The first level of addiction recovery is survival. And that devil? Withdrawal.
You’re not fighting cravings for fun—you’re begging your body not to collapse. Opiate withdrawal is violent. It’s every cell screaming for relief. You're sweating buckets, freezing cold, your stomach’s a warzone, your skin’s on fire, and your thoughts? Dark. Unrelenting. Some people hallucinate, others can’t sit still for even a second. You cry, you curse, you shake, and your brain whispers, "Just one more time." Not to get high—but to end the pain. That’s the twisted lie it feeds you. The devil at this level doesn’t wear horns—it wears your face.
And when you survive it, when you crawl through that hell without using… it doesn’t throw a parade. It just throws the next level at you.
Suddenly, the game shifts. You’re sober, but the world still sees the old you. The damage you did—relationships, jobs, self-worth—it all stares back like a cracked mirror. You’re not just detoxing your body now; you're detoxing your entire identity.
You realize life kept going while you were stuck in a loop. People matured. Learned things. Paid bills. Built careers. You were stuck in survival mode. And now that you're out, you're expected to jump right in. Be normal. Smile more. "Just be grateful." But you feel like a toddler in adult shoes.
The growth that addiction froze didn’t just magically resume. You have to relearn how to deal with emotions—jealousy, shame, anger, grief—without numbing out. You feel things deeper now, because nothing's dulling it. And that alone can be overwhelming.
Then there’s the brain. The science is real. Opiates hijack the reward system, shrink your dopamine response, dull your memory, and can delay emotional development. That healing? It's not instant. It’s a slow crawl. It can take years before your brain functions the way it used to. And that’s if you’re lucky.
You’re working three times as hard to do what others do on autopilot. Going to the store? Overstimulating. Making a phone call? Anxiety. Going to a job interview? You might as well be climbing Everest in flip-flops.
And still… you do it. Every day. You show up, even when the devil whispers you can’t.
That’s the thing. Each level brings a new devil. But it also brings a new version of you. Stronger. Wiser. Less bullshit, more backbone.
Recovery isn’t linear. You don’t “graduate” from addiction. You evolve through it.
Some days you win. Some days you just survive. And some days, surviving is the win.
But every devil you face proves you’re still in the game.
Still rising.
Still here.
Girl, you’re doin’ just fine.
