91. H.A.L.T.: The Four Triggers That Almost Took My Life

In the depths of addiction, I never needed a grand reason to use.  I convinced myself that any excuse was good enough—a bad day, a good day, no reason at all.  But in recovery, I’ve come to understand that certain triggers pull at me like an undertow, trying to drag me back into the current I fought so hard to escape.  Those triggers are summed up in a simple but powerful acronym: H.A.L.T. Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired.  Four words, four states of being that have nearly brought me to my knees more times than I can count.  Four enemies I now battle every day to keep from losing everything again.

Hungry: The Emptiness That Calls for More

Hunger isn’t just about food.  It’s the hollowness inside me, the aching void that I once filled with substances.  In active addiction, I ignored my body’s real needs, confusing hunger for cravings, and nourishment for numbness.  The hunger wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, spiritual, an insatiable emptiness that whispered, You’ll never be whole.

Even now, in recovery, I have to remind myself that hunger is dangerous.  When I let myself get too empty—whether it’s skipping meals, neglecting self-care, or failing to nourish my soul with purpose—I feel the pull of my old life.  The gnawing hunger makes me weak, vulnerable to the thoughts that tell me one time won’t hurt, but I’ve learned that when I feed myself properly—not just with food, but with connection, meaning, and self-love—I am able to silence that voice.

Angry: The Fire That Burns Everything Down

Anger has always been my most dangerous trigger.  When I’m angry, I don’t think—I react.  In the past, I lashed out at the world, convinced that my pain justified my destruction.  When the rage cooled, I was left with the wreckage, the bridges burned, the people I swore I loved looking at me like I was a stranger.  Recovery hasn’t made me immune to anger.  I still feel it, sharp and hot, when things don’t go my way, when the past comes back to haunt me, when I look at the scars—both seen and unseen—left by the years I lost.  Now, I know that anger is just energy, and I get to decide where it goes.  I can let it consume me, or I can channel it into something that doesn’t destroy me.  I can sit with it, breathe through it, and speak it out loud to someone in my support network instead of drowning it in a bottle or a needle.  I remind myself that anger is temporary, but the consequences of my actions in response to it can last forever.

Lonely: The Darkness Where Addiction Thrives

Loneliness is a slow poison.  It seeps into my bones, whispering that no one understands, that no one cares, and that I might as well give up because no one would notice if I did.  In active addiction, I was surrounded by people but lonelier than I’d ever been.  I pushed away the ones who loved me and surrounded myself with those who only wanted my company as long as I could get them high.

Recovery is about connection, but even now, there are moments when the loneliness creeps back in. Nights when I miss the old me—not the destruction, but the illusion of belonging that came with it. I’ve had to learn that loneliness doesn’t mean I’m alone.  It means I need to reach out, to pick up the phone, sit in a meeting, or remind myself that there are people who would drop everything to remind me that I matter.  I just have to let them in.

Tired: The Weakness That Whispers Lies

Exhaustion is dangerous.  When I’m drained, my defenses crumble.  The thoughts creep in: You can’t do this.  You’ll never be enough.  One time won’t kill you.  When I was using, I never truly rested.  I crashed and I blacked out, but I never knew peace.  In recovery, I’ve learned that true rest is more than sleep—it’s allowing myself to stop running, to breathe, and to forgive myself for not being perfect.  When I’m tired, I want an escape.  I want the quiet oblivion that substances once gave me, but I’ve learned the hard way that nothing good comes from making decisions when I’m running on empty.  Now, I give myself permission to rest.  To pause.  To say no when I need to because if I don’t take care of myself, I know where I’ll end up.

H.A.L.T. and the Choice to Live

H.A.L.T. isn’t just an acronym—it’s a warning sign.  A flashing red light that tells me I need to stop and take inventory of where I’m at before I make a choice I can’t take back.  When I feel the cravings, the pull of my old life, I ask myself: Am I hungry?  Angry?  Lonely?  Tired? And almost always, the answer is yes.  Almost always, I can find the root of my pain in one of those four words, but knowing isn’t enough.  Recovery is action.  It’s eating even when I don’t feel like it.  It’s talking even when I’d rather isolate.  It’s forgiving even when I want to hold onto the grudge. It’s resting even when my mind tells me I don’t deserve it.

H.A.L.T. has saved my life more times than I can count.  If you’re struggling, if you’re standing on the edge wondering if it’s worth it to keep fighting—stop.  Breathe.  Ask yourself those four questions. Then do something about it because the fight isn’t won in the big moments. It’s won in the small ones.  The ones where you choose to keep going, one moment, one breath, one step at a time.

And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope.  If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.