Chapter 22: The Freedom Promise – An Inner Rebellion

“Freedom is an illusion. It always comes at a price.”

— Jonathan Stroud

The promise of freedom dissolved like morning dew. With a shaking email, Alex announced his resignation, breaking off connections with the corporate retail auditing world that had been progressively crushing his spirit. It sounded like freedom, as an Amazon delivery job was calling.  His first paycheck validated that he’d made the right decision. His credit score climbed, and the burden of constant supervision lifted from his shoulders. Alex visualized himself as the captain of his own destiny now, guiding himself toward a future free from office walls, tight schedules and future projections that turn people into numbers in the constant rat race among corporate hierarchies. However, the new illusion of freedom proved as fragile as morning frost under the harsh sun of reality.

Months went by, and the true nature of his "independence" emerged. Now, an algorithm dictated his every move—hundreds of parcels to deliver within impossible time frames, routes that zigzagged through the labyrinthine roads of Wales, and a schedule that treated basic human needs as inconvenient afterthoughts. His supposed freedom had transformed into a digital taskmaster more demanding than any human boss. Yet Alex, with a clenched heart, swore to unravel all the tangles of fate.

While Anatig wrestled with a humble vehicle that had witnessed her struggles, Alex embraced what he saw as progress in the form of a newer, more reliable car. Their bank accounts no longer echoed with emptiness, and the constant pressure of financial worry began to lift from their shoulders. Like the dew of morning before sunrise, a delicate calm descended upon their home. Yet this seeming peace carried a hidden price—one that couldn't be measured in monthly payments or account balances—it was etched in the currency of the soul.

Alex was home less and less—once again working grueling hours. His work philosophy was simple: the faster he loaded the packages, the sooner he’d be done. Of course, his energy reserves weren’t infinite, and neither was the time for DIY meals—he simply didn’t have it. Dawn would find him already on the road, sipping McCoffee and chewing on breakfast wraps. Two cans of Monster in the van's door pocket had become his new dietary baseline—fuel for staying alert in his chosen grind. Dusk often caught him making deliveries or helping someone finish their routes. His family's dinner table set with an empty chair that spoke volumes. The promise of being his own boss had become a cruel joke. "If you run from a wolf, you may run into a bear," the Lithuanian proverb that Alex's grandmother always reminded him, meaning behind this proverb suggests that in trying to escape one problem or danger, you might encounter an even worse situation, a more ruthless one and Alex could help but smile thinking about it.

Stress gnawed at Alex nerves, leaving them raw and brittle, while his battered emotional core, once a wellspring of calm, now ignited torrents of rage that consumed his every drive. Every missed delivery, every customer's absence felt like a curse to delay him; every traffic jam sparked a fury that surprised even him. His thoughts churned like storm clouds rolling in, thick and menacing, each one laden with the bone-deep exhaustion and bitter disillusionment that threatened to break him. The only thing that kept him going was his lucrative earnings and how secure his family was: two cars, a dream home in Cardiff Bay, holidays where they want and when, and Vilhelm could attend any school of their choosing. Here is an improved version of your passage—tightened for clarity, emotional pacing, and psychological coherence, while preserving your raw emotional undertone and narrative tension:

But the fear of slowing down and caring for himself, of allowing rest, kept him running. Somewhere deep inside, he still clung to an old belief etched into him like a scar: only through relentless hard work could he earn a good life. The fear of failure disguised itself as discipline. It thundered louder each time the quiet voice within tried to speak.

And every time that quieter reemerging voice rose silently urging him to pause, to look inward—he silenced it. Dismissed it. As if listening would unravel everything he was holding together.

Then came the morning that shattered his illusion of control.

After yet another argument with Anatig, this time about his constant absence, his disengagement from Vilhelm, and his neglect of even the smallest responsibilities at home—Alex snapped. Emotionally, he came undone. The fight ended with him exiled once again to the downstairs sofa.

No, he would never hit a woman. That line had been drawn long ago. His stepfather, without knowing it, had carved that lesson in his childhood: violence ends with you. And yet, the rage within him—unheard, unprocessed—had nowhere to go but inward.

            5 a.m.

The morning alarm pierced his restless exile sleep. As he stood and walked to the kitchen, suddenly both of his legs betrayed him and next moment he lay there on the ground paralyzed, with the sleeping house oblivious to his cries for help, horror overcame him. Minutes stretched like hours as he crawled back to a couch, sat there, and slowly massaged feeling back into his lifeless limbs; his mind switched to overthinking gear with terrifying possibilities: What if this happened behind the wheel? What would become of his family if he couldn't work? In that predawn darkness, as sensation gradually returned to his legs, Alex confronted the true cost of his pursuit for family happiness and of financial stability. His body was sending signals he could no longer ignore—warnings written in pain and numbness of his lower back. The path he had chosen, meant to lead to freedom and security, instead somehow became a road to self-destruction. Soon morning light filtered through the window of his kitchen, finding Alex changed. The paralysis had passed, leaving an unremovable reminder: sometimes the price of chasing independence could be the freedom to live life itself. As his family stirred upstairs, unaware of his early-morning terror, a question lit another fire in his mind that wouldn’t burn out: "Why do these horrors keep happening?"

