The Conflict Within the Addict's Mind

I often wish I could rewrite my story.

The path that led me here is difficult to articulate. Despite my best efforts, the nagging thoughts persist. Nothing can quiet them until the chilling fizz of that lethal beverage touches my lips.

Initially, the first sip is a struggle, accompanied by an unbearable odor. I despise that scent now; I can detect it from afar. The acrid, fermented poison seems to beckon for consumption. It's inescapable, lurking behind me as I try to flee.

This substance carries with it shattered aspirations and broken dreams, yet it still holds a flicker of hope that I cling to dearly. It has the power to ruin every person, place, and relationship in my life, yet I find myself inextricably drawn to it. It becomes my companion, my solace—no arguments, just a mutual understanding of its destructive nature.

With each drink, it slices deeper into my soul. The more profound the hurt, the greater the relief I seem to experience. There is a strange comfort in the chaos it brings; it’s difficult to articulate why I repeatedly make choices that are progressively eroding my existence.

Days blur together—7 days, 9 days, 12 days—until I scream in despair!

This substance is relentless, hunting me down regardless of my desires. It feels as though the freedom to choose vanished alongside the repercussions that this poison inflicts upon me. There’s no "this time will be different." The circus I create continues to spin, filled with its chaotic performers.

Sometimes, a circus monkey joins the show. While I adore monkeys, even they can't rescue me from my plight.

I often fantasize about being confined to a room to protect myself and others. But don’t forget to toss away the key. I believe I would find safety there—just me, four walls, and a ceiling, with nothing else.

Yet even in solitude, that voice continues its relentless chatter. Regardless of how much I pray or plead, when it decides to pull me under, it succeeds.

With each fall, the pain seems to lessen—or perhaps it intensifies, as I grow numb to the experience. I find myself at a loss for how to stop it. Once a decision is made, there’s no turning back. The volume increases until I submit to its demands.

There’s a fleeting sense of relief in the poison I engage with, but my dancing skills are terrible, and yet I persist.

I’m weary of the anguish.