I’m an Addict and I’m Not Sorry
Let’s drop the polite bullshit for once. If you made it here, you’re either in it, have clawed your way out of it, or love somebody who’s been dragged through hell by addiction. And if that’s your reality, you know exactly what I mean when I say the worst part isn’t the withdrawal sweats, or wrecking your life, or waking up face-down in your own mess. It’s the shame. That choking, oil-slick weight that seeps into your bones and tells you, over and over, “You are less. You are broken. Who the hell do you think you are?”
Well, fuck shame. I mean it. Fuck it sideways, backward, with both middle fingers up.
I’m not hiding. I’m not apologizing. I’m an addict. I’ve done things I promised myself I would never do. I’ve lied to people who trusted me. I’ve stolen. I’ve torn up every good thing I could get my hands on, thinking maybe, finally, I’d feel something other than empty. But here’s what that doesn’t mean: it doesn’t mean I’m broken past repair. It doesn’t mean I don’t get to want a life worth a damn, or that I can’t crawl toward a little peace. I still deserve moments of quiet. I still get to want love, safety, a real fucking chance. And you do too.
Our past doesn’t disappear. We drag it around with us—sometimes like a badge, sometimes like a corpse. Sometimes both. But the only thing that matters is what you do next. Not what your mom thinks, not what the neighbors gossip about, not the checklist some rehab brochure says equals “success.” What are you going to do today? That’s it.
You can hate what you did but not who you are. There’s a world of difference there—and nobody gets to decide that for you. We’ve all pulled moves we’d sell our own teeth to undo. Regret isn’t a private club. But the difference between people who sink and people who scrape out something like a life is this: the ones who stop running from themselves. The ones who show up, even when showing up means sitting alone with your own shit and doing nothing but not using, just for today.
Recovery isn’t a purity test. It’s not about gold stars, perfect attendance, or performing sainthood for people who’ll never get it. It’s about being a touch less unhinged today than you were yesterday. Eating a bowl of cereal, answering the phone, not lighting yourself on fire—progress isn’t pretty, but it counts. Every boring, brutal inch of it counts.
And yeah, you’re going to backslide. You are going to mess up. There will be nights you want to smash something just to feel real, mornings you wake up angry you woke up at all. And you’ll live through it. Sometimes easier would be relapsing, sinking, vanishing; but “easy” is the trap, not the exit. Getting free is hard, and it’s still yours for the taking.
Here’s what I’m done with: letting people who haven’t lived it tell me what I “deserve.” I get to want good things. So do you. Real rest. Love that doesn’t feel like payday loans. One day in your own skin without the urge to crawl right out of it. We deserve all that, just on the off-chance we survive long enough to see it.
So here’s the deal. No more swallowing shame. No more apologizing for surviving. You and me—we’re not just addicts. We’re survivors. We’re stubborn as hell, and we’re not fucking sorry.
Screw the shame. Live anyway.
-Belle-
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