For years I drank and told myself I was managing. I had a job. I paid rent. People called me 'functional.' But the cracks were growing underneath everything ' missed promises, burned friendships, money that vanished, days I couldn't fully remember. The only thing I didn't really lose was my car, and even that felt like an accident of luck. I was living with my father when he finally drew the line. Either I went into rehab or he cut me off completely. He was the last person still speaking to me. So I went. Ninety-seven days inside. Out in November. The outside world felt louder, sharper, harder. I work nights now. I'm sober. Some people came back. Some never will. That part is on me. Every day I choose not to return to the person I was. And that choice still feels fragile.