They lived by what they called the Four Absolutes:

Honesty. Purity. Unselfishness. Love.

Those four simple words shaped the spiritual foundation of early A.A., and they still hold weight for anyone chasing recovery today. They weren’t rules; they were yardsticks — tough, humbling questions that asked:

• Is it true?

• Is it clean?

• Is it selfless?

• Is it loving?

That first one — Honesty — is where everything starts.

We say “rigorous honesty” like it’s a badge of honor, but most days, it feels more like a wrestling match with myself.

I’ve lied in subtle ways all my life — by omission, by justification, by pretending I didn’t know what I already knew.

Food addicts like me are masters of almost true.

I’ll call it a “taste,” not a bite. A “snack,” not a binge. “I’ll start tomorrow,” “It’s protein,” “It’s technically on plan.”

Truth is, none of that’s honesty. It’s negotiation. And negotiation is the language of relapse.

The first Absolute — Honesty — doesn’t just mean telling the truth. It means living it. Facing what’s real even when it costs us comfort. Looking at the food scale, the mirror, the sponsor, the truth — and not flinching.

In recovery, honesty shows up in a hundred small ways: We write it down when we slip. We admit when we’re scared, jealous, or playing God. We stop saying “fine” when we’re not. It’s gritty work — spiritual heavy lifting. But without honesty, nothing else holds. Not abstinence. Not faith. Not freedom.

In the Big Book, the first step starts with truth — admitting we are powerless. Without that admission, we keep running the same scam, expecting grace to cover our lies. But grace doesn’t need our performance. It needs our truth.

Honesty isn’t perfection. It’s permission — to stop hiding, stop fixing, and start healing. God already knows the truth. He’s just waiting for me to stop editing it.

Still Here.

Still showing up.
Still telling the truth when it stings.
Still choosing honesty over hiding.
Still letting God rewrite the story.
Still… here.

With much gratitude and love ~ DeeBo

#thefourabsolutes #oxfordgroup #rigoroushonesty #recoverywriting #foodaddictionrecovery #spiritualgrit #tuesdaygrit #surrenderandscribbles #stillhere

Because nothing about what I used to eat for comfort actually comforted me. It just filled the silence, gave me something to do with my hands, and bought me a few seconds of not feeling whatever was sitting heavy in my chest.

Comfort food, for me, was a transaction — not a solution.

I gave it my pain, and it gave me nothing back but a stomachache and regret.

The real joke is that I kept going back for more.

Round and round through the Drive-Thru Dunkin’ Booth, paying for another splash of disappointment like a fool at a carnival game I couldn’t win.

Each bite promised warmth and relief. Each bite delivered the same thing — exhaustion, guilt, and that hollow ache that whispers, You did it again.

These days, I’m learning that comfort doesn’t come in cups or cartons.

It comes in moments.

It’s the quiet before the first meeting of the day, the sound of a friend’s voice on the other end of a call,

the deep breath I take before I reach for God instead of the fridge. Comfort is no longer something I eat — it’s something I allow. It’s presence. It’s peace. It’s the feeling that I don’t have to hide.

When I sit still long enough, I can almost hear God saying,
You don’t need to numb this one, kid. I’ve got you.

And that’s a kind of comfort I never knew existed. No sugar high, no crash, no hangover. Just quiet relief and the kind of calm that sticks around.

So yeah, maybe I’ve retired from the Dunkin’ Booth. But I’ve found something better — a comfort that doesn’t cost me my peace.

I used to think comfort was sweetness. Now I know it’s surrender. Lord, teach me to sit in the ache without feeding it. To rest instead of run,to breathe instead of binge. To find comfort not in the food, but in You.

Still here.
Still finding real comfort in connection, not consumption.
Still learning that peace tastes better than sugar ever did.
Still here — comforted, not controlled.

With gratitude and much love - DeeBo

#recovery #foodaddiction #12steps #healing #surrender #faith #spiritualgrowth #grace #mindfulness #selfcare #innerpeace #healingjourney #gratitude #emotionalrecovery #connectionnotconsumption #comfort #letgoandletgod #hope #onedayatatime #stillhere

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I don’t know who came up with that phrase, but they must’ve been full when they said it. Because I’ve never been comforted by food a day in my life.

People talk about comfort foods like it’s therapy.

Mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, ice cream, lasagna — like these things are supposed to heal something deep inside you.

