The taste of unfiltered air on a clean tongue

Dear Delyara, Tonight marks eighteen months since I last let a chemical dictate the terms of my existence. I remember the exact texture of the hospital floor, the cold smell of the industrial antiseptic, and the terrifying certainty that I was going to die in that room with no one knowing my name. But tonight, I am sitting in my own space, listening to the quiet rustle of the wind through the birch trees outside. My skin doesn't crawl, my blood doesn't burn for a fix, and my mind is completely, beautifully my own. I looked at my reflection in the glass tonight and saw a person I actually respect—someone who fought through the absolute underworld of withdrawal and reclaimed their sovereignty. I am broke, my life is simple, but I am clean, Delyara. I am finally the ruler of my own mind.