Addiction

Do I Love Myself Enough to Stay? — A Personal Reflection on Addiction, Isolation, and Hope

Joyner Lucus and Jelly Roll song “Best For Me” inspired this and the poem that follows.

“How can I love someone and learn to let them go?” Let me rephrase ” How can I love myself enough to let my self go?”

Addiction is more than just a disease. It’s a mirror that reflects our deepest wounds, fears, and doubts. For those of us caught in its grasp, every day can feel like a battle between the person we used to be, the person others want us to be, and the person we are right now—hurting, surviving, and searching for a way out.

I recently listened to a song that cut me open in ways I wasn’t prepared for. It mirrored my reality so closely that it forced me to sit with my truth, that I often try to avoid. The truth is: I am struggling. I’m not proud of where I am, and some days, I hate myself for breathing.

On one side, I feel like a complete disappointment. Not just to others—but to myself. I can’t be what everyone expects. I’m tired. I’m lonely. I keep falling into myself. People have left. Some abandoned me, others just stopped believing. And when the world gives up on you, it’s easy to believe you should too.

I often find myself asking: Is this it? Is dying an addict the only fate left for me? Is that what’s best for me? It’s a dark thought, one that creeps in during the silent hours. But it’s real. It’s raw. It’s where I’ve been.

But then there’s another voice in me. A voice that sounds like Joyner Lucas when he raps about the pain behind having someone he loves becoming an addict. When he said ” I never thought id see the day you let addiction ruin your life;” neither did I.

Because the truth is, I didn’t set out to become this. I didn’t want to lose myself. I used to be strong. Driven. Resilient. I held things together while falling apart inside. I asked for help. I cried out…….I was ignored.

So I shut down. I pulled away. I started hiding because being seen didn’t help. Being vulnerable only made me feel more alone.

People see the addict and call them selfish. Weak. But what they don’t see is the pain behind the silence. The trauma behind the relapse. The human behind the habit. I don’t use the word “disease” as an excuse—it’s just my reality. And I’ve never stopped asking for a way out.

The isolation cuts deeper than most realize. The hardest part is trying to love yourself when everyone else has walked away. I ask myself daily: Do I love myself enough to stay? Do I believe in a version of me that’s worth fighting for, even when no one else does?

And maybe I don’t have a clear answer yet. But I’m still here. Still breathing. Still writing this. And maybe that—just maybe—is enough. Maybe that’s where healing begins.

Because I’m learning that recovery isn’t just about sobriety. It’s about finding myself again. It’s about giving myself grace when no one else does. It’s about fighting to believe that even if I’m not who I used to be, I’m still someone worth saving.

So if you’re reading this, and you see yourself in these words know that you’re not alone. You’re not weak. You’re not a failure. You’re a survivor. And even if the world has given up on you, you don’t have to give up on yourself.

Not today.

Spoken Word Piece Inspired by my Truth

“Do I Love Myself Enough to Stay?”

I hear this song,

and I see myself.

My addiction—my shadow.

One side of me, broken glass,

cutting deep with the reflection of disappointment.

I hate myself…

every day I breathe feels like a punishment.

It’s lonely. Daunting.

I can’t be what they want.

I’m not the problem—

but I carry the blame anyway.

And when I fall low,

I sink into the thought that maybe…

maybe dying an addict

is what’s best for me.

Because I’ve let everyone down.

They all left.

So now it’s me…

against me.

But there’s another side—

a voice like Joyner Lucas in my head,

spitting truth I recognize in my soul.

Yes, I became an addict.

Yes, I lost myself.

No, I’m not who I used to be.

I built walls,

not because I don’t care—

but because I feel like a disappointment.

They say I’m selfish.

Say I’m weak.

But they never saw me dying inside

while still holding everything together.

I asked for help.

I showed my pain.

And they ignored it.

So I fell.

Not because I wanted to…

but because I was human.

Now I’m quiet.

Distant.

Alone.

The only one who can pull me out… is me.

I don’t blame the disease.

But don’t blame me for breaking

when I carried the silence like a boulder on my back.

Excuse me for bleeding while smiling.

For drowning while still trying to keep others afloat.

So do what’s best for you.

But tell me—

how do I believe in me

when no one else does?

What’s left to believe in

when all I see is failure in the mirror?

Am I next to leave… even myself?

Is it really love

if you have to ask them to stay?

And now,

the most haunting question of all:

Do I love myself enough to stay?

I don’t know yet.

But I’m still here.

Still breathing.

Still fighting.

Maybe that’s my answer.

Maybe… just maybe…

that’s where healing begins

BigmommaJ

riseaboveyournormblog.wordpress.com

Hi!
I'm a psychologist(clinical, not a psychotherapist which in my country is different than USA) and ironically I very much struggle with mental health. I've been in therapy for the past years, on and off, switched since 4 months to a new therapist and I'm struggling with alcohol addiction ( I'm highly functional tho, only drink at nights or on the weekends), symptoms of dissociation (which is ironical, because I knew damn well the theory and symptoms, but forgot how I reality things translate differently), childhood abuse, feelings of inadequacy , imposter syndrome and severe loneliness. I don't know what I expect posting this, especially hence I saw there's no other post here . Perhaps a place where I can turn the roles around, where I can be the one that's listened to.

