Then Slash Now

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.