The Counting of the Hours

Dear Delyara, It is 12:50 AM, and my entire universe has shrunk down to the contents of a small plastic drawer in my bedside table. My skin feels hot and dry, and there is a rhythmic, frantic thumping behind my temples that won't let up until I give in. I promised myself when the sun was up that today would be the day I broke the cycle, that I was stronger than the chemical pull, but in the isolation of the night, that promise feels completely meaningless. The humiliation of addiction isn’t just the act itself; it’s the total loss of your own autonomy, the realization that a substance has complete ownership over your thoughts, your finances, and your relationships. I am sitting here hating my own weakness, watching the seconds tick by on my phone, knowing that I am about to throw away another shred of my self-respect just to make the physical craving stop for a few hours.