There’s a part of me that still flinches when I think about it.
The days I lost.
The people I pushed away.
The way I let myself drown and called it survival.
Addiction doesn’t show up like some monster you can fight.
It shows up like relief.
Like the answer you’ve been searching for.
It tells you, “Let go. I’ll carry it for you.”
And for a while, you believe it.
For a while, you’re grateful.
Until you realize the thing carrying you is the thing dragging you under.
What They Don’t Tell You
They don’t tell you how much you lose before you even realize you’re losing.
Not just jobs or money or friendships.
Pieces of yourself.
The parts that used to care. The parts that used to hope.
I didn’t wake up one day and decide to destroy myself.
It was slower than that.
Like rotting from the inside out.
And by the time I noticed, I thought it was too late to stop it.
I thought I was too far gone.
I thought this was just going to be my life now—chasing that next numbness because feeling anything hurt too much.
The Rock Bottom No One Saw
I didn’t hit rock bottom in some dramatic, movie-scene way.
I didn’t overdose in a gutter or scream for help in some glorious moment of clarity.
I just woke up one morning—alone, shaking, sick—and realized I didn’t even recognize the person staring back at me.
No one came to save me.
No one knew.
No one could.
That’s the thing: addiction is quiet.
It isolates you until your whole life is just you and the poison you think you need to survive.
And when you finally realize it’s killing you, it feels too late to ask for anything else.
What Got Me Through
It wasn’t some inspirational quote.
It wasn’t fear of dying.
It wasn’t even hope at first.
It was rage.
It was some cracked, angry part of me that refused to let addiction write the end of my story.
It was thinking, “If I’m going to go down, I’m going to go down swinging.”
So I clawed my way out.
Ugly. Shaky. Screaming inside the whole time.
There was no grace in it.
No dignity.
But there was truth.
And sometimes truth is the only thing stronger than the lie you’ve been living.
If You’re Still There
If you’re still caught in it—still waking up sick, still telling yourself you’ll quit tomorrow—
I get it.
God, I get it.
And I’m not here to judge you.
I’m not here to tell you it’s easy.
Because it’s not.
It’s hell.
But listen:
You are not beyond saving.
You are not too broken.
You are not too far gone.
If there’s even the smallest part of you that wants out—
even if it’s buried under a mountain of shame and fear—
grab onto it.
Don’t let it die.
You can still come back from this.
I did.
And if I can, after everything I wrecked, you can too.
You’re not alone in the fight.
Not now.
Not ever.
