Chapter 23: Shadows of Awakening

"The truth, once it breaks through, is merciless - it tears off the masks we've worn for so long that we've forgotten they're not our faces."

— The Morph

On that first evening, Alex firmly gripped a Coca-Cola can, its glossy red-silver skin coolly nestled against his palm, a gentle dent born beneath his thumb’s press, then the fork’s tines pierced three jagged holes, transforming it into an improvised shrine safeguarding a mere milligram of cannabis—a speck no larger than his nail—for his first tentative smoke. It was the best organically grown weed high in high concentration of crystalline compound known as THC. The morning after, Alex awakened with a light body and an unfamiliar sensation stirring within him. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, his eyes opened without the karma of exhaustion, clear as crystals, and with no negative thoughts in his morning routine.  He moved without hesitation and the morning itself seemed brighter.  The chronic back pain that had been his constant shadow had vanished, each movement free from the wince-inducing discomfort that had previously defined his existence.

Following his seventeen-hour Amazon shifts, Alex rode a wave of newfound energy after finishing work and felt he could do even more. When so much negativity disappeared that had previously clouded his thoughts, the world around him appeared more vivid, people seemed nicer and his thoughts were clearer.  It seemed that nothing could disturb him.

Within days, his family noticed the change, their eyes reflecting a mixture of concern, surprise and joy when he started engaging in a more active and positive way. This new version of Alex was energized, smiled, proactive and present in a way he hadn't been for years. There was a new version of him that was not afraid to emerge, which felt great, but there were also downsides to his transformation.

The sharp smell of weed  and his eyelids carried a hint of heaviness, like curtains caught in a morning breeze right after he smoked even a tiny gram of the magic plant, which affected his physiology for about half an hour. Every evening, outside his house at the front door, Anatig watched him and she became more and more anxious, thinking that her husband is becoming addict.

  She noticed the slightly unfocused look that made him seem like a drunk stranger. Vilhelm also noticed that something was not right with his dad.  Every time he went out to stand at the front door, a strange smell was present, and he asked Anatig why Dad's face seemed to float slightly behind his actual movements when he smoked this medicine. Not knowing how to explain this to Vilhelm, Anatig became more and more frustrated.  Soon the front door of the house became a silent battleground in their household. Anatig's raised eyebrows carried the magnitude of her Eastern European conditioning, where such substances were synonymous with moral decay. "What if Vilhelm finds out that this is weed, not medicine?" she would whisper to Alex, her voice filled with emotion.  Soon, Alex was riddled with confusion and guilt and every time he smoked, it yielded more doubt and worries. Anatig just couldn't accept the fact that this tiny gram of this plant was helping Alex to stay present through all he was on a daily basis.

“What if the school finds out? What kind of example are you setting?” Every parent-teacher meeting became a source of anxiety for her, imagining how Vilhelmas might accidentally reveal their father’s “medicine” to authoritative figures. Over the course of a few months, their relationship entered a new and complicated phase—newly rediscovered love, care, and understanding began to dissolve into fear, indifference, and miscommunication.

Alex noticed himself either holding back from taking the medication or hiding his use more carefully, while inside, guilt gnawed at him, reminding him that he was not the man his wife needed, nor the father his son deserved. Growing with guilt and shame, he conformed to the moods of the antagonists in an attempt to protect their domestic peace.  Alex's every attempt to explain how this was helping became a mantra explaining and trying to justify himself to his wife, who didn't want to understand. Her deep-seated beliefs from upbringing were far stronger. While he yearned for her full understanding, she silently prayed this to stop.

Alex’s transformation was no mere coincidence—it was gaining momentum while touching every aspect of his existence. Gone were the McBreakfast wraps infused with energy drinks and cigarettes, replaced by clean food, only vegetables, and a hunger for self-development books, podcasts and strange solfeggio' frequency sounds—which became the daily soundtrack of his personal renaissance while doing deliveries, each note a step toward emotional equilibrium. The burst of new ideas just exploded in his mind, but beneath his calm exterior, something ancient started awakening within his consciousness.

Truth began infiltrating the cracks of his mind and his carefully maintained façade, forcing Alex to pull his delivery van off the road out of nowhere in the middle of motorway as reality shifted beneath his feet. Vivid episodes that stripped away layer by layer of the person he'd been programmed to be—the good husband, a loving father, the man who followed all the rules written by others. Realizing he didn’t know anything about how to be a good husband, if he would, his wife wouldn't be distancing herself and guilt-tripping him.  Neither did he know how to be a good father; if he would, his son wouldn't be afraid of him. A son who hates his family life and his father. Good guy who doesn’t know how to say No!. 

Who the fuck am I? Days when Alex questioned self even more. His internal dialogues were becoming so exhaustive. He began to recognize his life as the masterful performance that his parents' expectations, his wife's cultural assumptions, and society's strict framework had choreographed, as if he had just awoken from a decade-long amnesia. As if his true self had been buried so deep within beneath these accumulated layers of listen and do what others say, don't listen to yourself.

"You should do this and that," and “You should be this and not that," and "You must do this so you don’t offend other," moment he barely recognized the stranger emerging in his rearview mirror.

The realizations would hit him with such force that he'd stop in the middle of nowhere and stumble out of the van; each breath felt like drawing molasses through his throat and then coughing and spitting whatever was coming out.

Standing on anonymous Welsh suburban streets, he had felt the gravity of this borrowed life tearing him apart from inside. His cries—the raw, helpless sounds of a man who had just realized he was living another person's story—would shatter the afternoon.

