buried, but not gone
TW: This piece discusses drug addiction, relapse, self-destructive behaviors, and emotional distress. If these topics are difficult for you, please read with care. Remember, you are not alone, and there is always help available.
There are parts of my past I tried to bury so deep, I convinced myself they never existed. Nights blurred into mornings, pills dissolved under my tongue, smoke curled into my lungs like a quiet escape. I told myself I was fine. I told myself I was in control. But the truth is, I was running — from loneliness, from pain, from the hollow feeling of being completely untethered in a world that never once held me steady.
At first, it felt like freedom. The high was warm, familiar, a gentle hand pressing down on the chaos in my head. It didn’t erase my problems, but it muffled them, made them distant enough that I could pretend they didn’t matter. It made hunger feel like an afterthought, sleep unnecessary, and emotions nothing more than background noise. It was easier to exist that way — numb, untouched, floating above my own life instead of living in it.
But drugs are greedy. They take more than they give. The moments of quiet they offered were fleeting, but the consequences stayed. I watched my money disappear into small plastic bags. I counted the hours between doses, my body learning to crave something my mind wasn’t sure it wanted anymore. Sobriety meant facing everything I had buried — the abandonment, the fear, the unbearable loneliness of realizing I had no safety net, no parents to catch me if I fell. And so I kept going. Because when you have nothing, it’s easier to lose yourself than to fight for something better.
I tried to stop. I really did. And for a while, I almost believed I had escaped it. I found people who made me want to be better, people who saw through the bravado, who held onto me even when I didn’t know if I wanted to be held. I convinced myself that I was done with that life. But addiction is never just a habit you break — it lingers, waiting, watching for the moment your guard slips.
And yet, there were nights when I still relapsed. Relapse doesn’t announce itself — it arrives quietly, slipping back into your life like an old friend you never really wanted to see again. It comes when you’re exhausted, when the weight of being strong feels unbearable, when the loneliness creeps back in and whispers that you know exactly how to make it stop. So you do. And afterward, you tell yourself it was just a moment of weakness, that it won’t happen again. Until it does.
I used to blame an old friend for reintroducing me to it, for handing me the thing I had spent so long trying to forget. I told myself it was their fault, that they had undone all my progress. But the truth is, I made the choice. I wanted someone to blame because it was easier than admitting I had never truly let go. And in doing that, I ruined something that once meant everything to me. Addiction doesn’t just steal your money, your time, or your health — it takes your relationships too. It makes you selfish in ways you never meant to be. I turned my back on them, convinced they were the problem when really, we were just two people drowning in the same ocean, grabbing onto each other in all the wrong ways.
The hardest part wasn’t quitting. It was forgiving myself every time I didn’t. Relapse feels like failure, like proof that you’re not as strong as you thought, like a betrayal of all the progress you made. But that’s a lie. Healing is not a straight road — it twists, it bends, it loops back around when you least expect it. Every time I stumbled, I learned something new. I learned where my pain still lived, what wounds hadn’t fully closed, what parts of me still needed kindness instead of punishment.
There are days I still feel the urge, still hear the voice that tells me the high would be easier than dealing with reality. But I remind myself that I am not the person I was before. I don’t want to be ashamed anymore. I don’t want to carry this past like a weight tied to my ankles, pulling me under. I want to hold it like a scar — a mark that proves I survived, that I’m still here, still trying.
And if you are too, if you’ve relapsed and feel like you’ve lost your way, hear this: you are not broken, you are not weak, and you are not alone. Every step forward counts, even the ones that come after falling.
We are not defined by our worst days. We are not trapped by the past. We are still here. And that is enough.
