, the instinct of self-preservation prevailed, as it always does.