Its a long one to the ones who read the whole thing.
It started with the pills the kind that quiet your thoughts. Without asking why they’re loud in the first place.
The ones that slow your heart just enough to make the world feel less sharp.
They didn’t knock me out they tucked me in.
Wrapped my panic in velvet, made it easier to breathe without feeling anything at all.
Then came the others.
The ones for the body.
For the tension I swore was physical, but deep down, I knew it was something else.
They loosened the knots in my shoulders and numbed the weight in my chest.
They didn’t heal they just made the ache feel… manageable.
At first, it felt like control.
Routine.
A system.
But then came the bottle clear, golden, burning. It made me feel real.
Or at least, less like a person I didn’t want to be.
It smoothed the seams between the pills.
Took the calm and added a little warmth to it.
I thought I’d found balance.
Turns out, I’d just found a slower way to fall.
I started mixing without thinking.
A pill for my nerves, one for the body, and a few sips to help them all get along.
Some days I floated.
Other days, I disappeared.
One morning, I woke up with blood on my wrists.
Not deep but enough.
Enough to know I had been looking for a way out and didn’t even remember asking for one.
That was the first time I felt afraid of myself.
Not because I wanted to die but because I honestly didn’t care if I did.
Still, I didn’t know it was addiction.
I told myself it was just the BPD, the impulsive crash after too many racing thoughts.
Or maybe the ADHD, and how nothing ever quieted down unless I slowed it by force.
I thought I was just managing symptoms the only way I knew how.
But the lie got too heavy.
And the silence I once chased started to feel like drowning.
Recovery doesn’t rescue you, It doesn’t knock on your door.
It waits.
Until you’re so tired of your own excuses that whispering “I need help” feels louder than anything else.
I’ve said it now. Not to shame myself, but to finally be honest:
I am an addict.
That’s not the end.
It’s just the part where I stop pretending.
Some days, I still miss the hush the way everything used to soften just enough to sleep.
But now, I stay awake.
I stay with it even when it shakes.
The light in me is small, flickering.
But it hasn’t gone out.
This time, I’m not trying to snuff it out.