Trap #2: Destroying Yourself by Avoiding the Pain
How Easily Survival Turns to Self-Destruction
Chapters in this Guide
The Traps Keeping You Stuck
The Tools
You're sitting alone, feeling the pressure build like a ticking bomb. It’s everywhere—in your head, your chest. Your skull feels like it’s about to crack. Your heart’s pounding like a war drum. Your thoughts are spinning so fast you can’t make sense of them. You want to smash something to release the pressure. All you want is an escape - even if it's only for a minute.
You stare at the bottle, knowing you shouldn’t pour yourself a triple. Maybe you promised your wife—or yourself—you wouldn’t. But your resolve is caving under the weight of all that pain. You tell yourself, "This is the last time. I promise." You’ll figure out a better plan tomorrow.
Then the anger kicks in.
"Fuck everyone who thinks they’d handle this better. They don’t know what this feels like. They’d fold too."
Next thing you know, the bottle’s empty. You’re drunk, alone, and neck-deep in a different kind of hell.
Then the shame sets in. The shame of breaking your word. The shame of the lies you’ve told. The shame of the things you said and did while wrecked. And worst of all—the shame of being a man who can't get his shit together.
And like Groundhog Day, you’re right back where you started. Sitting alone. Pressure building. The nightmare cycle starts all over again—but this time, you’re starting from an even darker, deeper hole.
Grief hurts like hell. And when the pain gets too heavy, you’ll do almost anything to shut it down. Even if it means burning yourself to the ground in the process. That’s the reality of avoidance—it promises you an escape, but it hands you a grenade with the pin already pulled.
You’re not just avoiding the pain—you’re avoiding life.
I get it, brother. Trust me—I get it.
I’ve already shared how I handled Cindy’s suicide. I drank almost every day for four and a half years. Lunch? Drinks. Driving home? Drinks. At night? More drinks.
I rationalized it every way I could. I ate healthy to "cancel it out." I hit the gym, no matter how bad my hangover was. I told myself I was still killing it at work. In my honest moments, I knew I had a problem. But hell, if I was a drunk, I figured I was the best damn drunk out there.
Except everyone who loved me saw the truth—I had a major problem.
August 30, 2014, was my rock bottom. I promised my nine-year-old we’d have a daddy-daughter day. Instead, I got completely wasted while she played alone. Hearing how much I’d disappointed her—that was it. I stumbled into the basement feeling like the biggest piece of shit alive.
Months later, I finally started grieving Cindy’s death—five years after she was gone. When I let myself feel the pain, it hit me: I’d been drinking to drown the pain of her suicide.
Holy shit.
While I was drinking, it never crossed my mind that the two things were connected. Not once. I’m not a total idiot—but somehow, I couldn’t or wouldn’t see it. I spent years drinking my face off with zero clue why I was doing it.
After I quit drinking, I replaced booze with pot. Or to put it bluntly—I quit one addiction and kept another. At the time, it felt like a win. Compared to drinking, smoking pot seemed like the lesser evil.
As I healed and grew I gave up weed. I stayed clean for a year and a half. And then Chloe died. In an instant, I was living in an agony I didn’t even know was possible.
I made it about five months before I snapped. My wife and I were at a packed festival downtown. Out of nowhere, I felt a full-blown panic attack coming on. Everyone felt like a threat. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
There was a weed shop across the street. I made a beeline for it, bought a couple of joints, and smoked them like my life depended on it. That was the start of it. I spent the next four months stoned every night. And it made everything worse.
I gained 15 pounds from the munchies, which felt like a final kick in the balls on top of everything else.
For the first time in my life, I thought I was losing my mind. I couldn’t be around crowds without freaking out. I had another panic attack in my own neighborhood while I was high. I sprinted home like I was being hunted—because in my head, danger was everywhere.
So I stopped. And 3-4 months later, grief wore me down and I started again. Then I stopped. Then I started. Then I stopped. Then I started. Then I stopped. The turn around time is getting shorter and shorter. I’ll count that as progress worth celebrating.
Maybe your crutch is booze. Or porn, work, weed, crack, gambling, junk food or a million other terrible options.. Hell, maybe you're drinking a beer and lighting a joint at work while doing some online gambling while you wait for your extra large pizza to show up.
You're willing to turn to whatever numbs you for a minute. You tell yourself, "Just this once." But it’s never just once, is it? Before you know it, you’re hooked.
Grieving is hard enough. Trying to avoid grieving as an addict is like trying to put out a fire with jet fuel.
Dr. Gabor Maté says it best: "The question isn’t why the addiction, but why the pain."
Every grieving man is suffering. It’s not about being weak—it’s about trying to survive something unbearable. But here’s the thing: what starts as survival turns into self-destruction if you let it. And it happens fast.
When you numb yourself, you don’t just mute the pain—you mute everything. Your happiness. Your strength. Your connection to the people you love. You’re not escaping—you’re erasing yourself.
And when the relief wears off, the pain’s always there - waiting. Now, you’re not just grieving—you’re grieving and ashamed. You’ve added more weight to a load that’s already crushing you.
Avoiding the pain feels easier in the moment, but it breaks you down over time. It chips away at your integrity, your relationships, your sense of self. It turns you into someone you don’t recognize—a shell that looks strong on the outside but is hollow inside.
Here’s the brutal truth: avoidance doesn’t save you—it destroys you.
Every hit, every drink, every distraction pulls you further from who you are and who you’re meant to be. And the longer you run, the harder it is to find your way back.
You're digging your own grave, one choice at a time.
How far are you willing to fall before you stop digging?
YOUR NEXT STEPS: Learn The Most Important Relationship Skill You Were Never Taught
Ever been in a conversation where someone was grieving, upset, or overwhelmed—and you had no idea what to say?
Maybe you tried to cheer them up, offered advice they didn’t want, or just froze, unsure of how to help. And afterward, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you could’ve shown up better.
💡 You’re not alone. Most people struggle with this—not because they don’t care, but because no one ever taught them how.
That’s why I created The LEAD Model Training—so you can stop second-guessing yourself and start being the person people turn to in their hardest moments.
Here’s What You’ll Walk Away With:
✅ A simple, repeatable framework (Label, Explore, Acknowledge, Decide) that works in any emotional conversation.
✅ Confidence in what to say (and what NOT to say) so you never feel awkward or unsure again.
✅ Proven techniques that make people feel deeply heard—without forcing them to open up.
✅ Real-world role-play scenarios so you’re not just learning, you’re practicing.
Most people:
🚫 Jump to fixing before someone is ready.
🚫 Say things that make people shut down without realizing it.
🚫 Avoid tough conversations altogether out of fear of saying the wrong thing.
But the people who get this right? They build deeper relationships, gain unshakable trust, and become the person others turn to when it truly matters.
🔥 If you’re ready to stop feeling helpless in emotional conversations, join the LEAD Model Training today.
Another great read. It speaks the insight. : the insidious nature of active addition is that we I was never without pain , even when I was drunk. It was always there , feeding the insatiable itch that never went away no matter how much in scratches. Until the wound was too deep to repair.