The Quiet Fade: Reclaiming Myself from the Edge

The bottles used to be sinful promises - smooth and cold, always waiting for me to come back when the world became too much. When the pain was too loud, too sharp, when the anxiety clenched at my chest and the loneliness crawled up my throat, the bottle was there, a temporary escape. The burn as it met my lips would numb the edges of everything, soften the jagged thoughts, make the weight of my own skin a little lighter. The cocaine was the same - an instant rush to drown out the noise, to give me a fleeting but pleasant sense of control, lifting me higher for a moment, numbing the ache of my body and mind. Deep down, I think I always knew these were a crutch; a mask that would wear off, leaving me with nothing but the same emptiness to fill.

I couldn’t pinpoint the moment it started to change. It wasn’t sudden; it didn’t happen all at once. It was more like a slow surrender - one that happened piece by piece, breath by breath. I remember the first time I went to reach for the bottle after a long day of hating myself, hating the reality I was living; that quiet, yet familiar pull in my gut, and I stopped. I didn’t want to stop, but there was this quaint voice inside me that said, “You don’t need it”. It wasn’t a voice of judgment, but one of comfort, as if my body was reminding me of something vital I’d forgotten: I had the strength to face it; to feel it without needing to drown it out. 

The craving didn’t disappear overnight. It came back again, and again. There were nights when the weight of everything felt unbearable, when the fear and the loneliness screamed louder than ever, and the urge to buy an 8-ball was almost suffocating. But every time I felt that pull, I reminded myself how it felt to wake up the next day, to face the emptiness without the high. The comedown, the exhaustion, the immense regret and self deprecation - it wasn’t worth it anymore. I started finding other ways to cope, other ways to comfort myself. I’d take a walk, let the cool air wash over me or let the sun touch my skin. I’d journal, scribbling out the mess in my head until it started to make sense. Or I’d just sit in silence, allowing myself to feel the discomfort instead of running from it. It was miserable at first, but slowly, the craving started to lose its power over me. I knew if I wanted to live a fulfilling life, I needed to put an end to my own madness. I needed to regain my sense of self. 

I found myself leaning into the people who cared, allowing myself to be open and raw in a way I hadn’t been before. For so long, I kept people at arm’s length, afraid they’d see the brokenness I was so desperately trying to hide. But as I began to let go of the drugs, I started to see that I didn’t have to be this perfect facade I had created for myself; that I didn’t have to carry everything alone. I let myself ask for help when I needed it, even when I didn’t want to admit how badly I was struggling. Slowly, I began to fill the spaces that coke and liquor had once occupied with connection - real moments that felt more grounding than any high or buzz could offer.

There were days when the cravings hit harder; when I thought I might crumble and go back to my old ways. But each time, I found something else - a distraction, an alternative or healthier choice, a moment of clarity that reminded me I was stronger than I’d realized. I celebrated the smallest victories, the days I didn’t reach for the bottle, the mornings I woke up without regret, the nights I found peace in my own company. The fog didn’t vanish overnight, but with every step away from the crutches, the stronger I felt on my own two feet, and the clearer my world became. I started to trust myself again, trust that I missed deeply and didn’t need to hide behind the numbing fog of substances anymore.

The craving hasn’t completely disappeared, but it’s no longer the heavy weight it once was. I can feel the fear and the loneliness without needing to drown them out, without needing to escape. The nights still feel long sometimes, but I don’t fear them anymore. I face them - sober, raw, and alive. And I’m okay with that. I’m still figuring it out, still healing, but I don’t need to chase highs to make it ‘manageable’ anymore. I’ve learned how to face the hard parts without running from them. I’ve made it through this far, and I know I can keep going. I’m present, and I’m enough. I’m learning how to just be. And that, for now, is enough to keep fighting for another day.