My latest catchphrase these days is a line from a Rolling Stones song: “What a drag it is getting older.” I’m learning that in spades.

 

I’ve been forced into some reflection these past couple of days while prepping for a few upcoming procedures. The outcomes will be welcome. Getting through the procedures and recovery — that’s another story.

 

The biggest drag about age is that you just don’t recover like you used to. The little injuries that used to be nothing now become everything. All my disability care is in full swing. I’m getting ready for a total shoulder replacement on November 3rd. I’m nervous — not terrified, just uneasy. It’s a big procedure.

 

The last major surgery I had was my switch in 2022. It’s done wonders for my metabolism and weight, but it completely ruled out NSAIDs. That means post-op pain management gets complicated. I’ve always avoided opiates as much as possible — they make me sick. Usually, by day four I’d be back on ibuprofen and starting to heal. But now? That option’s gone. I don’t want to live through the fog of narcotics again, not even temporarily.

 

They’re also revisiting my left wrist, probably in late December or early January. Maybe they can restore a bit more function. The orthopedists were dumbfounded why the plastics team didn’t do more before. The head resident basically told me that because the injury was “self-inflicted,” it didn’t warrant further care. A judgmental conversation from someone in medicine, dripping with moral superiority. That still burns.

 

That judgment ties directly into how people — medical providers, acquaintances, and supposed friends — treat me now. I recently reposted something I’d written about how major life changes cause friends to fade to acquaintances and then fade out completely. The silence that follows recovery can be deafening.

 

I’m not going to dwell on all the dark corners of my substance use. That’s in the past. Every day sober is still a victory. One of the lessons from recovery is to distance yourself from those who fueled the behavior. But that’s hard when you were the one fueling it. I can only distance myself from my old habits, not from me.

 

What I naïvely thought was that when I got clean, people would come back — that life would regain some version of “normal.” I thought sobriety would rebuild bridges. Instead, it just showed me who was never really on the other side to begin with.

 

My closest friends? They’re still here. They get it. Nothing changed. They’re the ones who actually know me, not the caricature of me that rumor and judgment built.

 

Then there are the “background friends.” They step back, stay cordial, comment on a post now and then — but the warmth is gone. Maybe they still support me, maybe they don’t. I honestly don’t care anymore.

 

And then there are the professionals — people who told me they needed to keep their “professional distance.” Fine. I don’t need a cheerleading squad. If knowing me puts your integrity at risk, by all means, take your space. I’ve survived worse than silence.

 

The last group, though — the fair-weather friends — they were there for the good times. The ones who disappeared when the money and fun ran out. Good riddance.

 

The harsh truth is that any major change — addiction, illness, disability, sobriety — will change how people see you. There’s no going back. Maybe that’s for the best.

 

I’ve reached a point where I’m ready to start pruning my Facebook list. Not as revenge, but as reality. If someone’s already ghosted me, they don’t deserve front-row access to my life. I’m done giving away space to people who already walked out.

 

Maybe this all sounds bitter. Maybe it is. I’m tired of being polite about it. I spent too many years apologizing for existing. Now, I’m just taking back what’s mine — my peace, my boundaries, and my future.

 

If you’re still here for the ride, great. If not, I hope your life is full and happy. Truly. But I’m done chasing people who already turned their backs.

 

At the end of the day, I’m still grateful — for the constants that never left. My dogs. My mother, even though she’s gone. They’ve loved me without condition. And that, honestly, is more than most people ever will.

I’ll be in the wasteland if you need me.