They don’t tell you this part—
sobriety doesn’t erase the memories.
I still miss the high.
I miss the numb,
the blur,
the way the world melted just long enough
for me to forget I was hurting.
There are days I crave the nothingness,
days when pain feels louder than progress,
when the urge whispers,
“One more time won’t kill you.”
But I know better—
it almost did.
More than once.
Sobriety isn’t a clean break.
It’s a war with the version of myself
who still thinks relief comes in liquid,
in powder,
in pills,
in poison that used to feel like peace.
I don’t stay sober because I stopped wanting the high.
I stay sober because I finally realized
the high never loved me back.
It just made the fall quieter.
It made the pain delayed—
not gone.
Now happiness is different.
It’s small.
Subtle.
Hard-earned.
It comes in mornings I don’t regret,
in nights I remember,
in breathing that doesn’t taste like escape.
I don’t always feel strong.
But I feel present.
And maybe that’s what living really is—
missing the high
and still choosing the heartbeat.
Through the Fog 