A Letter to Alcohol
Dear You,
I should have written this long ago.
But for too many years,
I let you speak first—
and last.
You had the louder voice.
The smoother tongue.
You were patient.
Predictable.
Poisonous.
You didn’t knock.
You slithered in—
a whisper,
a wink,
a slow pour.
You didn’t ask for much at first—
just a little trust,
a little time.
And I gave it to you.
You came
when no one else did.
You sat with me in the dark
and convinced me
it was safer there.
You said,
“Let the world go.
I’ll stay.”
And you did.
You stayed
while I lost jobs,
relationships,
joy.
You stayed
while I buried parts of myself
I didn’t even know had names.
You stayed
while I shrank
into someone I didn’t recognize.
You told me I was more fun.
More honest.
More relaxed.
More real.
You lied.
Because with you,
I became a stranger
to everyone I loved.
And worse—
I became a stranger
to myself.
You were never medicine.
You were the mask.
You numbed the pain,
but you buried the healing.
You didn’t care about me—
you fed on me.
The more I gave,
the more you wanted.
But let’s be honest:
I let you stay.
I defended you.
I protected you.
I made excuses for you.
I took your side
against people
who would’ve died for me.
I burned bridges—
and then asked you
to help me forget the fire.
And when the bottom finally came,
you were still there—
not as a comfort,
but a curse.
You stood beside me
while I shook in withdrawal,
while I wept into floors,
while I thought about ending everything
just to get away from you.
And even then,
you said,
“One more won’t hurt.”
But something happened.
Someone else
showed up.
He didn’t arrive like you—
slick and shiny.
He came in the arms of strangers,
the prayers of my mother,
the silence of rock bottom.
He didn’t promise relief.
He offered truth.
He didn’t erase pain.
He walked me through it.
He didn’t flatter.
He loved.
And when I reached out to Him,
my hands were still trembling—
but they were finally empty.
That’s when I saw you clearly.
You weren’t a lover.
You weren’t a friend.
You were a thief.
A liar.
A slow death
in a beautiful bottle.
So here’s the truth:
I’m not angry anymore.
But I am done.
You no longer get my time.
My thoughts.
My voice.
You will not raise my children.
You will not sit at my table.
You will not follow me
into the future.
I am not afraid of you.
Not because you are small—
but because my God is big.
I’ve made peace with my past—
but not with you.
You will always be
the lie
that almost won.
But I am the truth
that did.
Goodbye.
— Me
