I'm Still Counting the Days

I am 8 years clean.

But sometimes, I still ache

for the numbness in my nose

the burn in my throat,

and the drip down the back of it.

-

No one wants to hear

that I miss it.

That I miss

her.

The girl I was, with powder on my gums,

and the feeling that I am a God

pounding in my chest.

No one wants to hear

that when I stand at the gas station,

and I catch the smell of diesel,

that my mouth starts to water.

No one wants to hear

that when I vacuum up the cornstarch

of a children's play project,

that I'm taken back to the days

where I partied like Ozzy, minus the beheading of bats.

-

They want the story with the ribbon.

The redemption arc.

The triumph of collected chips.

Teeth white as forgiveness,

truly reformed from the monstrosity that I was.

-

Not the truth.

Not that, almost a decade later,

I still dream of lines like long lost lifelines.

That some days, I press my fingers into the mirror,

and long for euphoria of just one more hit.

That some days, I pour a glass of wine,

and I fight not to finish the bottle

just to see if I still can.

That I keep it around

so that I can prove that I'm in control.

That proving it means nothing.

That some days, I scroll through old contacts,

just to see if there's one that I missed when I cleaned out my phone.

That some days, my grounding takes form

of imagining finding an eight ball in an old missed hiding place

instead of planting my feet to the earth.

-

I cannot tell a newcomer "Sobriety is not the finish line",

that it is a quiet hunger,

but with good posture.

It's a smile when meeting someone,

and sobbing into the shower drain,

trying to wash away the guilt of longing.

It's a solemn nod when they say

You're so strong

when reality is...

I'm just tired.

-

I don't say it.

I don't want this truth to weigh on them.

I don't want them to know

that I survive this disease with energy drinks

and a jaw that never unclenches.

-

Instead, I accept their praise.

They long for it to be theirs one day,

and I will encourage their success.

I'm the "miracle".

I'm the "before and after".

I'm the "proof".

But inside me, there still lives

a whisper.

A craving.

A tremor.

An addict in clean clothing.

I bury that girl, and remind myself again,

Just one more day clean.

We'll see if we can do it again tomorrow.