How Long Until You Face Yourself?

I used to measure my worth by the sheen of other people’s judgments. I crafted conversations to hint at ambition and spoke of future plans that I barely believed in. I craved respectability in the eyes of others because I feared that without it, I was nothing more than an impulse-indulging shithead.

Addiction proved a loyal accomplice to my sense of inadequacy. Nights bled into mornings without distinction, each drink a promise I would wake up better than before. Instead I rose feeling hollow, arranging my appearance so no one would suspect how fragmented I really was.

Every remark and lingering glance from someone who thought me impressive felt like a momentary pardon for the degenerate rituals that had become my life. I felt guilty all the time, yet never paused to ask why I tolerated that guilt.

Sobriety did not transform me into an ascetic monk. I remain the same person prone to late nights and cheat meals. The difference lies in a newfound, quiet assurance. When sober mornings outnumber hangovers, the need for status dissolves.

I’ve ceased editing my image to appease some imagined tribunal. I have no urge to recite a laundry list of credentials because I am confident in who I am beneath any flimsy accolade. I now find authority in simply being dependable: present in relationships, consistent in actions, honest when it hurts.

My refusal to break sobriety is a statement against the invisible chains I once wove around myself. I am healthy, happy, and hopeful. Allow yourself to stand unmasked, I plead.