No Relapse in Me: An Easter Reflection

FTF | FaceThyFear.com

Real stories. Raw healing. Unfiltered recovery

I don’t have another relapse in me.

Let me say that again—I do not have another relapse in me.

There’s no going back. I don’t care what anyone thinks.

Because I remember what it cost me.

I remember the cycle. The fake confidence. The holidays that felt more like traps than celebrations.

I remember trying to belong to a family that wasn’t mine. Pouring into people who only needed me when it was convenient.

I remember being quiet while my spirit screamed for help.

I remember being asked to hide in a house I helped pay for—because the “real” father was coming over.

He didn’t bring apologies. He didn’t bring time.

He brought live baby chickens.

Didn’t ask. Didn’t explain. Just dropped them off and disappeared.

And I was expected to disappear too.

But here’s the part I have to own:

I played a role in my own pain.

I stayed in places I should’ve left.

I ignored the signs. I tried to force love where love didn’t exist.

I wasn’t just addicted to substances—I was addicted to being needed. Addicted to being the savior.

Addicted to proving my worth through silence and sacrifice.

I made myself small and called it loyalty.

But the truth is—I enabled it.

And when it all broke me, I ran right back to what never questioned me: cocaine.

I walked out of that house and straight into a relapse.

Cocaine first. Liquor second.

That was my Easter. That was my idea of resurrection back then.

But today? Today is different.

I woke up with my cat laying on my chest—not regret weighing me down.

I’m outside grilling with my girl.

Listening to Gunna and Tommy Richman.

Drinking raspberry lemonade sparkling water and ginger ale.

The hookah’s going.

The TV’s on.

And for the first time in a long time—I’m at peace.

I thank God for that.

Because without memory, I might forget how far I’ve come.

Without pain, I might start thinking I can go back.

But I remember. And I won’t.

And I wear that reminder on my skin.

The tattoo on my arm? It’s not just ink—it’s a confession.

I call it “The Two White Girls I Couldn’t Leave Alone.”

One was my ex.

The other was cocaine.

I loved them both. And both of them broke me.

I got this tattoo in New Orleans—a city filled with spirits, heat, and hidden pain.

A place I kept returning to, just like I kept returning to them.

We’d break up. I’d say I was done.

Then I’d end up back again—no boundaries, no healing, just habit.

Every relapse felt like a reunion.

Every reunion left me emptier.

But not anymore.

Today, I’m free.

Not perfect. But free.

And Easter isn’t about being perfect—it’s about rising.

It’s about walking out of your tomb—even when the door’s still heavy.

Even when no one helps you push it open.

I remember the pain, but I don’t live there anymore.

I don’t let it define me—I let it remind me:

I made it.

I’m still here.

I’m not hiding anymore.

There are so many ways to be rich.

Rich in peace.

Rich in clarity.

Rich in the silence you choose—not the silence forced on you.

This is resurrection.

This is healing.

This is FaceThyFear.

For more stories of raw healing and redemption, visit FaceThyFear.com

Truth heals. Fear kills. Choose truth.