But what are we really saying? That if you eat enough butter and sugar, your heartache will move out and leave a thank-you note?

Every time I hear “comfort food,” I think of Thanksgiving — everybody half-asleep, stuffed beyond reason, pretending that discomfort is tradition.

Or those nights I told myself I deserved something sweet, and ten minutes later I’m sitting in the car, stomach twisting, head spinning, wondering what the hell just happened.

I’ve done that drive-thru dance more times than I can count. Dunkin’ Donuts at sunrise — me and the little speaker box having church. Forgive me, Father, for I’m about to order six of the Boston Cremes.

The Big Book calls that insanity.

I call it the Drive-Thru Dunkin’ Booth — like some cheap carnival setup where you pay to get splashed with regret. Step right up, folks! For just $8.99, you can take your best shot at temporary happiness! No winners, no prizes, just sticky fingers and a stomachache.

That’s not comfort. That’s madness with frosting on top.

Everybody thinks they get a pass because “comfort food” is supposed to be normal. But nobody feels good after eating a whole tub of ice cream. Your body’s wrecked. Your brain’s fogged. You’re half-asleep and full of shame.

Where’s the comfort in that?

You want to know what real comfort looks like? Take your favorite meal, eat a normal portion, and enjoy it with people you love. Talk. Laugh. Be present. That’s comfort — connection, not consumption.

For the food addict, “comfort food” is an oxymoron. For everybody else, it’s just a softer word for escape.

So yeah, the Big Book calls it insanity.

I call it Tuesday morning at the Dunkin’ Booth.

And I’m done pretending it ever brought me comfort.

Comfort food never comforted me.

It only numbed the ache that truth was meant to heal.

Still here.

Still learning what real comfort feels like.
Still showing up for the kind that lasts.
Still done with the frosting and the fog.
Still here — awake, honest, and hungry for truth.

With much gratitude and love ~ DeeBo

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Her method was simple:

“If you have resentment you want to be free of, pray for the person or thing that you resent. Ask for their health, their prosperity, and their happiness, and you will be free.”

At first, she didn’t mean it. But she prayed anyway. And in time, her heart softened. What began as words spoken through clenched teeth became truth spoken through an open heart. That’s what grace does. It doesn’t erase what happened. It rewires how we carry it.

What This Teaches Me

Resentment keeps me bound to the past. Grace doesn’t demand that I forget — it simply invites me to release. When I pray for someone I resent, I’m not excusing them. I’m freeing myself.

Grace isn’t polite.
It’s radical.

It’s what happens when I stop trying to change other people and ask God to change me instead.

A Simple Practice

If you’re holding on to someone — or something — that’s heavy, try this: Each morning, pray for their good. Even if it feels fake.

May they be happy.
May they be healthy.
May they live in peace.
May I be free.

Somewhere along the way, your heart will shift. And when it does, you’ll understand that forgiveness was never about them.

It was about your freedom.

Prayer

God, teach me to love the people I don’t understand.
Teach me to bless where I once cursed.
Teach me to pray for the ones who hurt me, not because they deserve it — but because You desire it.
Let Your grace untie every knot in my chest.
Let my freedom begin with surrender.

Amen.

Still…

Still releasing.
Still praying through gritted teeth some days.
Still discovering that every act of letting go is really just another form of love.

With much gratitude and love - DeeBo

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A woman tells how she got free from resentment — not by confronting anyone, not by “working through” it — but by praying for the very people who hurt her.

She didn’t want to.
She didn’t mean it.
But she did it anyway.

Every day for two weeks she prayed for their happiness, their health, their prosperity — everything she wanted for herself.

And somewhere along the line, something inside her shifted. The resentment that used to feel permanent started to melt. She realized she was free — not because they changed, but because she did.

That story’s been around for decades because it works.

And not just for alcoholics.

Resentment: The Number One Offender

In recovery language, resentment is called the number one offender.

It’s the thing that eats us alive while we’re busy blaming someone else for holding the fork. You don’t need to be an addict to understand that.

Anybody who’s ever replayed a conversation in their head at 2 a.m. knows what resentment feels like. It’s that loop of “they shouldn’t have” and “I should’ve said…” that never shuts up.

It pretends to protect us. But really, it keeps us trapped.

The Experiment

So here’s the deal.

If there’s someone you can’t stop resenting — pray for them for two weeks.

