Secrets

Rock bottom has a basement, and below that is the hole I had to dig myself out.

The worst part of being an addict? Having to continue to use drugs to even live with yourself. Your life becomes such a nightmare that the only way to survive is by hiding behind the thing that's killing you.

I didn't even get to choose this life. A doctor chose it for me. Someone with a degree on their wall and authority in their pen wrote my first chapter of hell with a simple signature. Nobody warned me about withdrawals. Nobody told me that if I continued to take their "medicine," I wouldn't be able to get off it. Nobody mentioned that my body would literally feel like it was dying without it.

Withdrawal is like drowning. You're inches from the surface, and the only way to take that desperate breath you need is by taking the drug that's holding you down. But what choice do you have? Die or take another breath? And every time you surface, you drown faster the next time, needing more and more just to get a shallow breath.

For almost ten years, I hated myself for being weak. For letting something control me. For becoming everything I never wanted to be. I couldn't imagine getting sober because how could I possibly look in the mirror and forgive myself? The thought of facing life without chemical armor seemed impossible. The thought of facing myself seemed even worse.

Then I got pregnant.

Losing another child wasn't an option. Not even in my drug-clouded mind. It was the one line I couldn't cross, the one pain I couldn't numb away. Seven months clean now, and I won't lie – this isn't some beautiful recovery story where everything magically falls into place.

I'm still not the mom I wish I could be. Some days, I still struggle to look in the mirror. But I'm working toward something real now. Toward becoming someone reliable. Someone who keeps promises. Someone who shows up. Someone who feels.

And feeling – that's the part they don't prepare you for. It's like your nerve endings are raw, exposed to every emotion you've been numbing for years. The guilt, the shame, the regret – they hit you like tidal waves. But here's what nobody tells you about drugs: they don't just numb the bad feelings. They steal the good ones too. They rob you of joy, of genuine laughter, of real connections until life becomes this gray existence of just getting by.

Being sober isn't easy. Having feelings again isn't easy. Learning to forgive yourself isn't easy. But drowning in addiction? That's a slow death I wouldn't wish on anyone.

I don't know what happens next in my story. I'm writing it day by day, feeling by feeling. But I do know this: if sharing my journey helps even one person surface from their own drowning, then every painful word is worth it.

Because rock bottom has a basement, and below that is the hole I had to dig myself out of. But here's the thing about holes – once you've climbed out, you can show others the way.

To anyone still drowning: You're not weak. You're not worthless. And you're not alone. There's air up here, real air, not the shallow gasps we convince ourselves are enough. It's hard as hell to reach, but it's worth every painful climb.

Here's to the future. Full of feelings – the good, the bad, and everything in between. Because feeling everything is better than feeling nothing at all.