Finally Sober

I love Sunday mornings. I love the peacefulness. I love the stillness. I love watching the pink and orange hues dance across the sky. I love that they remind me of how far I’ve come on this journey. Sunday scaries are a thing of the past. I wake up on a Sunday morning inspired rather than regretful. I know exactly what I did and where I was the night before, instead of desperately trying to piece it together. My hands don’t shake. My belongings aren’t missing. There are no empty baggies to be found. There is just me, coffee in hand, present, well-rested, and grateful for the day.

I don’t believe in living in the past; I’ve dedicated too many hours to torturing myself over the things I have and haven’t done. I’ve called myself all the awful names under the sun. I’ve shamed myself into suffocating submission and tore myself apart with fear when I’ve spent too long in a time I can no longer change. But every so often on these Sunday mornings, I think about how they used to be. I think about quietly opening the front door at 6 am, the night before finally ending. I think about climbing the stairs, my body exhausted, my soul in shatters. I remember how the quiet was deafening and how empty I felt inside. I remember how I desperately wished I wouldn’t do this anymore, how I wished I was sober. Sometimes it hurts to think of me then. It’s hard to believe that drink and drugs had such a hold. Other times, it warms me because I know that no matter how dark those times were, hope lies not that far ahead. Sobriety is on the horizon for that lost and broken version of me. She just needs to keep going a little longer.

These days, I no longer lose myself through drugs and drinking. Rather, I’m finding myself. With lots of self-care and practising self-love, I keep the darkness at bay. The only drug in my arsenal is the caffeine in my coffee and antidepressants in my draw. Together with sobriety, the latter has helped save my life. They’ve helped the fog lift, the chaos quiet, and the joy flow.