when healing hurts: the truth about accidental addiction

it’s morning again—
and my body’s already shaking its way into battle. the kind of morning where i wake before the sun, not because i want to, but because my body decides it’s time to remind me what dependency feels like. the withdrawals are back—creeping in like an old ghost that knows exactly where to press to make me flinch. my muscles ache, my skin burns, and my mind feels like it’s moving through fog. this isn’t about abuse. it’s not a story of loss of control. my medication is kept under lock and key, handed to me only by the people i love and trust—my wife, my girlfriend, and my boyfriend. every dose is deliberate, exact, careful. still, when the meds don’t last long enough, when the balance slips even slightly, my body unravels like it’s been waiting to.

that’s the cruel thing about accidental addiction—you don’t see it coming. it doesn’t start with a craving or a bad decision. it starts in a doctor’s office, under sterile lights, with a prescription meant to bring peace. it starts with trust. you take the pills as directed, you follow the schedule, and somewhere along the line, your body decides it can’t live without them. and when they wear off too soon, everything turns to chaos. it’s not your fault, but it still feels like one.

the truth is, this isn’t my first fight. this time last year, i was deep in addiction—the kind no one wants to admit out loud. i was misusing and abusing multiple medications, chasing silence, chasing numbness, chasing anything that would make the pain stop for a little while. i told myself i had control, that i could stop whenever i wanted. but addiction doesn’t negotiate—it consumes. it took pieces of me i didn’t think i’d ever get back. it made me someone i didn’t recognize.

but i clawed my way out. with help. with love. with brutal honesty and more tears than i can count. and now i live carefully, intentionally. i take what i’m given, nothing more, nothing less. i follow the rules. and still—here i am. body aching, hands trembling, mind spinning. because the truth is, addiction doesn’t end the moment you stop using. it lingers in your cells, in your memories, in the way your body reacts when you’re doing everything right.

it’s cruel, the way withdrawal hits even when you’ve done nothing wrong. the shakes, the sweats, the nausea—they feel like punishment for something you didn’t do. i sit in the quiet and remind myself: this is just chemistry, not failure. my body is confused, not broken. it’s trying to find equilibrium, even if it hurts like hell getting there.

and it does hurt. in ways that words barely touch. the exhaustion seeps into everything. my muscles feel heavy, my heart races without reason, my skin crawls like it’s trying to shed itself. it’s messy and ugly and lonely sometimes. but then there are the small mercies—the warm hands of the people who help me stay on track, who never let me spiral alone. the soft moments when i can breathe again, when i can feel my own heartbeat without panic in it.

this is what recovery looks like. not clean, not polished—real. it’s a thousand tiny decisions to stay. to endure. to keep choosing life, even when it shakes. i’m not the person i was a year ago. i’m not lost in the fog or chasing the next high. i’m here, sober-minded, aware, and fighting through a battle that no one sees but me.

so yeah, it sucks. it’s brutal. it’s unfair. but it’s also proof of how far i’ve come. proof that healing doesn’t always look gentle. sometimes it looks like trembling hands, tear-streaked faces, and whispered prayers to no one—just promises to yourself. i’m not weak for feeling this. i’m strong for surviving it.

this is accidental addiction—ugly, honest, human. this is what it means to be rebuilding from the inside out, one breath at a time.

with ink + bloom, 🌻