For thirty years, addiction has been my shadow—sometimes trailing behind me, sometimes standing right in front of me, blocking out the light. I’ve tried to outrun it, wrestle it, drown it, outthink it. I’ve sworn it off at sunrise and shaken hands with it again by nightfall. I’ve promised myself this is the last time so many times that the words started to feel hollow. But the fight never was.
Most people couldn’t last a day in my shoes. Not because they’re weak—but because this road is he!!. Real he!!.!- The kind that doesn’t come with fire and demons, but with regret, shame, withdrawal, empty rooms, broken trust, and mirrors you avoid because you don’t recognize the person staring back. The kind of he!! where you lose pieces of yourself slowly, one choice at a time, until you’re not sure what’s left.
I’ve been tired in ways sleep doesn’t fix. I’ve been lonely in rooms full of people. I’ve carried guilt so heavy it bent my spine. I’ve buried versions of myself that never got the chance to grow old. I’ve survived things I don’t talk about because the words still hurt too much to say out loud.
And still—I’m here.
That matters more than people realize.
Every day sober is a fight. Some days it’s a bare-knuckle brawl. Other days it’s a quiet, exhausting standoff where the only victory is not giving in. I’ve wanted to quit—really quit—not just the addiction, but the effort, the struggle, the constant vigilance. I’ve wanted to lay down and stop trying. I’ve stood at that edge more times than I’ll admit.
But I haven’t stepped off.
Because something in me—maybe stubbornness, maybe hope, maybe pure survival—refuses to die. Even when I fall short. Even when I mess up. Even when I hate myself for it. There’s a voice that keeps whispering, Not today. Keep going.
So I do.
I keep going for the person I used to be. I keep going for the person I might still become. I keep going because quitting would mean addiction wins—and it’s taken enough from me already. I keep going because staying is an act of defiance. I keep going because surviving is its own kind of victory.
This isn’t a clean story. It’s not wrapped up with a bow. It’s ongoing. It’s messy. It’s painful. It’s unfinished.
But I’m still fighting.
And as long as I’m breathing, the fight isn’t over.
J.B.