Every day.
Pray for their health.
Pray for their happiness.
Pray for them to get everything you want for yourself.

You’ll hate it at first.
You’ll roll your eyes.
You’ll probably mutter the words through gritted teeth.

That’s fine. Do it anyway.

Somewhere around day ten, something weird starts happening — the anger loosens. The bitterness starts to lose its power. You stop being the victim of your own story.

You don’t have to mean it to start.
But you’ll mean it by the end.

Why It Works

Because prayer — or whatever word you use for it — pulls your hands off the steering wheel.

It tells the universe, “I’m done trying to make them pay. I just want to be free.”

And when you finally stop rehearsing your pain, something softer takes its place.

Maybe it’s peace.
Maybe it’s pity.
Maybe it’s love.

But it’s lighter. Always lighter.

Still…

Still learning to pray for the ones I don’t want to.
Still surprised that it works every single time.
Still finding that freedom doesn’t come when they apologize —

It comes when I stop waiting for them to.

As always - with much gratitude and love…DeeBo

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As they talked, I started thinking about the two dates that mark every life: the day we’re born and the day we die. Between them sits a single dash. One small line that carries everything — every joy, mistake, act of love, and moment of fear. Our whole story fits inside that tiny mark.

And while I was sitting there, it hit me how much of my own dash I’ve already wasted.

Not wasted in the way people mean when they talk about killing time, but wasted in worry, fear, self-pity, and control. I’ve spent years trying to rearrange life, replay the past, and rewrite what I can’t fix. I call it “thinking,” but most of the time it’s hiding — me trying to feel safe inside my own will instead of trusting God with what’s next.

In recovery we’re told we have a daily reprieve, not a lifetime guarantee. Every day is on loan, given back to me so I can live in God’s will, not my own. When I forget that, I drift. When I remember it, even for a moment, everything changes.

Because the truth is simple: this day isn’t mine. It’s His. The time I’m given is meant to be used — to grow, to serve, to love, to stay awake. The dash isn’t long, and I don’t want to spend it asleep.

Prayer

(For the Time I’m Given)

God, thank You for the gift of this day and the daily reprieve You’ve placed in my hands. Help me remember that this time isn’t mine to waste or control, but Yours to guide. When I fall into fear or distraction, bring me back to gratitude. Show me how to use this time wisely — to pause, to pray, to act with love. Let my choices honor the grace I’ve been given. This day is not mine, Lord; it’s Yours. Thank You for trusting me with it. Amen.

1% Challenge:

Write down one thing you wasted time on yesterday — then hand it back to God.

Pray, “Show me how to use this hour differently today.”

Then actually do it.

Still learning from the time I’ve wasted.

Still trying to make the dash mean something.

Still grateful for another blink.

In Gratitude and Love - DeeBo

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“The moment is its own fullness.”

I used to believe recovery was about building a future. A body I could live in. A life I could be proud of. A story I could tell without shame.

But grace whispers something different: fullness isn’t later, it’s now.

I don’t have to hold tomorrow. I don’t have to stack up days like poker chips to prove my worth. I don’t have to know what’s waiting around the bend.

I only have to sit here — with this plate of food weighed and measured, with this prayer whispered in the dark, with this call made even when I don’t want to. God is here, in this moment. And that makes the moment complete.

It’s strange to realize that fullness doesn’t come after 90 days, or after a certain number on the scale, or after I’ve “figured it out.” Fullness is here, in the surrendered act of one honest day.

Grace is when I let today be enough. And in that enough, tomorrow has room to grow.

Still not holding the future. Still tasting the fullness. Still trusting God in this moment.

With much gratitude and love -

DeeBo

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“I can’t see around the corners — and I don’t need to. The moment is its own fullness.”

So much of my life has been about craning my neck, trying to see what’s next. The next diet. The next sponsor. The next relapse. The next miracle. Always scanning the horizon like it held the answer, like if I could just peek far enough ahead, I’d finally feel safe.

But here’s the truth: I never saw what was right in front of me. The bite on my plate. The lie I told myself. The isolation I chose. The hand reaching out that I refused to grab.

I wanted the full map, not the next step. I wanted recovery without surrender. I wanted the results without the action. I wanted to graduate without ever doing the homework.

And that’s what got me stuck. The corners became cliffs, because I refused to trust the road until I could see the end of it.

