Ben Owen’s Post

A willingness to suffer…we all have it, but there’s an odd dichotomy within that willingness. We’re all willing to suffer immensely for a life we don’t want, those of us who battle addiction or alcoholism in particular. But I think everyone is willing to endure suffering the consequences of bad decisions that bring us some form of immediate gratification or short term gain. To do something that “feels good.” Very few are willing to endure long suffering to attain the things we get when we reach our full potential. Too few are willing to force themselves out of their comfort zone, to be INTENTIONALLY uncomfortable, to PUSH ourselves to a higher calling and purpose. I suffered incessantly chasing temporary pleasure. The suffering that brought about in no way was “worth it”, for such a transient moment of feeling “good.” Many things in life are like that. The things worth having don’t come easy, and what comes easy is rarely worth keeping and rarely lasts. I’ve found myself in some pretty unbelievable places by continuing to FORCE myself outside of my comfort zone in pursuit of purpose. United States Army Special Operations Command, CIA HQ, the House of Representatives, the House Foreign Affairs Committee, human trafficking conferences, meetings with foreign dignitaries and generals, the list goes on and on. I’ve also found myself in some pretty unfathomably BAD places doing the same…Haitian migrant camps, cartel country, dope houses, trap houses, brothels, gang houses…but I was in all those bad places bringing hope and committing good deeds. And I did all of this as a crackhead, junkie and drunk in recovery, a broken man with a daily reprieve from his madness. We can ALL make a difference, we can ALL do unbelievably BIG things. We just have to be willing to be uncomfortable, to do the hard things, to step into the unknown. And that starts with the smallest of efforts - a single step (literally) in a new direction. My first step happened on May 26th of 2019, when instead of stepping towards a trap house to buy dope, I decided I was at rock bottom and I took a step in the opposite direction. The rest is history. We do recover. I’m living proof.

The human mind is a strange thing.  I can be - and have been - sitting in paradise, surrounded by beauty, love, and happiness, and somehow find my way back to misery. My brain seems hellbent on returning to scenes from years past, to a life I left behind, to the streets where I should have died and the places I saw death. It seems to be escalating here lately, I’m not sure if it’s the upcoming tenth anniversary of the day I lost my freedom for the first time and my double life was blown into public discourse, if it’s writing this book, or if it’s just one of those seasons that’s harder than others.  Regardless of the cause, I’m going through it lately. Outside looking in, I should be the happiest and most fulfilled man on earth. But I’m far from it. I’m not sleeping, and when I do, the nightmares make me not want to anymore. It’s hard to eat, I have no appetite. Playing with the kids is tough because I have so little energy, but I’m doing my best. Bills don’t care how tired I am so work has to press forward, and because expenses mount, so must the ventures. No rest for the weary. I feel my age, the aches and pains and pops and crackles remind me I’ve put my body through an awful lot, which is making the gym exceptionally painful, not the stress relief it used to be. But… I could be back in this house or one like it, with nothing to my name but a habit.  Instead, I’m going back to all the houses where I should have died and where I watched my friends die, and I’m doing all I can to change them, and those streets, into something positive. This pic is from 2022, I was a little less than three years clean and staring at a sink vividly remembering making myself grits in a microwave filled with baby roaches that used to sit right there on the counter just eight years prior. My buddy’s blood was still on the floor behind me, apparently the house hadn’t been lived in or cleaned since. This house was my hell. Our hell. I made it out, I should be eternally grateful for that, and I am, but it’s the one house in South Memphis I suffered in that I haven’t been able to bring under our control to turn into something better. Just wasn’t meant to be, I guess, but sometimes I wonder if that’s what it’s gonna take for me to have closure on what were the worst days of my life. …or maybe that’s the point… Maybe I’m not supposed to have closure there because lack of it is what keeps me pushing forward so hard to pull others out of hell. Anyway…I’m going through a rough time, verbalizing it helps, so thanks for reading my rant.  Prayers always appreciated and I love everyone on this journey by my side.

Song about leaving the 99 to find the one lost sheep…in a room full of once-lost sheep, miracles man, all of us

Apparel funds our good deeds, help us out!

I just want a day of peace up there…just. one. day. You know what they say, wish in one hand…but maybe one day, just maybe, it’ll stop…for just one day.