Activate Your Two Best Weapons Against Self-Destructive Behavior

Activate Your Two Best Weapons Against Self-Destructive Behavior ...by Bill Knell

The Grammy Awards of 2012 will probably not be remembered as much for the current crop of winners or losers, as for the sudden death of singing legend Whitney Houston just a day before the ceremonies took place and practically on their doorstep. After a relatively short life filled with joy, sorrow and a relentless battle against her own demons, the pop diva joins the likes of Amy Winehouse, Gerry Rafferty, Jeff Conaway and Mike Starr in recent celebrity deaths possibly connected to substance abuse.

Having been brought up in the 1960s and having lived through the 1980s, I can barely recall a year going by without news of some celebrity or v.i.p. death related to drug, alcohol or prescription medicine abuse. Some would say that it comes with the territory, but I disagree. Like all things in life, it's a choice. Saying NO to the street pusher is just as easy as saying NO to the person trying to hand you a drink at some party or saying NO to the physician who offers to make you feel better by writing yet another script.

I do not judge those who have become entangled with substance abuse because we all have our weaknesses and there are plenty of people waiting in the wings of our lives that are ready, willing and able to exploit them. The man or woman who sees a pretty or handsome face and decides that the grass is greener outside their marriage is just as guilty and wrong in their judgment as the person who smokes a joint at lunchtime, sits on the stairs of some skyscraper in Manhattan to do cocaine or visits a new doctor to get yet another pain medicine script.

It's all about integrity and character: These are our built in protections against self-destructive behavior. When we ignore or shut them down, we choose the dark side and are instantly vulnerable to its darts. The good news is that we do not have to stand alone in our efforts to fight off the demons that haunt and seek to destroy us. There are churches, meetings, counselors and organizations out there filled with people who can help. Again, it's all about making a choice and seeking help that we know is out there for us.

It always seems easier for us to take the first step into self-destructive behavior than it is to step away from it or head down the road to recovery if we are are already in the enemy's camp trying to escape. However, it's an equal choice. Either take control of your own life or let someone or something else control it for you. It's not hard to understand that going with the flow and allowing someone else to be in the driver's seat will easily take you to the edge of a cliff in terms of survival. If you do not grab the steering wheel in time, you are going to go over that cliff and die.

Time is never on your side when you are headed in the wrong direction and the clock can run out a lot faster than you think possible. Your first abusive use of alcohol, drugs or prescription medicines could easily be your last. Everyone's tolerance of drugs in any form is different. The person who decides to rob a bank does not know if they will survive the attempt and walk away with some cash, or be shot dead before they ever get a chance to touch a single stolen dollar. It's all about choice. Why task the risk?

Life is precious; a thing to be experienced, enjoyed and treasured. When we decide to throw integrity and character to the wind in favor of the kind of cheap thrills or temporary satisfaction offered by substance abuse, we sign away our right to find happiness. We condemn ourselves, those we love and those that love us to a kind of living hell on earth that no one should have to experience.

It's just as easy to activate our built in protection against self-destructive behavior as it is to deactivate it, especially if we have not yet made a choice that will lead to negative consequences. People that tell you that you don't know what you're missing if you do not get involved with some sort of substance abuse are wrong. Just watching the heart broken relatives, friends and fans of Whitney Houston grieve over her loss answers that argument better than I can.

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Kailey Fields offers readers fresh and very human fiction stories that are unique, yet relatable.


The seeds of her self-doubt had been sown in her early years. She'd been relentlessly bullied in school for being different, for her passion for gaming, which had been dismissed as a “boy thing.” That hurt had left deep scars. Creating Lemonade had been a shield, a way to deflect the negativity she faced in the real world. It was a safe space where she could be celebrated for her skills, her wit, and her personality, instead of facing ridicule.


The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Each step crunched on the forest floor, a sound amplified in the suffocating silence of the Blackwood Forest. My breath hitched in my throat, a thin plume of white mist disappearing into the inky blackness. The only light came from my lantern, a feeble spark against the overwhelming darkness that pressed in from all sides, swallowing the forest in its shadowy embrace. Above, the branches of ancient trees twisted like skeletal fingers, their gnarled silhouettes scratching at the moonless sky.

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The darkness claimed me, swallowing me whole. But in death, a twisted metamorphosis occurred. The venom of betrayal, the searing agony of death, transformed into a cold, unrelenting fire. I became a specter, an instrument of vengeance. The chilling weight of my decomposing body became a burden that fueled my relentless pursuit.

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Grandma Elara's tales filled the quiet evenings at her house. The aroma of woodsmoke and simmering herbs hung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of old books and the comforting warmth of her presence. Her cozy old house seemed to hum with a gentle energy, a place where ancient stories and timeless secrets intertwined. The antique furniture, each piece telling a story of its own, seemed to come alive as she spun her tales, the very atmosphere of the house adding to the mystique of the Ceasg and its watery realm.

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Aislinn felt it too, a growing sense of unease, not just from the tales of a missing Prince, but from the visions teased by the necklace. The shadowed figure, the one with piercing eyes and a cruel smile,haunted her dreams and even invaded her waking moments. He was connected to the necklace, a palpable sense of threat radiating from the glowing pendant. The prince's fate, she now realized, was entwined with her own. And somewhere, a darkness waited, a darkness that the necklace seemed both to warn her about and guide her towards. The quiet village of Oakhaven, with its familiar rhythms and predictable patterns, could no longer contain her. 



The seeds of her self-doubt had been sown in her early years. She'd been relentlessly bullied in school for being different, for her passion for gaming, which had been dismissed as a “boy thing.” That hurt had left deep scars. Creating Lemonade had been a shield, a way to deflect the negativity she faced in the real world. It was a safe space where she could be celebrated for her skills, her wit, and her personality, instead of facing ridicule.

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She traced the lines on her palm, searching for a familiar scar, a birthmark, anything to tether herself to a stable identity. Nothing. Even her own body felt slightly different, as if her reflection in the warped mirror across the room was an imposter. The subtle variations – the way her hair fell, a new freckle on her cheek, the faintest shift in her eyes – were enough to unsettle her further. It was as if she was perpetually teetering on the edge of a precipice, the ground constantly shifting beneath her feet.

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