Recovery has been teaching me a different kind of grit. A hard-edged, humbling kind of grit. The kind that admits: I can’t see around the corners. And I don’t need to.

One meal, one call, one prayer — that’s the road I can see. And if I do those things honestly, the next corner bends itself.

Still craning my neck. Still learning to stop. Still facing the corner with open hands.

With much gratitude and love -

DeeBo

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That image hit me harder because of the day itself. 9/11 is more than a date in history. It’s an open wound. Towers falling, smoke filling the sky, chaos everywhere. But what still humbles me are the images of grit — firefighters climbing stairs they knew they wouldn’t descend, office workers carrying strangers through smoke, men and women staying when everything in them screamed to run. That was Misogi in real time. Not a ritual, but a lived purification — a willingness to suffer for the sake of love, duty, and survival.

Recovery calls for the same kind of grit. It isn’t comfortable. Grit is weighing and measuring food when the binge voice whispers, just this once won’t matter. Grit is picking up the phone when pride says, I can handle this alone. Grit is writing down a defect you’d rather keep hidden. It’s standing under the waterfall of truth and refusing to move away.

I don’t like it. I don’t ask for it. Sometimes it feels humiliating. But the cold sting is where purification begins. Not in pretending I’m strong, but in letting the discomfort wash me clean.

But Misogi isn’t just about grit. The other half is grace. Because the water doesn’t ask you to deserve it. It just flows.

When I remember 9/11, I hold grief and anger. But I also remember the stories that still move me — strangers helping strangers, neighbors carrying neighbors, firefighters whose sacrifice became symbols of love greater than fear. Grace didn’t erase the tragedy, but it flowed through it. It showed up in the kindness that followed, in the rebuilding, in the choice to remember together instead of forget.

Recovery works the same way. I can’t scrub myself clean. I’ve tried — through diets, through willpower, through excuses. None of it worked. But when I surrender — when I pray, confess, and take abstinent action again — it’s like stepping into a stream that was already waiting. The cleansing doesn’t come from me. It comes from grace that keeps flowing whether I show up or not.

That’s the miracle: I return dirty, and grace still flows. I return beaten down, and grace still flows. I return again and again, and the water never runs dry.

So here’s the truth Misogi reminds me of: recovery takes grit, but it also runs on grace. I step into the sting of the cold water, and I let it wash me clean. Not because I’ve earned it — but because God keeps the stream flowing.

Closing prayer:

God, wash us again. Not because we are worthy, but because You are merciful. Thank You for the water that still flows.

Outro:

That’s today’s drop. Grit and grace — the two sides of every return. One doesn’t work without the other. As we remember 9/11, as we keep showing up in recovery, may we carry both: the courage to stand in the cold water, and the humility to let it wash us clean.

With deep gratitude,

DeeBo

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Recovery on investment doesn’t work like that. There’s no clean equation, no spreadsheet to track the payoff. I don’t get to know when surrender will “start working” or how many meetings equal serenity.

What recovery demands is investment without guarantee. It asks me to weigh and measure when it feels pointless. To pick up the phone when I’d rather isolate. To sit in prayer when my head tells me I don’t have time.

On paper, the ROI looks lousy in the moment. It feels like pennies in a jar — too small to matter, too slow to count.

But that’s how muscles are built — rep by rep, set by set. Every weighed meal is a rep. Every call is a curl. Every prayer is a plank hold against the weight of self-will. The training hurts sometimes. It feels slow. But it strengthens the investment muscle.

Then the storm hits. The craving comes. Life throws a gut punch. Al,nd suddenly those small deposits, those countless reps? They’re the difference between relapse and abstinence. Between despair and endurance.

Recovery is built penny by penny, rep by rep, call by call, prayer by prayer. Each act of grit is a deposit into an account I can’t live without. And every deposit is a workout for the muscle that will save me tomorrow.

So the question isn’t, “How do I fix everything right now?” The question is:

What one deposit, what one rep, can I make today that will pay me back when I need it most?

Don’t wait for the math to make sense. Don’t wait for the guarantee. Make the investment anyway.

Because tomorrow’s ROI starts with today’s grit.

DeeBo

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That one slip, one bite, one little decision in the shadows is harmless. But in recovery, there are no harmless choices.

Every time I say yes to my self-will, I’m saying no to God’s will.

Every time I fudge the measurements, skip the prayer, dodge the outreach call, or “eyeball it just this once” — I’m not just breaking a food plan. I’m breaking trust. With God. With myself. With the people who depend on me.