I wrote this piece as a way to process and summarize parts of my story that I’ve carried for a long time. It’s personal, raw, and reflects the heavy realities of growing up in trauma, losing a parent, and eventually finding love and safety in unlikely places.

Sharing this isn’t easy, but I’m doing it in the hope that someone who’s lived through similar experiences might read it and feel even a small sense of comfort or recognition. You’re not alone.

(This was shared under a pen name for privacy. Thank you for reading.)—

Content Warning: Addiction, child abuse, death, emotional/physical neglect

Before I was ever took my first breath, my mother had already introduced me to crack, meth, cocaine, heroin, and pills—substances that formed the foundation of the world I was brought into. From the earliest years of my life, I slept on floors, park benches, sidewalks, and in homeless shelters. I was exposed to violence—physical, domestic, and even sexual—long before I could fully understand what any of it meant.

By the time I could form full memories, I had already seen things no child should. Strangers wandered in and out of our homes, often in altered states. I never knew their names, only that they weren’t safe. I learned early how to be quiet and careful. I lived anxious, always on edge, always afraid of what might happen next.

My parents, both worn down by addiction and desperation, tried to provide the only ways they knew how. If they weren’t selling food stamps or drugs, they were dumpster-diving, reselling expired snack cakes or stale chips—whatever they could find. When I was hungry, that’s what I ate.

Even when we had a roof over our heads, it was never truly shelter. Roaches, bed bugs, and fleas infested everything. Even if I had a bed, it wasn’t safe to sleep in. And when I didn’t, I lay on the floor, bugs crawling across my skin. The lice on my scalp got so bad, I remember people staring at me with wide eyes—pity, judgment, concern. Maybe all three.

School wasn’t a refuge. I missed it constantly—sometimes because my parents didn’t care to send me, sometimes because I couldn’t bear to go. Other kids whispered and pointed, calling out what was crawling on me. As cruel as it was, I understood. Who would want to sit next to the girl with bugs? So I stayed home. Truancy letters came, but nothing changed.

Eventually, our house was raided. CPS took me when I was around six. As terrified as I was to be separated from my parents, the roaches were gone. The strangers were gone. And for the first time, the fear was quieter—still there, but different. I was still a scared child. But I could breathe.

When I returned, things seemed… better. My parents had a new house. They looked happy. Maybe even sober. I remember being hopeful. But it didn’t last. The drugs came back. The strangers came back. The bugs. The hunger. The fear. It all came back.

If not for a friend’s mom down the street, I wouldn’t have eaten. Our fridge and stove were overrun with roaches. I remember asking my mom for a sandwich. She pointed to the bologna. It was already crawling. The fridge. The sink. The walls. Anywhere you looked—something was moving.

The few moments of joy I remember from childhood were always shadowed by fear, hunger, or exhaustion.

And then came the day that changed me forever.

I was nine. Five days before my tenth birthday. I walked through the side door, into the living room, and found my dad face down, unresponsive. I’d seen people pass out before—but this was different. I felt something shift inside me. I knew.

I ran to get help, but it was too late. I could feel the thread between us snap. The universe paused long enough to let my heart break.

That day never left me. The tightness in my throat, the weight in my lungs, the helplessness of knowing I couldn’t save him. Wanting to scream so loud it shattered the world.

“You don’t have a daddy anymore,” my mother sobbed.

When I went to say goodbye, it didn’t feel real. His blood still stained the carpet from the paramedics. His body was pale. Still. Cold. And that was strange—because I remembered how warm he always was. I held his finger one last time. His hands were always too big compared to mine. Then I let go.

He never came back. I’m not sure I did either.

I thought it couldn’t get worse. But it did. My mother unraveled. She disappeared emotionally, swallowed by grief and addiction. She was no longer a parent. I was alone. I cried myself to sleep most nights, wishing my dad would come back just to hold me one last time. But he didn’t. And no one else really did, either.

So I became the caregiver. I wiped her tears. I sat through her meltdowns. I tried to be strong. I was a child, trying to save a mother who had stopped trying. Eventually I realized—I was drowning too. And if I wanted to survive, I had to let go. Again.

At 13, my brother and his wife took me in. They were barely adults, just kids themselves, but they gave me what I never had: a home. My own room. A clean bed. A TV, a phone, even a game console. A full fridge. I never went to bed hungry again.

They stayed up with me night after night, combing every single bug and egg out of my hair—patiently, gently, lovingly. Until one day… they were gone. The bugs. The itching. The shame. The fear. They made sure I went to school every day. They stood up for me. They celebrated my birthday. They celebrated me. They cared.

They gave up their youth, their peace of mind—so I could have mine. They became parents when they hadn’t even finished growing up. They gave me what every child deserves: safety, love, stability, and most importantly—hope.

Life hasn’t been perfect since. But I can say, without hesitation, they saved me in every way a person can be saved.

They gave me a second chance at life. They are the reason I believe in love that heals. In people who choose to do good, even when life hasn’t been kind to them.

I owe them everything.

And to anyone out there who has lived, or is still living, through something like this: you’re not alone. You may have been dealt an impossible hand—but you are not broken. You are still here. You are worthy of love. Of healing. Of comfort & peace. If no one else has told you that—they should have.

So let me say it now:

I see you.
I hear you.
I believe you.
I love you.

#Childhooodtrauma #Grief #MentalHealth #Addiction #Healing #Survivor