“But addiction doesn’t care about survival. It takes and takes until there’s nothing left.”

The streets were brutal. Every day was a gamble, who could I trust, where could I sleep without getting robbed, beaten, or worse? I saw friends overdose, some making it, some not. I got caught up in dangerous situations, surrounded by violence, desperation, and people just as lost as I was. The things I did, the things I saw—they still haunt me.

My body paid the price. The constant abuse, the malnutrition, the infections, I nearly lost my left leg. An abscess from injecting went septic, and for a while, the doctors weren’t sure they could save it. I was in the hospital, sick, shaking from withdrawal, and I remember thinking, Is this it? Is this how I die? But even then, the addiction still had its grip on me. The moment I got out, I went right back to it.

It wasn’t until I hit rock bottom truly, deeply that something shifted. I don’t know if it was the prison time stacking up, the close calls, or the realization that I wasn’t going to survive much longer if I kept going. Maybe it was all of it. But I knew if I wanted to live, I had to get serious about change. No more half-hearted attempts. No more empty promises to myself.

Getting clean was a battle. It still is. Every day, I have to fight against the urges, against the weight of my past. People don’t forget. The stigma follows me, and proving that I’ve changed hasn’t been easy. But I refuse to let my past define my future. I’ve had to fight for every bit of trust, every opportunity, and every chance to rebuild.

There are days I struggle, days where the memories creep in and try to pull me back. But I remind myself where I came from and how far I’ve come.

I remind myself that I am more than my addiction, more than my mistakes. I survived things that should have killed me, and I’m still here.

And as long as I’m still here, I’ll keep fighting.