Denial didn't break all at once.
It thinned.
It showed up in the pauses between excuses, in the way my lies started sounding rehearsed even to me. I still told myself I was managing—but the word felt hollow now, like saying it might make it true again.
Meth stopped feeling like a tool and started feeling like a deadline.
I wasn't using it to get through the day anymore. I was using it to avoid falling apart in front of them. The energy it once gave me was gone, replaced by agitation, paranoia, and a constant buzzing under my skin that never quieted.
I was irritable. Forgetful. Late.
So late.
I forgot appointments. Missed calls. Let dishes stack and laundry rot because I couldn't remember where to start. My mind would latch onto one task and refuse to let go, even when something more important was crying for my attention in the next room.
I told myself that forgetting didn't mean not caring.
But care requires presence—and presence was splintering.
The house started changing before I admitted I was. Windows stayed covered. Doors stayed locked. The air felt tense, like it was holding secrets. I convinced myself that isolation was protection.
I was wrong.
My children began adapting in ways I couldn't unsee anymore. They learned when to ask for things and when not to. They learned how to read my footsteps. They learned silence.
No one taught them that.
I did—without meaning to.
I caught glimpses of the truth in reflections I avoided: hollowed cheeks, darting eyes, hands that never stopped moving. I brushed my teeth harder, wore hoodies even when it was warm, told myself mirrors exaggerated.
They didn't.
Sleep came in fragments. When it did, nightmares followed—visions of doors closing, hands reaching for my children while I stood frozen, unable to move. I'd wake up convinced it was a warning, then use anyway to quiet the fear it created.
That was the loop.
I still believed I could stop whenever I decided to.
That belief became the last lie I defended.
The breaking point wasn't dramatic. It wasn't explosive. It was small and devastating.
I missed something important.
Not a bill.Not a call.Not a chore.
A moment.
One I will never get back.
And when I realized it was gone—really gone—I felt it then.
The truth I had been outrunning finally caught me.
I wasn't in control anymore.
And neither was meth.