And the scariest part?

It never starts with the big crash. It starts with the small choices — the ones nobody sees. The ones that seem harmless in the moment but stack up like bricks on my chest.

That’s when the cut goes deep.

Not one giant stab wound, but a thousand paper cuts of self-will until I’m bleeding out on the floor wondering how I got here.

Addiction is fueled by bad choices disguised as freedom. Recovery is built on surrendered choices disguised as limits.

I don’t always like it, but I know this much:

When I choose God’s will, I live.

When I choose mine, I die — slow or fast, it doesn’t matter.

So today I have a choice.

And I don’t get to make it once. I have to make it all day long, one meal, one call, one prayer at a time.

⸻

Prayer

God, I’m tired of dying by a thousand cuts.

Save me from the little lies I tell myself about “just this once.”

When I face the choice today — food, honesty, surrender, service — pull me toward Your will, not mine.

Amen.

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Recovery isn’t just willpower.
It’s shelter.
God’s shelter.

The storm can beat on the windows.
The disease can yell from the yard.
But inside? There’s calm. Inside is food weighed, calls made, prayers lifted. Inside is grace.

Doesn’t mean I don’t hear the storm.
Doesn’t mean the pull isn’t strong.
It just means I don’t have to go out there.
I don’t have to hand the disease the keys.

God built the walls.
Grace holds the lock.
And I’m safe — as long as I stay inside.

At the End of the Day…

Still safe inside.
Still trusting the lock.
Still leaning on grace.
Still alive because God kept the light on.

Prayer – Grace Cut

God,

Thank You for walls stronger than me.
For a lock I couldn’t make,
and a house I couldn’t build.

When the storm howls,
remind me where I am.
When the whisper calls,
let me hear Your voice louder.

Keep me inside recovery,
inside grace,
inside You.

Because out there is death.
In here is life.

Amen.

Today’s Work

Take five minutes and name the “safe house” tools that keep you covered — food weighed, calls made, prayers lifted. Then commit to using them today. Don’t just admire the walls — stay inside them.

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Fear shows up every damn day. Fear of relapse. Fear of being honest. Fear of walking into another meeting where everybody looks fine and you feel like trash. Fear of stepping on the scale. Fear of failing again.

Courage isn’t the absence of that fear — it’s action in the middle of it.

I’ve dialed numbers with my hands shaking. I’ve prayed with nothing but doubt in my throat. I’ve sat with my food scale when everything in me screamed, This is stupid — just eat. That’s courage. It’s not flashy. It’s not heroic. It’s gritty.

The Big Book calls fear “an evil and corroding thread.” It eats us alive. Courage is the thread that stitches things back together.

In recovery, courage looks like this:

• Admitting the relapse out loud.

• Saying “I don’t know” instead of faking wisdom.

• Praying when you’re not sure God’s even listening.

• Putting the damn food on the scale when pride says, I’ve got this.

That’s the grit side of courage — doing it scared. Because the disease doesn’t wait for you to feel ready.

⸻

Reflection Question

Where are you hiding behind fear right now — and what’s one action you can take today anyway?

⸻

Today’s Work

• Write down one fear that’s been running your program.

• Share it with God, your sponsor, or someone in fellowship.

• Take the action you’ve been avoiding. Even if it feels like crawling.

⸻

God,

I’m afraid. I don’t want to admit it, but it’s true.
Fear runs me, fear locks me down. Give me the courage to act anyway — to pick up the phone, to show up at the meeting, to weigh the food,to face the truth.

I don’t need to feel brave, Lord — I just need the guts to move.
Do it with me.

Amen.

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I call it…
Just checking.
Just straightening.
Just looking.

Bullshit. That’s recon.

That’s my disease scoping the shelves, mapping the weak spots. By the time I’m pulling open cabinets, I’m not curious — I’m compromised. The bite? That’s just the mission complete. The fall already happened. So today, I cut it off at the source.

I stay out of the kitchen when it ain’t mealtime.
I pick up the damn phone.
I hit my knees.

Because if I don’t shut down the recon, the ambush is guaranteed.

At the End of the Day…

Still keeping out of the pantry.
Still cutting off the recon.
Still praying before I peek.
Still grateful I didn’t get ambushed.

Today’s Work

Notice where the recon shows up for you.

