My addiction
was a drunken, cocaine-fueled weekend
that stretched across years,
a house party with no music left
and no one real enough stay.
It was sharing beds with strangers
That was mistaken for connection.
It was pushing away the ones
who tried to reach me through the fog.
It was my ego on the throne
and my spirit bound,
gagged by denial.
Addiction didn’t want love
it wanted me alone.
It drank all the liquor the night before,
knowing I’d need it in the morning.
Leaving me dry-mouthed,
shaking,
sick.
I hadn’t even opened my eyes,
and I was already plotting the next drink, the next sip.
Before my feet hit the floor,
I was chasing the door.
I was the villain
I was the victim
playing both parts,
perfectly.
My addiction held the door,
guided me to the cooler,
raised the bottle to my lips
As I swallowed, I prayed—
maybe this one,
please let this one
be the last.
But it never was.
My addiction
was shame,
regret,
burnt bridges and busted trust.
It whispered lies into the ears
of those who loved me,
until my reflection in their eyes
faded
slipped,
like I did,
with every swallow.
It laughed
while I drove drunk,
DUIs piling like evidence
on a case I was too numb to fight.
It didn’t care about my safety
or yours.
It only cared about the next high,
the next party,
the next excuse
to disappear.
And I disappeared…
into beds,
bathrooms, sleeping on
floors, sidewalks
but addiction’s favorite place of all
was the cold back of a jail cell wall.
It’s cunning,
my addiction.
Always dressed in sympathy.
“Just one drink”
it whispers.
“You deserve it.”
I listened
again
and again
and again
and again.
It became a ritual
hiding bottles,
stocking fear.
Terrified
of running out.
And so many nights
ended in bruises,
cuts,
bloodshot eyes and lies,
crashes,
seizures,
sirens,
The trading of pillows for sidewalks.
I called that life.
Convinced myself
this was freedom.
That
This was me.
But it wasn’t.
It was everything
I am not.
But everything
I became
in its grip.
Until I learned something powerful
a secret no one tells you
when you’re staring down the bottom of a hundred rough mornings
My addiction needed me more
than I ever needed it.
And so
I began to rebuild.
Because my soul,
my soul
had good bones.
Like kintsugi
I was broken pottery
made whole again
with gold.
Not hiding the cracks,
but highlighting them.
Saying
“This is where I broke,
and this is where I rose.”
And I’ve broken.
I’ve risen.
Recovery is kintsugi
every step a golden seam,
every tear,
a stroke of light
across my scars.
I know my addiction
never sleeps,
never surrenders,
But neither do I.
All I have is today.
Sometimes
Just a breath.
But with each sober inhale, exhale
my gratitude grows.
My fight grows.
Because I am a miracle.
Because I woke up.
And just for today—
I am alive.
I am blessed.
I am stressed,
but yes
I stress less.
Because I remember
what it cost.
Because I remember
who I was.
But more than anything—
I remember
who I am.
Contributor: Geneva Smedley – Sober Since May 27, 2013
SOBER POETRY: This is a space where recovery and creativity meet. It features heartfelt verses that capture the emotions of sobriety. Written by various Sober Curator Contributors and readers about their recovery journeys, these poems provide inspiration, healing, and reflection for readers seeking solace and connection.
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SPEAK OUT! SPEAK LOUD! at The Sober Curator is a celebration of authentic voices in recovery—echoing Madonna’s call to “Express yourself!” Here, readers and contributors take the spotlight, sharing transformative sobriety journeys, creative talents, and new avenues of self-expression discovered along the way. Through videos, poems, art, essays, opinion pieces, and music, we break the silence that often surrounds addiction, replacing it with connection, hope, and inspiration.
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