By: Nicholas Mercier

So without further ado, I say goodbye, old friend.
You were always there for me, weren’t you?
Always waiting in the shadows to wrap me up like a blanket—sometimes warm, sometimes cold and clammy when the heat of life grew too hot for me to bear.
You whispered escape into my ear, selling me salvation in powder, smoke, and glass. You painted yourself as my refuge, my relief, my ride-or-die.

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But here’s the truth: the longer I held your hand, the tighter yours closed around my throat. All you ever wanted was my breath—my very life—squeezing the air from my lungs, choking out the promise and the future God planted in my chest long before I ever knew your name.
You knew my destiny, and you were jealous.
I didn’t have the tools to face my pain, to wrestle with my storms, to call upon my God. So I leaned on you, old friend.

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And like a pirate in the night, you’d arrive—your smile sweet, your presence familiar—but beneath your mask lurked a greasy gremlin grin. Deception your currency. Lies your language. You slithered in shadows, coiling yourself around my mind, my soul, my bank account, my sanity.
You were a shady, backstabbing, no-good-for-nothing liar who took and took and took.

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It was like keeping a jar of candy. At first, I thought—No harm done. Ten thousand candies, who’ll notice if a handful disappears? But eighteen years passed, and my jar is nearly empty, cracks running like veins through the glass. You poked holes in my well. I tried to fill it, but the water drained out faster than I could pour. You never wanted to see me hydrated, strong, standing tall. All you wanted was to see me dry, brittle, broken, so you could suck the last sweetness from my marrow.
Your only joy was watching me lose—so you could win.

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You are the agent of a devil that lusts for souls, and I have seen his fingerprints all over my life, all over the lives of people I love, all over the mirror when I dared to look into my own eyes.
But hear me now: Today is a new day.
And I’m writing you this letter to tell you—enough is enough.
I don’t ever want to speak to you again.

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I know you’ll come knocking, slithering your way back with your silver tongue, whispering that you’re my friend, that no one has to know, that it’ll be our little secret, our hidden wonderland. But your wonderland was a nightmare dressed in silk.
I’m done.
I no longer dream of you. I no longer want you. I no longer believe your lies.

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As I sit beneath the open sky of the Okanagan, under the cross at the Wild Goose Chapel, I feel the sunlight warm on my skin. I know that this altar, this sky, this breeze—they’re symbols of the life I’m meant to live, above ground, in truth, in freedom.
So I lay it all at the foot of the cross.
By the blood of Jesus Christ, my Saviour, I declare this: You, addiction, will wander alone, seeking another soul to devour, because mine is no longer yours.

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You are charming, witty, cunning, powerful—and utterly destructive. You are a leader, yes, but only of death and darkness. I refuse to serve you anymore.
The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit will be my new blanket, my new refuge, my psychologist, my physician, my friend, my Father.
Goodbye.

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And don’t you dare look back at me through the mirror or flash across my windshield. Because if you show up again, I have the tools, the faith, and the living water of the Lord to wipe your filth off my glass until it’s crystal clear again.

This is my farewell.
Forever.