Tears would come then, not from sadness but from a profound recognition of loss—years spent wearing masks so perfectly fitted he'd forgotten they weren't his own face. Every breakdown stripped away another piece of the illusion: his career path chosen to please others, his marriage shaped by external expectations, his very thoughts filtered through lenses ground by hands not his own. He had never allowed himself to do what he wanted, chasing materials only to be safe and secure, what he was told to do, because …

            In these moments of brutal clarity, as he leaned against his van's cold metal frame, realizing that the carefully constructed scaffold of his identity started to crumble. His emotional state was like a pendulum swing. One moment, his mind was racing with impossible dreams and ideas, wild schemes painted in a vivid canvas. Next, those colors drain into a suffocating darkness that felt like opening a black hole, a void that is hollow and unbearably heavy. His initial laughter turned into maniacal, evil laughter that echoed like sunlight dancing on water before the monster from within swallowed it whole. 

Not long after the revelation day at work. Even more bizarre sunny September Sunday afternoon came suddenly everything in his mind blanked out.  It felt like someone hit Alex with a brick to the back of his neck. He jumped while dropping his laptop on the floor as seven distinct voices emerged in his consciousness. He looked around but no one was there.  But someone was there. Seven distinct voices stood like invisible presences around him, debating his fate as though he was not there—as if he were merely an observer to whatever was happening in the moment.  The Voice of Reason broke the silence, "Look at him. He's teetering on the edge, lost in the labyrinth of his own making."

The Voice of Fear quivered: "But consider the risks! He might lose everything—his family, his friends, his business, his very sanity. He may lose it all!" 

The Voice of Denial smoothly interjected, "You're blowing this out of proportion. Alex is simply evolving, shedding old skin for new."

The voice of desperation cut through: "No, this is serious! He's spiraling down a dangerous path and it could be the end of him."

The Voice of Rebellion challenged, "Stop cowering in fear! He's shattering his old, confining patterns and these constructs that don't serve him anymore.

The Voice of Hope offered, "Maybe this turmoil is precisely what Alex needs—a clarion call."

The Voice of Insight concluded: ''Alex finds himself at a crucial juncture, he started unraveling the intricate web of his previous experiences and convictions.''

While Alex tried to insert himself into the conversation, it felt like he couldn't even open his mouth—all that was happening while he stood up alone in the middle of his living room. Just hearing all with such clarity.  While the voices were having a real argument, one of the voices asked, "So what are we going to do with him? Who is going to take charge?” And as quickly as they appeared, they disappeared, leaving Alex standing in shock, trying to make sense of what just happened.

Weeks later, a random drug test at Amazon served as a jarring jolt. Caught with traces of weed in his system, Alex faced suspension and eventual dismissal. Amazon takes drug tests seriously. Out of shame, not wanting to upset Anatig, he lied, claiming temporary there was simply no work at Amazon. The deception wounded him deeply—what hurt most was the realization that he still lacked the courage to stand in his own truth. He couldn’t deny that the plant eased his sleep, dulled his pain, and softened the sharpness of stress. Yet that same plant had cost him his position in the company and now threatened to end his freelance driving career entirely. Trapped in a labyrinth of self-made conflicts and relentless introspection, he felt an undeniable pull toward radical change. Still, a thick fog of anxiety and fear lingered, deeply rooted not only in the prospect of losing a stable income but also in the greater dread of confronting the truths rising within. Truths that, if embraced, could shatter everything he knew… or finally lead him down the path to healing and self-acceptance. Realizing suddenly, he began to weep.  Old Soviet conditioning that real men never cry tore him apart. He shouldn't even be crying. That thought, sharp as an accusation, struck deep—making him feel weak, nothing like the kind of man society expected him to be. The tears that slid silently down his cheeks felt like a betrayal—not just of himself, but of that harsh, unyielding ideal of masculinity he had carried like a burden. Each sob echoed like a damning verdict, shattering his sense of worth into fragments. Yet somewhere, within that fog of pain and shame, a small, fragile hope began to take shape—perhaps these tears, though painful, were not a sign of weakness, but of courage. A first step toward the truth he had so desperately feared to face.

Each golden brick path demolished the carefully constructed facade Alex had built to please others, exposing the rotting foundation beneath. As his long-worn mask of competence and feigned confidence crumbled, truth surged through the cracks. For decades, he had lived like a clown performing in someone else’s play, reciting lines imposed by society, family, and culture so convincingly that he forgot it was merely an act. The tremors of awakening shaking his body were not just cries of grief—they were the collapse of his artificial “self.” Each heavy sigh lifted a veil, shattering another inner illusion. Comfortable but toxic attachments, which had numbed the pain of reality, evaporated, leaving him naked before the merciless mirror of truth. In the darkening abyss of mourning, a painful clarity emerged: he was not just lost—he had never truly known himself. The image of success he had cultivated was merely a borrowed cosmic costume, filled with fragile hope. If only they would love me. His confident smile—a well-rehearsed prop—concealed his wounded soul. Beneath it all lurked the truth he had avoided his entire life: a man who became a mirror for others, deforming himself into their desired shapes, dancing to their melodies, scavenging crumbs of their approval while his true self gathered dust in a forgotten corner.

As the last tears rolled down the cheek, a different kind of darkness settled in—not the familiar comfort of denial, but the stark shadows of impending self-recognition. Tomorrow would bring the full karma of this awakening: the mirror would show not just his physical reflection but the entirety of his compromised existence—the financial struggles he'd hidden, the beauty he'd failed to maintain, the intelligence he'd faked. The universe was preparing to present him with an unfiltered view of himself, stripped of all pretense and protective illusions.

NEXT WEEK! Moving into last part of the book:

PART III – ASCENT: Becoming the Fire

When alchemy begins, and the wound becomes the womb.

Chapter 24

Ugly, Sick, Broke and Stupid

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