I Consumed Self-Help Books Like a Junkie Seeking His Next High

It is one thing to study war.
It’s another to live the warrior’s life.

Telamon of Arcadia,
mercenary of the 5th century B.C.

— -

When I was in prison, I consumed self-help books like a junkie seeking his next high.

I devoured them, hit after hit as if my life depended on it. And, at that time, I believed it did.

When I was released from prison, the amount of self-help content grew exponentially. I wasn’t limited to the prison library, which, to be fair, was excellent.

My iPhone provided access to the world. Podcasts, blogs, and Amazon were a veritable cornucopia of speed, booze, and blow.

I drank, snorted, and injected them all, and I couldn’t get enough.

I’d panic as the pages of the book I was reading grew thinner and thinner.

“Where’s my next hit?”

If a day went by without finding that hit, the anxiety morphed into shame, I had this gift of a second chance at life, and I was,

“fucking it up.”

I needed to be reading; I needed to be learning; I needed all the information I could get my hands on so I could rebuild and reinvent my life.