Drugs or Me

It was always drugs or me.

And most days, even I would’ve chosen the drugs.

They were easier to love. They didn’t need anything from me — just my time, my body, my sanity. They didn’t ask for truth, didn’t care about promises. They just made everything quiet for a while.

I used to think they made me feel alive. But really, they just made me forget that I didn’t want to be. The high wasn’t joy — it was escape. A few seconds of peace borrowed from tomorrow.

And every time I swore I’d stop, I meant it. Until I didn’t. Because the pain always came back louder, meaner, hungrier than before.

You can’t love someone who’s already halfway gone.

And I was disappearing one hit at a time — not dying fast, just fading slow.

They say recovery is choosing yourself. But no one talks about how hard it is to love the person you became in the process. The shame, the memories, the wreckage you can’t sweep clean.

It was drugs or me.

And for the longest time, I didn’t think I was worth choosing.

But maybe now — shaky, sober, surviving — maybe I’m learning that I am.