Through the Fog

Tag: recovery

  • Not Forever

    I don’t want

    forever

    to come in an orange bottle.

    Don’t want my mornings

    measured in milligrams,

    my stability

    scheduled between refills,

    my future

    printed in tiny pharmacy text

    I can barely read.

    I know what they say—

    that this is help,

    that this is balance,

    that this is how I stay

    safe

    and here.

    And part of me

    is grateful.

    Because I remember

    what life felt like

    before the quiet

    was possible.

    But another part of me

    keeps whispering:

    Is this the only way?

    Will I ever stand

    without the scaffolding?

    Will healing ever mean

    freedom instead of maintenance?

    I don’t want to fight

    the people trying to help me.

    I don’t want to romanticize

    the chaos I survived.

    I just want to believe

    there is a version of living

    where my body

    knows how to be steady

    on its own.

    Where peace

    isn’t borrowed.

    Where calm

    isn’t counted.

    Where staying alive

    doesn’t feel like

    a prescription.

    Maybe forever

    isn’t the point.

    Maybe the point

    is staying

    long enough

    to grow into someone

    who has choices

    I can’t see yet.

    So for now

    I hold two truths

    at the same time—

    I don’t want this

    to be forever.

    And I still want

    to be here

    long enough

    to find out

    what isn’t.

  • When Reality Sets In

    In sober living,

    the air was softer.

    Time moved slower,

    like the world agreed

    to lower its voice.

    Everyone spoke the same language—

    triggers, steps, boundaries, hope.

    Pain was expected there.

    Relapses whispered about,

    not shouted.

    No one asked why are you still struggling

    because the answer was obvious:

    you’re human.

    Out here,

    the volume is different.

    Bills don’t care how long it took

    to relearn how to breathe.

    People don’t pause

    because your nervous system is still

    learning how to stand upright.

    The world wants productivity,

    not progress.

    In the bubble,

    healing was the job.

    Out here,

    healing is something you’re supposed to do

    quietly,

    after work,

    without letting it show.

    Out here,

    bars glow like invitations.

    Old streets remember your name.

    Old versions of you

    wait patiently

    in familiar places.

    No one claps when you don’t drink.

    No one sees the war

    that didn’t happen today.

    Sobriety stops being a celebration

    and starts being maintenance.

    And some days,

    that’s the hardest part—

    realizing the safety net is gone,

    but the fear came back.

    Still,

    you wake up.

    You choose it again.

    Not because it’s easy.

    Not because it feels good.

    But because you remember

    what it cost

    to survive long enough

    to get here.

    The bubble taught you how to live.

    The real world teaches you

    how to keep choosing it

    without applause.

    And maybe that’s what recovery really is—

    staying sober

    when no one is watching,

    when the world is loud,

    and the comfort is gone,

    and you’re still standing.

  • After the Fact

    Nothing teaches you faster

    than the sentence

    I wouldn’t do that again.

    It doesn’t mean you’re wiser now—

    just more aware

    of the cost.

    Awareness isn’t loud.

    It doesn’t brag.

    It just changes how you choose

    when no one is watching.

  • Getting Clean

    The hardest part of getting clean

    isn’t the cravings.

    It’s the apologies.

    The ones you owe

    to people who loved you

    while you were slowly vanishing.

    The ones you owe

    to past versions of yourself

    you barely recognize anymore.

    It’s learning how to say

    “I’m sorry”

    and not expect relief in return.

    Learning how to say

    “I’m trying”

    when trust still feels fragile

    and unfinished.

    Some apologies are met with grace.

    Some are met with silence.

    Some come back years later

    in quiet moments

    when you finally understand

    the weight of what was broken.

    Getting clean means standing there—

    in the middle of what you ruined—

    with nothing to hide behind.

    Knowing regret can’t undo damage,

    it can only mean you see it now.

    And maybe the bravest apology

    isn’t words at all,

    but staying.

    Doing better.

    Letting time believe you

    before anyone else does.

  • Change

    I want to change everything—

    not out of hate for who I was,

    but out of love for who

    I’m finally brave enough

    to become.

    I’m tired of surviving days

    that were meant to be lived.

    Tired of shrinking myself

    to fit places that never felt like home.

    So I’ll start small—

    a thought, a boundary, a choice.

    And one by one,

    the life I’ve been carrying

    will learn how to let me go.

