There are moments in sobriety that catch me off guard. 

Not the obvious hard days—the ones where everything is falling apart. 
But the quiet, ordinary moments… when nothing is technically wrong, and yet something feels missing. 

And then it hits: 

I don’t just want to use. I miss it. 

I miss the high. 
I miss the numbing. 
I miss the ritual of preparing to use. 

Did I say I miss the high? Because I miss the high. 

Cravings aren’t always loud and chaotic. 
Sometimes they’re soft. Almost comforting. 

They whisper things like, 
“Remember how good it felt?” 
“Just one more time, for old times’ sake won’t hurt anything” 
 

And if I’m not careful, I start replaying the highlight reel. 

The rush. 
The warmth almost like a hug. 
The instant relief. 
The way my thoughts disappeared completely. 

For a moment, it feels like the answer. 

But cravings lie. 

They show me the beginning of the story and hide the ending. 

Because what they don’t show me is what came after. 

The overdoing it. The puking. The lying. The fights with loved ones. The suicidal threats. The police interactions. The psychiatric units. The hospitals. The regret sitting heavy in my chest. The shame that follows me into the next day… and the next… and the next. 

They don’t remind me how quickly that “relief” turned into needing more. 
How the numbing didn’t just take away the pain—it took away everything. 

Still… missing it is real. There was a reason I used. 
It worked; until it didn’t. It felt good; until it didn’t. 

It gave me something I didn’t know how to give myself: 

Escape. Silence. Comfort. Control. Nurture. 

So when cravings hit, it’s not just about wanting a substance. 

It’s about wanting relief. 

It’s about wanting to not feel what I’m feeling. 

There’s a grief in knowing I can never feel that again. 

Grief in knowing I can’t go back—not safely, not casually, not without consequences. 

And honestly, part of me wishes I could. 

But I’m not just saying no to the high; I’m saying yes to myself. 

To my healing. 
To a life where I don’t have to disappear just to get through it. 

I’m starting to learn that I can survive discomfort. That I can feel things without being consumed by them. That I don’t actually need to escape every time life gets hard. 

And slowly I will begin to build a different kind of relief. One that doesn’t destroy me afterward. One that doesn’t cost me relationships.  

I have to remind myself: 

That yes, it felt good for a moment. 
But no, it was never worth what it cost me. 

The high was temporary. 

The numbing was temporary. 

But the life I’m building now? 

It’s real. 

And it’s worth staying present for—even on the days that I want to feel that high “just one more time.”