Is it the pantry?
The fridge?
The drive-thru on your way home?

Name it out loud — and shut it down before it turns into an ambush.

God,

Keep me out of the pantry when I don’t belong there.
You know the lies I tell myself — “just looking, just checking.”
Kill those lies before they kill me. Trip me up before I crack a cabinet. Throw steel in my spine and a phone in my hand before I fall for the whisper.
Save me from the sneak attack, so You don’t have to drag me out of the wreckage.

Amen.

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If you haven’t read it yet, go check it out… because today is the grace side of that same coin.

~DeeBo

If the disease is the shadow in the corner, grace is the porch light at the end of the driveway. Always on. Always ready. Doesn’t matter if I’m late, busted up, or smelling like trouble.

Like Motel 6 says — “We’ll leave the light on for ya.”
Yeah, it’s like that… only eternal.

Some places lock up when you’re late.
The lights go out. The chairs get stacked. The door gets bolted.

Grace isn’t like that.

It doesn’t keep office hours. It doesn’t roll its eyes when I come crawling back at 2 a.m., smelling like defeat. It doesn’t demand I clean myself up before I step inside.

Grace is the light left on.
The key under the mat.
The chair pulled out at the table, plate warm, food hot.

I’ve walked away from it a thousand times.
I’ve slammed the door.
I’ve sworn I wouldn’t need it again.

And every single time I’ve been wrong.

The disease waits to take.
Grace waits to give.

It doesn’t forget my name.
It doesn’t hold grudges.
It’s not impressed with my streaks or disgusted by my slips.
It just keeps the porch light burning, because it knows I’ll need the way home lit.

I’m not in recovery because I’ve nailed it.
I’m in recovery because I’ve got a God who never locks the door.
And He’s waiting.

God,

Thank You for not quitting on me when I quit on You.
For keeping the light on when I ran into the dark.
For the open chair, even when I said I didn’t need it.

Remind me that Your welcome doesn’t expire.
That Your mercy doesn’t run out.
And that no matter how far I’ve wandered,
You’ve got the map and the patience to walk me home.

I’ll fight my fight today,
but I’ll do it knowing I’m already loved,
already forgiven,
already Yours.

Amen.

The Porch Light

I’ve left a thousand times.
Slammed the door.
Told myself I’d never be back.
But the porch light never burned out.
Not once.

No lecture waiting,
no arms crossed,
no list of my wrongs.

Just the smell of home cooking,
and a chair that’s still warm
like I never left.

Grace doesn’t chase.
It doesn’t drag me in.
It just waits.

Light on.
Door open.
Every damn time.

Love y’all
Deebo

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Not this.

Food addiction doesn’t rot. It doesn’t get weak. It doesn’t lose its bite. It’s shelf-stable, vacuum-sealed, and stashed in the back of my mind like a can of beans in a fallout shelter. Doesn’t matter if it’s been 10 days or 10 years since the last binge — the second I crack that seal, it’s fresh and mean as the day I left it.

And here’s the kicker — it remembers me. My flavor. My weak spots. My go-to excuses. This thing is a sniper, and I’m always in its sights.

I can string together “good days.” Stack ‘em up like poker chips. Start believing I’m untouchable. But this disease is patient. It doesn’t come running — it waits for me to get tired, lazy, or full of myself. Then it slides in, smooth as a con man, whispering, “Just one bite.”

That “one bite” is a time machine. I’m not nibbling — I’m back in the wreckage, like I never left. The shame, the hiding, the lost nights, the gut full of regret… all there waiting like I’d never missed a day.

This disease has no expiration date. The only thing that goes bad is me — my life, my hope, my freedom — if I stop paying the daily price.

So I pay it.

I weigh my food.
I make the calls.
I hit my knees and pray like my life depends on it — because it does.

I’m not doing this because I’m cured.
I’m doing it because the disease is still here.
And it’s waiting.

⸻

Prayer

God,

Don’t let me get stupid.
Don’t let me fall for my own smooth talk.

Keep my head where my feet are
and my feet planted in recovery.

This disease is slick —
it whispers sweet and it bites hard.

I know it’s still out there,
grinning in the shadows,
waiting for me to blink.

So hand me the truth,
even if it stings.
Give me the backbone to fight,
the humility to ask for backup,
and the guts to walk away from the bite
that will burn my life down.

Amen.