    I don’t need to burn it all down.

    I just need to stop building

    on what was breaking me.

  • These Words Are All I Have

    Photo Credit-Bas Glaap

    These words are all I have—

    the only way I know

    to bleed without breaking,

    to speak without shattering

    the pieces I’m still holding together.

    I can’t hand you my heart

    without it trembling,

    can’t show you my scars

    without feeling them reopen,

    so I write instead—

    hoping you hear the truth

    hiding between the lines.

    These words are all I have

    when my voice won’t steady,

    when the ache in my chest

    is louder than anything I could say.

    So I offer them softly,

    quiet as a confession,

    fragile as a prayer—

    hoping you’ll read them

    and understand

    that everything I feel

    is here on the page,

    because it’s the only place

    I’m not afraid

    to let it live.

  • Sober Didn’t Fix My Broken

    Sober didn’t fix my broken—

    it just turned the lights back on.

    And suddenly I had to face

    every crack I’d tried to drown,

    every scar I’d blurred into silence,

    every memory I’d washed in poison

    just to make it bearable.

    Sober didn’t make me whole;

    it made me aware—

    of the pieces that don’t fit anymore,

    of the heaviness I still carry,

    of the storms that still rise

    even when my hands are clean.

    But maybe healing isn’t the miracle

    people make it out to be.

    Maybe it’s the slow work

    of learning to live

    with the parts of yourself

    you used to run from.

    Maybe sober isn’t the cure—

    maybe it’s the chance.

    The chance to rebuild,

    to feel without collapsing,

    to hurt without disappearing,

    to stay alive long enough

    to find the pieces

    that still want to shine.

    Sober didn’t fix my broken.

    But it gave me the hands

    to start picking myself up.

    And maybe—

    for now—

    that’s enough.

  • Voice of Addiction

    You whisper like you know me,

    like you built me,

    like I wouldn’t be standing here

    without you holding my hand.

    But listen closely—

    I’m not yours anymore.

    I hear you in the quiet moments,

    trying to slip back into my breath,

    telling me you can make it easier,

    that you can take the weight off my shoulders.

    But you never carried anything

    except pieces of me

    you stole.

    You say you miss me.

    I don’t doubt it.

    Parasites always miss the body

    they drain.

    You say I was better with you—

    no, I was quieter,

    numb,

    half-alive,

    a shadow of the person

    you were killing slowly.

    You were never comfort.

    You were a cage.

    So let me be clear:

    I don’t need you

    to feel less.

    I’m learning how to feel

    and still survive.

    You can whisper all you want—

    but I’m done mistaking your voice

    for my own.

    This time,

    I walk away.

    This time,

    I choose breath over burning,

    light over lies,

    life over you.

  • Tolls on Burnt Bridges

    The hardest part of getting clean

    are all the damn apologies—

    the ones I owe,

    the ones I can’t say,

    the ones that taste like regret

    and old habits.

    It’s paying tolls on bridges

    I’ve already burnt,

    walking back through smoke

    I started myself,

    trying to make peace with ghosts

    who remember me at my worst.

    Recovery isn’t just staying sober.

    It’s swallowing pride,

    owning the wreckage,

    and learning how to rebuild

    with hands that once only knew

    how to destroy.

    And God,

    some days it feels impossible—

    but I’m still here,

    paying the tolls,

    crossing the ashes,

    trying anyway.

  • The Cost of Living

    The cost of my living

    was more than I planned.

    So I held the needle

    like a gun in my hand.

    Not outta courage —

    outta exhaustion.

    Outta that please-make-it-stop kind of silence

    that burns louder than any scream.

    Even now — clean —

    my hands still remember the weight.

    They twitch when the world gets heavy,

    like muscle memory don’t know I’m trying to live.

    They call this recovery.

    But it feels like standing

    in the ashes of a house I built myself

    and telling my lungs,

    “Go on. Breathe.

    It’s safe now.”

    But it never feels safe, does it?

    I miss the numb.

    I miss the nothing.

    But I want the morning more.

    I want the shaking and the sunlight

    and the proof —

    the proof that I can outlive

    my own escape route.

    Yeah, the cost of living is still high,

    but I’m paying it differently now.

    One breath.

    One truth.

    One trembling day at a time.

    And I’m still here —

    still here —

    still paying.

    Still worth the price.