There’s a Version of Me That Never Survived

Addiction didn’t just take things from me. It erased a version of me I never got to meet.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

✦ .　⁺ . ✦ .　⁺ . ✦ .　⁺ . ✦ .　⁺ . ✦ People often ask what addiction stole from me. They expect me to talk about money. Jobs. Relationships. Years. And yes... it stole all of those things. But what addiction and trauma really stole wasn’t something I could hold in my hands. It stole a version of me that I’ll never get to meet. Sometimes I wonder who she would have been. Would she have laughed louder? Would she have trusted people without waiting for them to prove they were going to leave? Would she have slept through the night without nightmares? Would she have answered a phone call without her stomach dropping? Would she have looked in the mirror and seen someone worthy instead of someone who constantly needed to earn love? I’ll never know. Trauma has a way of introducing itself long before you realize it’s living with you. It changes the way you love. The way you apologize. The way you panic when someone gets quiet. The way you believe every mistake is proof that you’re impossible to love. Then addiction arrives like a counterfeit lifeboat. For a while, it feels like relief. Until one day you realize the thing that promised to save you has become the thing you’re drowning in. People see the addiction. They rarely see the life that came before it. They don’t see the child who learned that home wasn’t always safe. They don’t see the losses that kept piling up until grief became a permanent roommate. They don’t see the years spent walking on eggshells, convinced that love had to hurt to be real. They don’t see the invisible funeral you attend every day. The funeral for the person you might have become. That grief is difficult to explain because nobody else knew her. Nobody misses her except you. You mourn birthdays she never celebrated. Dreams she never chased. Confidence she never had the chance to build. You mourn a stranger who somehow feels like your oldest friend. Recovery isn’t just about putting down the drugs. It’s about slowly introducing yourself to the person who survived everything. Maybe she isn’t the person you were supposed to become. Maybe she’s stronger. Maybe she’s softer in all the places life tried to harden her. Maybe she carries scars instead of certainty. But she’s still here. And some days, that’s enough. I’m beginning to believe that I didn’t lose every version of myself. Maybe the best one wasn’t behind me. Maybe she’s still waiting... one healed piece at a time.

📌 This story is published under [Quirky Rants ](https://medium.com/quirky-rants)— a home for unfiltered thoughts, everyday oddities, and real, relatable voices. Want to share your story too? Join us here.

[embed]Quirky Rants — A Publication! Unfiltered opinions on everyday oddities!medium.com