This Is What Recovery Looks Like: Toasty, With a Side of Vinnie
Look, I’m not saying I’m perfect. I’m saying I’m toast. And not even the smug, artisanal sourdough kind – just plain ol’ bread that’s been through the fire and came out a little crispy on the edges and maybe angry about it. Kind of like the one you see above. But here’s the twist: toast rules. And no matter how burnt or buttered you are, it’s how you plate it that makes the difference 😉.
Let’s talk about that “addict” word. Yeah, I’ve worn it. Some days like a scar, other days like a badge but never like a secret. And honestly, if that’s the hand I was dealt – then fine. I’ll learn to play it better than anyone at the table. Because here’s the truth no one with a clean Instagram grid tells you: there’s power in being the one who knows what rock bottom feels like. There’s perspective in sitting with the pain until it gets uncomfortable enough to demand growth.
So yeah, I tell my shitty stories. I tell them raw, jagged, awkwardly stitched together with sarcasm and regret and maybe a little too much self-awareness – but I tell them. Not for sympathy. Not for clout. But because if even one person uses a little less, drinks a little smarter or just wakes up thinking, “maybe I’m not the only one feeling like a cracked iPhone screen of a human being,” then fuck yeah, it’s worth it.
I could’ve stayed bitter. Like the toast in the image. Pissed off about being toast. Resenting the fire. But you need toast to make grilled cheese. And grilled cheese is the best. So don’t be like bitter toast. Be the kind that shows up, holds the cheese, gets all gooey and comforting and maybe melts into someone’s late-night moment of need. Because even if you’re a little burnt, you’re still the foundation for something warm and good.
And that brings me to Vinnie. My big, white, stubborn-as-a-mule reminder that sometimes, even in the messiest relationships, something good can come out of it. I was mad about how it all played out. But from that tangled-up mess came Vinnie.
I knew I had to save him before I consciously knew I had to. Back in November, I got him chipped. A little voice said, just in case. Because while he was left in that creepy workshop (the grandma’s abandoned house he “looked after”), I knew deep down that if I didn’t act, that sweet dog would end up tied to a tree or worse – starving, scared, forgotten. And maybe, just maybe, I saved him because a part of me was trying to learn how to save myself too.
That’s the thing about healing. You don’t always know when it’s happening. Sometimes it shows up in microchips and muddy paw prints. Sometimes it looks like grilled cheese. Or like you – telling your stories, not because they’re pretty but because they matter.
So no, I’m not here to deny the label. I’m here to rebrand it. If I’m toast, I’m toast. But I’m the kind that gets back in the pan and becomes the grilled cheese you remember forever. And if you’re reading this thinking same, then congratulations. You’re not broken – you’re just in progress.
And progress is fucking beautiful, Sugar.