Tag: life

I Didn’t Relapse. I Chose to Use.


I’ve never loved the word relapse.

In abstinence-based recovery, it gets thrown around like a scarlet letter. Relapse means you failed. Relapse means you’re “back out there.” Relapse means you’ve lost your chip, your clean time, your credibility. It’s all-or-nothing, black-and-white, success-or-failure.

But here’s the thing: life isn’t black and white. And neither is recovery.

That’s where harm reduction has been such a gift to me. Instead of demanding perfection, it allows me to ask a more useful question: How can I reduce harm, no matter what choices I make?

When “Relapse” Becomes a Roadblock

The problem with calling it a relapse is the shame that follows. That shame can be louder than the actual use itself. I could spend a weekend beating myself up, convincing myself that I’ve ruined everything, that I should just give up. And ironically, that shame spiral is more likely to push me into more use – not less.

When I think about my own journey, relapse just doesn’t fit. Sometimes, yes, I make a choice that doesn’t line up with my intentions or my values. Sometimes I pick up something I’ve been avoiding. But that doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly undone all the progress I’ve made or that I’m back at zero. It means I made a choice – sometimes a healthier choice, sometimes a riskier one.

Harm reduction flips that on its head. It says: You’re still here. You’re still worthy. Let’s talk about what happened without judgment.

A Different Kind of Honesty

I want to be able to say:

  • “I chose to use because I was hurting.”
  • “I made a decision that didn’t line up with my values, and I want to unpack why.”
  • “I was stressed and slipped into an old pattern, but I’m not starting over at zero.”

That kind of honesty matters. Not because it excuses risky choices, but because it makes space to talk about them without fear. The real danger isn’t the choice itself. It’s the silence that stigma creates.

Words Like Overdose Don’t Always Fit Either

Even the language around risk needs reframing. “Overdose” implies I took too much. But often, the truth is scarier: I didn’t take what I thought I was taking at all. I may have signed up to use meth, but I didn’t sign up to smoke fentanyl. That’s not “overdoing it” – that’s contamination in a poisoned drug supply.

When we keep using the old language, we keep reinforcing old narratives: that the problem is the person, not the system. But if we reframe it, we see the truth. The real problem is unsafe supplies, criminalization, and a lack of support.

Moving Forward Without Shame

So I’ve stopped saying relapse. I’ve started saying: I chose to use.

That doesn’t make the choice “good” or “bad.” It just makes it mine. It keeps me honest without putting me in the box of failure. And it leaves room for growth, for reflection, for harm reduction.

I’m not back at square one. I’m still on the path. And maybe that’s the point: recovery, or whatever we want to call this messy, human process, isn’t about perfection. It’s about progress. It’s about staying alive. It’s about learning to meet ourselves where we are—without shame, without silence, and without that old, heavy word: relapse.

Keep tellin’ the story.
Professor Peacock

Note: These are my thoughts and my story. I used AI to make helpful edits to my ramblings and online journaling, including some organization to be more blog-friendly. AI created the featured image used in my blog.

Aging Out Loud: What Gay Culture Taught Me About Desire, Rejection, and Growing Older


There are moments I scroll through hookup apps and feel like a ghost in a room I used to be welcomed into.

I’m still here. Still queer. Still alive in this beautiful, ridiculous, aching body of mine. Still hungry for connection. Still flirting. Still hopeful. But something has shifted—and it’s not just the algorithm. It’s how I’m seen. And maybe, too, how I see myself.

I don’t write this with bitterness. I write it with curiosity. With a little heartache. And with a lot of honesty.

Because as much as I feel hurt by the way gay culture sidelines older queer men, I also have to admit – I’ve done the sidelining too.

I Was Ageist Before I Aged

I used to filter people out by age without a second thought. I thought it was just preference. I’d scroll past men who reminded me too much of my father, or who didn’t fit my fantasy. I didn’t stop to think about what that felt like on the receiving end. I didn’t have to think about it.

Back then, I was what the culture rewarded: younger, thinner, newer. Now, I’m on the other side of that invisible line. And I feel it.

The messages come slower. Or not at all. Sometimes, when I do get responses, they come with qualifiers: “you’re hot for your age” or “I usually don’t go this old, but…” You learn quickly how conditional your desirability becomes.

It’s a strange thing, being both hurt by something and complicit in it.

Desire Isn’t a Crime—But Conditioning Is Real

I’m not here to shame anyone’s attraction. Desire is weird, layered, deeply personal. But it’s also shaped by culture, and our culture – gay culture, hookup culture, digital queer spaces – is soaked in ageism. Youth is not just fetishized; it’s framed as the ideal. Everything else is a compromise.

Even now, I catch myself gravitating toward younger men. Sometimes I’m chasing vitality. Sometimes I’m chasing the version of myself I used to be. Sometimes I just want to feel wanted by someone who represents possibility, not limitation.

But what am I reinforcing when I do that? What mirror am I holding up for others—and for myself?

The Cost of Invisibility

It’s hard to talk about this stuff without sounding fragile. But the truth is, there’s grief in this. Not just about not getting laid as easily (though, yeah, that too), but about the quiet ways we’re taught that our worth expires with our youth.

And I think what hurts the most is not the rejection itself—it’s the accumulation of being unseen. Of being looked through, not looked at. Especially when I know I’m still vibrant, still sexy, still full of spark and stories and tenderness.

I want to be desired not despite my age, but with it. Because of it.

How Can We Do Better?

I don’t have a blueprint. But I think it starts with asking better questions. Of each other. Of ourselves.

Why do we equate youth with value?
Why do we treat older bodies as either comic relief or invisible burdens?
Why are we so afraid to look in the mirror and see time?

I think we can celebrate queerness across every age. I think we can uplift the beauty of experience, the dignity of survival, the sexiness of someone who knows their body and their mind.

And I think we can make space for intergenerational friendships, for mentorship, for flirtation that isn’t transactional, for community that isn’t just curated around desirability.

How Can I Do Better?

I can start by offering grace. To others, and to myself.

I can notice when I’m seeking youth as validation and pause.
I can stop ghosting people just because they’re older than my fantasy self.
I can consider my choice of models and seek out older representation in my art.
I can show up as fully myself, without apology. And trust that I’m not “less than” – just more lived-in.

I can remember that queerness isn’t a trend I’m aging out of. It’s a lifelong becoming.

So here I am, still swiping sometimes. Still showing up. Still believing in the possibility of being seen, felt, held. Not because I’m clinging to youth, but because I’m not done growing.

And maybe that’s what aging with pride really means.

Let’s Talk

Have you felt this too? Whether you’re 23 or 63, how has age shaped your experience of queer community and connection?

Drop a comment or share your story, I’d love to hear from you. Let’s talk about how we’re aging, desiring, and becoming… together.

Note: I used AI to make final edits to my ramblings and online journaling, including some formatting and organization to be more blog-friendly.