No cigarettes.
No alcohol.
No drugs.
Just… me.
Sober is a frightening world—because it means I actually have to feel again. One moment everything seems manageable, even hopeful; the next, I’m swallowing tears, convinced the sky is falling. Every emotion is louder now, sharper, more insistent. Everything I once pushed down is resurfacing with a vengeance.
But the truth is: I don’t like the woman I’ve been seeing in the mirror. I’m tired—tired of the negativity, the self-sabotage, the coping mechanisms that only ever made things worse. I don’t want to keep living like this. I can’t. I’m watching myself crumble from the inside out, and the way I speak to myself? I wouldn’t let anyone speak to someone I love that way.
Yes, loneliness hurts. But I would rather be lonely than continue living an existence that feels wasted. I don’t want fake friends or shallow bonds. I want real people in my life—friends who show up, who inspire me to rise, who support me the way I support them.
I’ve been depressed for so long that I’ve forgotten what joy feels like. But I want to find my way back to it. I have to. I’m trying to make the gym—and long walks and runs with Apollo—my new addiction. Something healthy. Something grounding. Something that reminds me I’m alive.
And deep down, beneath all the exhaustion and all the fear, I do still have hope. I believe everything will be okay eventually. Feeling like this is painful, yes, but it’s better than not feeling anything at all—better than drifting through a life that has gone dull and gray.
What I absolutely cannot do is keep living a life that feels wasted.
Apollo deserves better.
And so do I.
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