In active addiction, I sat drinking. Alone, in my own space, slowly dying. Quite literally. Poisoning my body.

The madness was real.

There was no falling out of pubs. No public spectacle. Nobody telling me where my addiction was taking me. Nobody witnessing the quiet destruction happening behind closed doors. Just me. Alone within my four walls.

I never thought about the damage. I had little concern for my health or the consequences of what I was doing to my body. Because all I chased was the drunkenness. The numbing of my mind. The temporary relief from pain that had become unbearable.

And yet, I wasn’t ignorant of my addiction. Quite the opposite.

I have an extraordinary amount of insight into my own suffering. I’ve spent years learning about the traumas I was subjected to, understanding the consequences of those experiences and recognising the ways they shaped the person I became. I knew why I drank. I knew alcohol helped me temporarily bury the feelings, the memories and the pain that followed me through life.

But knowing why I drank never stopped me from drinking.

One was never enough, and several were always too little. Because I wasn’t chasing a particular number of drinks. I was chasing constant relief. A feeling that would last longer than the alcohol itself. A moment of peace that wouldn’t disappear as quickly as it arrived.

I didn’t drink to become brave, loud or outlandish. I didn’t need an audience. I drank alone, in the space where I felt safest. Behind my own door, away from the demands of the world, where nobody could see the madness unfolding.

Alcohol became my escape. My retreat. My familiar companion in a world that so often felt unbearable.

And now that escape is gone.

There is no plan B.

Even now, after more than a month of sobriety, I still crave that familiar flow of poison. Not because I’ve forgotten what it was doing to me, but because I haven’t forgotten what it felt like when the pain subsided.

I crave the quietening of my long Covid symptoms. The silencing of nightmares and daily flashbacks. The easing of emotional pain that sometimes feels impossible to contain.

And I am tired.

Tired of longing for relief that never seems to come. Tired of hanging on for dear life, hands clenched, body tense, desperately trying to endure another day inside a body that rarely allows me to rest.

Because when everything becomes overwhelming, old habits begin to call. They return with the familiarity of old traditions, deeply ingrained, almost instinctive. And despite knowing the destruction they caused, there remains a longing for the comfort they once provided.

I miss that comfort.

Alcohol was like a blanket. It wrapped itself around me, offering the illusion of warmth, protection and safety. And for brief moments, I could smile. I could breathe without thinking. I could exist without feeling every sensation in my body.

But all the while, that blanket was suffocating me.

And perhaps that is the greatest cruelty of addiction. That something can feel so much like safety whilst quietly taking your life away.

Sobriety may give me a chance to improve my health. It may offer my body an opportunity to recover from years of poisoning. But it has also placed mountains before me that I cannot imagine navigating alone.

Because removing the alcohol hasn’t removed the trauma. It hasn’t silenced the memories or relieved the physical suffering. It has simply left me standing before everything I once tried so desperately to escape.

I understand my past. I understand my addiction. I understand the consequences of returning to the bottle.

But understanding doesn’t make the pain disappear.

And perhaps what I need now isn’t another explanation of why I drank. Perhaps what I need is a way to live without needing to.

Addiction felt like warm companionship, and sobriety feels like desolation.

But so be it.

I cannot pretend to enjoy a life that currently feels so difficult to endure. Nor can I manufacture gratitude for a sobriety that has exposed every wound I once tried to numb. I can only acknowledge the truth of where I am, without disguising the loneliness or romanticising the destruction I left behind.

I miss the comfort. I miss the quiet. I miss those fleeting moments when my body and mind finally allowed me to breathe.

But I also know what that comfort was costing me.

And perhaps, for now, that knowledge is enough to keep me going.