I’m a Christian.
Not because the darkness left.
Not because the cravings stopped or the shame stopped tasting like battery acid.
Not because I woke up one morning “fixed” and never looked back.
I’m a Christian because I’ve been to the floor so many times the tiles remember my shape —
where the bottle, the screen, the needle, the hand that wasn’t mine became the only god that answered fast.
Where I whispered “just one more time” like a prayer to something that only ever took.
Where I told Jesus “You can keep Your grace — I’m not worth it and I don’t want to be.”
And He didn’t argue.
He just let the weight fall harder —
until every escape route collapsed and the only thing left was the splintered wood He carried first.
My Jesus doesn’t wait for sobriety streaks or clean sheets.
He steps into the detox shakes, the 3 a.m. sweats, the mirror I can’t look at,
and says “I already carried that. All of it.
The nights you don’t remember. The mornings you wish you didn’t.
The parts you hate most — I paid for them in full.”
I still slip.
I still wake with the beast pacing inside my ribs.
I still hear the old voice say “you’ll never be free.”
But the resurrection doesn’t ask for permission to override relapse.
The tomb stayed empty.
The grave lost its grip.
Grace isn’t polite — it’s ruthless.
It invades the cell you built, kicks down the door, drags your half-dead body into daylight,
and commands it to stand even when every cell screams to stay down.
If you’re reading this chained to the same cycle —
high, hungover, hating yourself, convinced the hole is too deep —
hear this:
The cross was driven into worse addiction than yours
and still broke every chain hell ever forged.
I’m a Christian.
Addicted.
Ashamed.
Adopted anyway.
Because love didn’t negotiate with my demons.
It crushed their skulls and took the keys.
