The knife next to my bed.
A recovering alcoholic once told me he kept a bottle of liquor in each room, as a reminder of just how easy it was for an addict to fall into temptation; and the destructive power it has.
I keep a knife next to mine, the same knife that left several marks on my right arm — plenty of times.
I still sleep in the same quilt under which by hand would often bleed.
Hoping my mattress would absorb the blood as it drained from my body, and my life along with it.
Since recovery, I don’t look at the knife the same anymore.
Same as my belief of the notion of addiction has changed.
I know it’s there, and when times get difficult — I could use it.
But that’s not the meaning it holds.
It’s a reminder of my past, not to be buried or hidden away.
A reminder that I got past it, and now it rests beside me — as I hold more power over it than it once did over me.
To overcome an addiction, I hold the belief that recovery can only be made in recognition that we’ve now conquered it — we can be content with it.
And not let it constantly hold us down.
I still take the pills, that once attempted to overdose on.
Although, they’re prescribed to me, they can also be the kiss of death if I forget to take them or take too many.
But I can control it now, I know I only need one.
Someday, I won’t even need the one.
For now, that’s just how it is.
It’s progress, and I accept that there was a rough past — but my body didn’t give up on me.
It was time, I decided to not give up on it either.
We’ll make it through this together, buddy — one day at a time.
With your bottle as a reminder, I’ll take my knife — and we’ll bury them together.
For now, they’re reminders of our survival.
What I will never get rid of is the photographs next to my bed; reminders of my loving family — who never gave up on me.
The pain in their eyes as I suffered, giving me the hope to live on — if not for mine, for their sake.
For I could not shatter the true love they held for me, and leave them in this life, with hopelessness, without being grateful.