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"But let me tell you, you can also get addicted to grief, to guilt, to hate."

I used to think addiction only looked like a bottle or a pill - something you swallowed, smoked, or pressed into your skin.
But I've learned it can look like sadness, too.
It can sound like silence.
It can feel like something familiar curling up beside you at night.
Grief climbs into bed with you, presses against your spine, and whispers lullabies soaked in nostalgia. And you let it. Because forgetting feels like betrayal.

Guilt settles in quietly until it's part of your posture. It wraps around your ribs, convincing you the weight is deserved - that healing would mean you didn't care enough.
That light would make you dishonest.
Eventually, you wear it like your favorite old coat.
Heavy, but yours.

And hate - hate is seductive.
It gives you something to hold onto when everything else slips through.
You sip it in small doses, just enough to keep the fire burning.
It feels like power - until it doesn't. Until it leaves ash in your mouth when you speak.

Sometimes, we cling to that pain because it's the last thing that connects us to what we lost.
Or who we used to be.
Or who we're still punishing ourselves for not becoming.
How unnerving, to knowingly live in the ache.

And still - there comes a quiet, terrifying freedom in loosening your grip.
In walking barefoot out of what once felt like shelter.