I was born into a house where the walls knew my name before I did, and the ghosts hung heavy. Childhood was no tender womb; it was a gauntlet of fists, of silence so thick you could choke on it. I learned early how to disappear, how to make myself small enough to fit into the cracks of their broken love, small enough to go unnoticed when the storm hit.
But I didn’t disappear forever. No. Instead, I found a new way to vanish, a different escape route—one wrapped in cellophane, pressed into the palm of a shaky hand. I met drugs like you meet a lover: with open arms and desperate hunger. They promised me oblivion, promised to fill the holes that had been dug into my skin by years of fear, of not enough, of too much.
At first, it was beautiful, like falling into a dark pool where nothing mattered. But the water kept rising, and soon I was drowning, my lungs filled with smoke and shame. I was hollowed out, used up, but still—still—I couldn’t let go. The drugs loved me better than anyone else ever had. They whispered lies into my ear, but at least they whispered, at least they “spoke” to me.
The thing is, you can only float in the abyss for so long before you realize you’re sinking. I looked at myself one day, caught my reflection in the black glass of a spoon, and I didn’t recognize the face staring back. I had become one of the ghosts I used to hide from. And worse, I was alone. Completely. Brutally. Alone.
So I crawled my way out. I wish I could say it was brave, but it wasn’t. It was messy, ugly. I clawed at the edges of my life, pulling myself out inch by inch, tearing skin and soul as I went. Withdrawal was a new kind of hell, but at least it was *real*—more real than the half-dead version of me that the drugs had hollowed out.
And here I am, still standing on the other side. The scars haven’t faded; the ghosts still visit. But I’ve learned to live with them, to make peace with the shadows of my past. The drugs no longer own me. I escaped, but not without dragging a piece of the darkness with me. You can never fully leave that kind of thing behind. It follows you like a shadow, reminding you of what you survived, of what you almost became.
But now, I breathe, and the air is mine again. And for once, that’s enough.
B 🤍
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