I don’t call myself an addict.
That name doesn’t fit the person I’ve become.
But lately,
I can feel a familiar pull,
that quiet hum in my chest,
the whisper that says,
“you could, just once.”
And it scares me
how soft the edge looks
when you’ve been standing on it too long.
I’ve been clean for years.
Built my life back piece by piece,
like a puzzle with corners missing,
and still,
some nights,
the air feels heavy with memory.
Like the past is waiting in the next room,
tapping its foot,
impatiently.
These last few weeks have been rough.
Stress pressing down like it knows my breaking points.
Money tight, sleep thin,
and everything I touch feels fragile.
Like I’m one bad day from being someone I swore I’d never be again.
I tell myself
I’m not that person.
I tell myself
I’ve come too far.
But the truth?
Some days, I can feel the relapse breathing on my neck.
And I have to talk myself down.
Out loud.
“Hey. You’ve been clean too long to burn it all for a moment.
You’ve survived worse.
You’ve fought harder.
Don’t you dare hand your progress back to pain.”
Because I know what’s waiting.
That slope doesn’t stop once it starts.
It’s all downhill,
and gravity has no mercy.
So I breathe.
I stand here.
Even when it shakes.
Even when it hurts.
Even when the craving sounds like comfort.
I stay.
Not because it’s easy,
but because I’ve learned
the edge isn’t where I fall anymore.
It’s where I remember how to fight.