Alex had never been a fan of traditional pill-based medicine, believing it offered nothing more than temporary bandages—soothing symptoms but never healing the root cause. So he stopped taking the painkillers prescribed by his doctor, sensing they were dulling not just the agony but his mind as well.

And then, once again, he heard that subtle voice calling—awakening memories from his past in Lithuania, and a scene from a documentary he had once dismissed: “DMT: The Spirit Molecule.” After watching it again Alex felt ignited to know more about possible alternatives for healing while fighting shadows.

Late at night, while his family slept, Alex found himself drawn into a world of alternative healing. Each click, each video, each article opened doors he'd never known existed. Nature's ancient medicines emerged: the mysterious DMT, the sacred psilocybin mushrooms, and marijuana—no longer the recreational substance of his teenage years but something altogether different. His research became an obsession, a lifeline thrown into the depths of his despair. Between deliveries, he'd listen to podcasts about healing journeys. During breaks, he'd read scientific studies on his phone. The stories of transformation captivated him—people emerging from darkness similar to his own, finding light in unexpected places.

He was especially drawn to the knowledge surrounding cannabis—not as a means of escape, but as a possible key, something that might unlock the prison of his pain. He discovered stories of others who had found relief—drivers, former athletes, people whose bodies had begun to revolt against the brutal demands of modern life. Their stories carried a sense of authenticity and a deep resonance with his own.

Miraculous medicines that once widely used in pharmaceutical formulas over a hundred years ago—now suppressed by the very industry that once embraced them. The contradictions fascinated Alex, even as they stirred fear. The voice of his Lithuanian upbringing told a different tale: warnings of addiction, prison cells, mental illness, and shattered lives. Every step toward these alternative remedies felt like a betrayal of his cultural programming.

In post-Soviet Lithuania, even considering such options was taboo—a thought that could earn sideways glances at best and prison sentences at worst, and everyone would call you a drug addict. Yet his body's signals grew louder than his fears. The chronic pain stamped deeper lines into his face. Sleepless nights became his unwanted companion. His emotions teetered constantly on edge, threatening to spill over into his family life. The cost of ignoring these natural alternatives began to outweigh the risk of exploring them.

He began to think it could be good to meet someone who knew more about this recreational weed. And what do you know the universe, it seemed, had heard his silent plea. Through one of life's subtle orchestrations, Anatig's new job at the perfume warehouse introduced him to Ray K. Standing dark eyes six-foot-three with murky waves of hair and the unmistakable bearing of a former athlete, Ray carried himself with quiet confidence. Their first conversation was brief but meaningful—Ray knew quality marijuana and could help Alex find what he was looking for. But Alex needed more than just access—he needed understanding. His nights became a journey through research, each article and study illuminating another piece of the puzzle.

The science of these plants enchanted Alex—especially in the dead of night, when pain, like a merciless executioner, would tear sleep from his grasp. His laptop screen burned with the secrets of the endocannabinoid system—a complex network in which CB1 and CB2 receptors, scattered across nerves and immune cells, promised pain relief, mood regulation, and the calming of fear that haunted his thoughts.

This discovery—an entire system within his body he never even knew existed—revealed a delicate dance of receptors and chemical messengers linking brain, soul, and body. The deeper he sank into scientific articles, the more naive his teenage dismissal of marijuana seemed—not as a tool for intoxication, but as a beacon of hope offering an alternative path to healing. His nighttime companions became YouTube documentaries and medical research videos. He learned how THC, a psychoactive cannabinoid molecule, acts like a key that fits into the biological CB1 and CB2 receptors. Meanwhile, CBD, a non-psychoactive cannabinoid molecule, worked differently—more subtly, yet just as powerfully—helping to balance the entire nervous system. For his body plagued by pain and his restless mind, this knowledge was more than interesting—it was a clear hope.

Yet his research didn’t stop at cannabis. Psilocybin and DMT captured his imagination—their molecular structures closely resembling serotonin, the body’s natural mood regulator. These were no random substances; they were compounds speaking the language of his body. Each new piece of information felt like reclaiming something lost, like a truth his body had always known but his mind had forgotten.

During his next meeting with Ray, their conversation was different. Alex knew exactly what he needed now—not just any weed, but specific strains with the right balance of THC and CBD compounds. Ray nodded approvingly at Alex's knowledge, confirming he could source exactly what Alex was looking for and the best quality. The science painted a picture of possibility, but deep-seated worries and fear still stalked his curiosity. The critic in his mind became very active: 'What if you get addicted?' 'What if it doesn't work?' "Do you know the dosage? You may die, you know!"  The loud, negative even threatening coward sounded convincing with the help of Alex's deep-seated social conditioning in post-Soviet Lithuania. Weed was considered an A-class drug and could get you jail time for life or be shamed as a junkie.

Before picking his very first batch of weed that evening, Alex sat in his van between deliveries, scrolling through notes on his phone about different strains and their effects. A feeling he hadn’t known in a long time stirred within him: hope. The human stories of transformation echoed deeply—accounts of others who had walked this path before him and emerged fundamentally changed yet whole, free from psychological burdens, addiction, or criminal pasts. He no longer clung to the desperate hope of a drowning man grasping at straws. Instead, he carried the quiet certainty of someone who had finally found his way.

 NEXT WEEK! Chapter 23: Shadows of Awakening

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