The Waiting Room

It’s not gone.
It’s in the corner,
arms crossed,
grinning like a loan shark
who knows I still owe.

I’ve paid in blood,
in shame,
in pounds and tears,
but the tab stays open —
and interest is hell.

It doesn’t chase.
It doesn’t have to.
It just waits.

I walk past every day,
pretending I don’t see it,
pretending my name’s not on the list.

So I keep my head low,
my steps steady,
my prayers loud.
Because the second I stop moving,
it’s on me.

Once was too much.
Twice is a death sentence.

DeeBo

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The idea was simple:
If you walk away from this program,
we’ll gladly refund you…

Every pound you’ve lost.
Every inch of peace you’ve gained.
Every step toward freedom you’ve taken.

The refund comes fast.
It’s efficient.
It doesn’t wait for your permission.

It shows up in the form of old habits—
the late-night rummaging,
the “just one bite” bargain,
the hollow promises that this time will be different.

It shows up in the scale climbing like it’s chasing a world record.
It shows up in that dull ache in your chest when you realize
you’ve traded freedom for a familiar prison.

I’ve collected my refund before.
More than once.

It comes binge-sized,
with a side of shame and an extra-large soda of regret.

And here’s the thing—
the refund clerk doesn’t care how hard you fought to lose it.

The transaction is clean,
and the misery is non-refundable once you take it back.

But there’s a catch they don’t print on the receipt:
You don’t have to cash that check.
You can stay.

Even when you want to bolt.
Even when the cravings hit like a freight train.
Even when your self-will starts whispering
about how nice it would be to just “relax” your abstinence.

You can keep showing up.
Keep weighing your meals.
Keep praying your way through the hour, the day, the week.

Because grace is the one thing they never take back.

It’s not tied to your weight,
your willpower,
or your streak.

Grace will meet you
in the relapse.
In the return.
In the ragged little “help me” you mumble through tears.

So today, I’m holding on to my receipt.
Not as a ticket back to misery,
but as a reminder that I’ve already been paid in full—
by a God whose grace
doesn’t refund.

Today’s Work

• Write down three “refund” items you never want back—physical, emotional, or spiritual.

• Thank God for each one.

• Tell someone in your program what you’re holding on to instead.

~DeeBo

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Let’s break down some of the themes that align with recovery:

Lyrics as Recovery Metaphors

(Note: Paraphrased or selected lines)

• “I’ve been around long enough to know…”

  This line speaks to experience, wisdom from mistakes, and lived truth. Recovery isn’t just about staying clean or abstinent — it’s about what we’ve learned from the wreckage.

• “I’ve heard the silence, felt the thunder, walked through fire, crawled from under.”

  Straight-up Step One to Step Three vibes. Chaos, defeat, surrender — and survival. That crawl from under? That’s the miracle of grace and willingness.

• “I’ve been down so long I had to look up to see hell.”

  That’s the bottom. Raw and honest. Many of us know what it’s like to live in the basement of our own making. But acknowledgment is part of the transformation.

• “I’ve been around… but I’m still here.”

  Return. The heartbeat of recovery. We don’t stay because it’s easy — we stay because we’ve seen the cost of not staying.

Ties to Recovery Themes

• Survival with scars – It’s not a pretty, polished survival. It’s a scarred, weathered, sober-by-the-grace-of-God survival.

• Humility – This isn’t a brag song. It’s a bearing witness song. The kind of honesty we hear in Step Five or on speaker shares.

• Belonging – The chorus almost feels like a wink to others who’ve “been around.” A nod across the room. A spiritual fist bump.

“I’ve Been Around” isn’t a recovery anthem in name, but it bleeds recovery in spirit. It’s the soundtrack to Step Ten on a hard day. It’s what you hum when you show up at a meeting after a relapse, head held just high enough to walk back in.

If Marty ever walked into the rooms, nobody would blink. He’d sit down, say, “My name’s Marty, and I’ve been around,” and the room would nod.

You don’t have to be clean to be committed.
You don’t have to be proud of your past to tell the truth about it.
You just have to be here — still.

Still hurting. Still fighting. Still returning.

That’s what today’s about.

Marty Stuart said, “I’ve been around…” — and something about that phrase sounds like a coin hitting the bottom of a coffee cup. A recovery anthem in disguise.

This poem is for anyone who’s been knocked down more times than they can count… and still showed up again, shaky but willing.

