No different

It’s how I used to feel. When I’d wake up, unsure of where I was. Who I was. My mouth dry, my head pounding, my stomach in knots. Hoping for just one moment, that I might die. Right then and there. Because death might at least show some mercy.

And then I’d breathe, deep, several times. Until it all came into focus. Until I could hear my heart beating and the sound of birds and life outside. Until my brain began craving the very thing that was making me hate my life. Such a vicious circle, it was. Was.

Why I thought sobriety would make life any different, I don’t know. It’s still there, no different. Worse in some ways. Circling, like vultures or hyenas. Just waiting for me to stumble. Everything sharp and jagged and edgy. Having to watch my steps, my words, my thoughts.

I reach, but there’s nothing there. Nothing that can take those edges off. Nothing soft or smooth. Everything so ragged, raw, bruised and bleeding.

It’s how I used to feel.