Excerpt:

How to Beat a Myth

I’d been clean for two years. I had everything I ever wanted: a family, two kids, and the monthly headache of making ends meet. The classic hobo’s dream. I was happy. I told the stories of my past with a rawness that didn’t need a grain of salt.

I realized that life had played a game of “double or nothing” with me. The payout? A full life. I felt like a warrior in berserker mode, capable of conquering anything.

I needed to work, and I needed to work now. I was back home. My wife asked me to come back because she saw a man of potential, a resilient man… a fact that triggers a sort of existential doubt in me that I still don’t quite grasp. She fell in love with a very self-assured addict; at the same time, I admit I was a good lover—romantic and sensitive to a fault. But an addict nonetheless. How was it possible that after I clawed my way back, she wanted me again? Apparently, I wasn’t the same man. I’ll try to explain that in my own way later. For now, I’ll just say that my “discount-bazar Juliet” never once considered dying for me. I’ll leave it at that.

I chose livestock farming because it’s been the family trade for two generations, though I’d always hated it and had zero interest. My brother, on the other hand, loved it; in fact, he’s the current manager. I wanted to be a city slicker… an “exotic illiterate.” And I pulled it off. Because you’re born uncultured and illiterate—you don’t just become it.

It was my “carnival-prize Juliet” who gave me the idea: “Why don’t you look into a farm? You worked with your dad when you were a kid, didn’t you?” “Because I never got the concepts, I didn’t care, and it’s not just shoveling shit and feeding animals… it’s fucking hard work.” “You’re very smart,” she told me. “Go do an interview. I’m sure you can charm your way in with that silver tongue of yours.”

Hours before the interview, the phone rings. It’s my brother. “I heard you’re going to be working with pigs. My, how the mighty have fallen…” I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or if it was “brotherly pride” (if such a concept even exists). “I need you to summarize everything I need to know, right now!” I snapped. “Number of births per year, weaned piglets, foster sows, uterine involution time, weekly batches, biosecurity—the works! Give it to me fast and give it to me now! I have to pretend I know what the hell I’m talking about. Lay it on me!”

There I was, in an office that looked like a high-level government cabinet… and I felt like a moth in an empty closet. The manager sat down and we shook hands. In that moment, I noticed something that struck me: his hand was twice the size of mine, but I was surprised by how little strength it had and how well-moisturized it was. You could tell this man didn’t shovel much shit. It caught my attention, and I liked it.

The interview flowed better than expected. Faking that you know more than you do in front of a professional is exhausting… but since this wasn’t a scam so much as a “gentlemen’s agreement,” my silver tongue showed up to serve the cause.

I had the possible questions and answers mapped out in my head. It’s not that I was Good Will Hunting—far from it—but I’d learned to generate Q&As before any meeting so I wouldn’t go blank. It’s not intelligence; it’s survival. I learned it from all the psychologists, psychiatrists, and therapists I’d cycled through. I could spit out my problem in tenths of a second just to move on to my solution. The “pros” were stunned; more than one applauded me, gave me my discharge papers, and left me standing there looking like a complete idiot.

And that’s how I got the job—and had a magnifying glass placed over me. Dammit… I had to make my brother proud.

In no time, I went from a laborer to knowing the higher-ups. And it wasn’t through intentional manipulation. No. Believing in myself—being a sort of “Romantic Narcissist”—led me to be loved and respected for the first time in my life.

Yet, I knew deep down that something didn’t fit. I was an example of “overcoming adversity” for others, sure. But like Narcissus, I was also drowning in my own reflection.

I remember feeling that admiration from my colleagues. But deep down, I knew it was just “boss-fever” rubbing off. I didn’t feel worthy of those nods of approval; I never bought into it. In every job, you always find some brazen guy who says: “Why are you working here on a farm when you used to be a big shot in nightlife? It doesn’t add up… what happened to the bar?”

I would answer with total honesty. I’d say: “I’m here for the same reason you are. And as for that bar, honestly, I touched so much cash, so many substances, and made so many ‘friends’ that it just got out of hand. I’m just trying to find my way back up.”

In my mind, it sounded like a shared reality, but they would look at me with sheer astonishment. I remember the foreman looked at me and said: “What you just said says a lot about you.”

I put my guard up. I figured there was a hidden sting behind that phrase, but there wasn’t…

…"

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