Still Here (I’ve Been Around)

I’ve been around the wreckage,
lit my smokes off burning bridges.
Made peace with devils I once called friends,
then prayed for mercy at both ends.

I’ve whispered lies with a clean face on,
sold fake hope till the real was gone.
I’ve binged, I’ve purged, I’ve justified,
then knelt down low and damn near died.

I’ve watched the clock at 3 a.m.
Wondering if God still answers them.
The prayers that taste like copper blood,
the ones you say when you’ve had enough.

I’ve shown up late. I’ve ghosted calls.
I’ve made amends, then broke them all.
But something holy haunts my name—
a whisper through the grit and shame:

“You’re still here.”

That’s the grace I can’t explain.
Not earned, not bought, not spared the pain.
Just raw return. Just daily breath.
Just choosing life when life meant death.

So yeah—I’ve been around, it’s true.
But I ain’t done. I’m showing up.
And maybe bruised, and maybe bent—
but I’m still sober on the rent.

Today’s Grit Check:

• What lie do you keep telling yourself that’s keeping you stuck?

• Where have you “been around” but not fully returned?

• What would it mean to show up as you are — no filter, no front?

You don’t have to be polished.
You just have to be present.

This is recovery — and you’ve been around long enough to know what matters.

~DeeBo

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Abstinence can be reset. One bite, one binge, one “eff it” moment—and you’re back to day zero.

But recovery?
Recovery doesn’t reset.
Recovery doesn’t vanish.
Recovery doesn’t walk away.
Recovery waits.

And all we have to do is return.

When the wheels fall off.
When the shame creeps in.
When the ego gets loud.
When the scale screams.
When we’re proud.
When we’re pissed.
When we don’t even care anymore.

We return.

And the thing about returning is—it only works if you’re honest.
If you’re not ready to live in recovery, say so.

Say it out loud.
Say it in the mirror.
Say it to your sponsor.
Say it to God.

But don’t bullshit yourself.

Recovery isn’t a slogan.
It isn’t about performance.
It’s about choice.
Choosing honesty over image.
Surrender over control.
Growth over comfort.

It’s not about being perfect.
It’s not even about being abstinent every day.
It’s about being willing to come back.

To return.
To face the truth.
To try again.
To choose life.

Every single day—even when life is a complete shit show.

⸻

FRIDAY = GRACE

If you’re breathing, you’ve got grace.
If you’re reading this, you’ve got a choice.
If you want to live in recovery—return.
If you’re not ready—own it. That’s honest too.

Just know: every time you return…

Recovery welcomes you like you never left.
Not because you earned it.
But because grace doesn’t keep score.

⸻

Today’s Return Question:

Are you ready to live in recovery? Yes or No.
No fluff. No lies. Just truth.

⸻

God, I’ve danced with denial, lied to my face, and hid behind half-measures. But I’m here again, empty-handed and open-hearted. If recovery is a doorway, let me walk through. If it’s a fire, let me burn clean. If it’s a whisper, let me hear. Just help me say yes—with my actions, not just my mouth. Amen.

Love Ya’ll,

DeeBo

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Thirty. Ninety. A year.

And I get it—we need milestones.

We need to know we’re not stuck where we used to be.

But if I’m honest?

Some days I wake up on Day 41 and feel like it’s Day Zero.

Spiritually bankrupt. Emotionally hungover. Still full of fear.

Still dodging surrender like it’s poison.

I’ve had stretches of abstinence with no real recovery.

And I’ve had moments of deep return while standing in the ashes of relapse.

So yeah—I count my days.

But I’ve learned not to trust the number.

Because recovery isn’t built on how many days I’ve racked up.

It’s built on whether I return today.

Return to truth.

Return to prayer.

Return to God.

Return to action.

Return to my plate, my body, my people, my purpose.

That’s what keeps me from disappearing.

See, return is gritty.

It’s not polished.

It doesn’t come with balloons.

It crawls in on scraped knees, whispers “I’m still here,” and gets back to work.

And that’s the gospel of this thing.

Not that I never fall. But that I know how to come back.

So maybe today is Day 1.

Or Day 100.

Or Day Who-the-Fuck-Knows.

Doesn’t matter.

The only real question is:

Did I return today?

--

Still...

Still crawling forward.

Still showing up.

Still counting the days—but letting God carry the weight of them.

Love ya'll

DeeBo

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