The Health Scare That Made Me Relapse Smarter (Worse. I Mean Worse.)

After a month of being “good”—no drinking, no pills, just supplements, self-loathing, and the occasional cry in the Whole Foods parking lot—I finally sat across from my doctor and heard the words I’d been desperate to hear:

“You’re healthy again.”

And man... was that the green light to GOOOOO.

I left that appointment like I’d just been paroled from a prison I lowkey forgot I put myself in. My liver? Thriving. My skin? Glowing. My wine glass? About to be very full.

Because here’s what no one tells you about people like me—we’re not just addicts. We’re attorneys. Emotional lawyers. We will twist any shred of evidence into a case for our own defense.

I didn’t hear “you recovered.”
I heard “See? You’re fine. You never had a problem. You were just being dramatic. Silly girl.”

So what did I do with my clean bill of health and that golden ticket back into normalcy?

I celebrated.

Not with a juice cleanse.
Not with a gratitude journal.
Not even with a green smoothie and an overpriced sound bath.

Nope.
With Norcos. And Chardonnay.
A match made in heaven. Or honestly, purgatory with great lighting.

But this time—this time—I swore it would be different.
I wasn’t going back. I was going forward.
Just on weekends.
Just one a day.
Just when I really needed it.

And for, like, a minute? I believed I could manage it.

I was healed, right?
I’d proven I could quit.
I white-knuckled a month of sobriety like a champ. I peed in cups, got poked with needles, Googled “can your liver regenerate,” and even skipped wine at a baby shower.

Surely that meant I had control.

Spoiler alert:
Control was never the problem.
Delusion was.

Because I wasn’t celebrating healing—I was celebrating a loophole. I wasn’t nurturing my body—I was weaponizing its recovery.

I ran straight back to the very thing that almost broke me—only now I had proof that my body could take the hit.

Which made me more dangerous than ever.

Because I wasn’t rock bottom anymore. I was high-functioning. Charming. Blonde again.
I could show up, post a selfie, pack a lunchbox, answer emails, and pop pills in the same ten-minute window.

And when you're not visibly falling apart? People stop worrying.
But you? You’re still drowning.
Only now, you’re doing it with perfect bloodwork.