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then:
I swallowed escape
in pastel capsules,
my pockets jingled with regret.
The nights pulsed—
bass, sweat, strangers.
Every weekend was a blackout baptism.
Every Monday, a resurrection I didn’t ask for.

now:
I wake before the alarm.
Feed cats who love me
with a certainty I never questioned.
My home doesn’t hum with danger—
only kettle steam and quiet purring.

then:
I stole to feel full,
thought hunger was my birthright.
I measured worth
by how well I could vanish.
Almost traded years
for a number on a cell door.

now:
I count anniversaries of sobriety,
not court dates.
Four years clean,
nearly one without drinking.
No more smoke in my lungs,
or fog in my choices.

then:
The floor was often my bed.
Sofas borrowed.
Hostels echoing with strangers’ ghosts.
I called chaos “home,”
because I didn’t know better.

now:
My walls are mine—
painted in colours I chose.
My name’s on the lease.
So is my joy.
And the love that brushes my hand
in the morning light.

then:
I mistook noise for connection.
Friends who disappeared with daylight,
jobs that slipped through my fingers,
love that cut deeper than silence.

now:
I hold steady.
Four years with someone who sees me.
No parties.
No promises I can’t keep.
Just textbooks, shift work,
and something like peace.

what makes me smile?
That the girl who once vanished
into every room she entered
now walks in like she belongs.
That I traded craving for contentment—
a full fridge, a warm bed,
a quiet mind.

That my joy isn’t borrowed anymore.
It lives here now,
between the purring cats
and the humming radiators,
in the way I kiss my partner goodbye,
and mean it—
knowing I’ll come home.

It’s in my voice
when I say, “I’m so happy,”
and no one flinches.
Not even me.

What makes me smile?
Not just the life I’ve built—
but the stranger I used to be,
and how she somehow
carried me here.
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