Addiction rarely looks the way it is pictured.
Addiction rarely looks the way it is pictured. Often the life is still standing. The work gets done, the people are looked after, and the thing itself, the drink, the substance, the habit, keeps a private life of its own, folded into the evenings and managed with rules. Not before six. Not on weeknights. Not again, after last time. The rules hold until they don't, and each time they don't there is a fresh round of promises, made quietly, to yourself.
Something you reached for began reaching for you.
Somewhere along the way, something you reached for began reaching for you. And you know. That is the hardest part to say out loud, because saying it changes nothing: you have seen it clearly for a long time, you may have stopped before, and the knowing and the stopping have not been enough. On top of the thing itself sits the commentary, the voice that reads it as weakness, that says other people manage. So it stays private, and the privacy has become its own weight.
