One day at a time 200 times Two hundred days, two hundred nights, since I stepped back from endless fights— fights with urges buried deep, fights that robbed me of my sleep. The early days were sharp and raw, a silent scream, a broken jaw. Each hour crawled, each second stung, with battles lost before begun. But somehow, through the ache and blur, I found the strength I wasn’t sure was ever mine. I stood, I stayed, while memories begged me to fade. The silence now is not as loud, I walk with purpose, face the crowd. Yet still, some nights, a whisper calls— a gentle pull, a voice that crawls. It says, “You’ve done enough, you’re free, a little slip won’t shatter peace.” But I’ve seen where that path can lead, I’ve buried hope to feed that need. I know the price—I’ve paid it twice, in sleepless nights and sacrifice. So now I pause, I breathe, I stand, with trembling heart and steady hands. Two hundred days—a mountain climbed, but not the end, just marked in time. I don’t pretend the war is won, the darkest days aren’t always done. Relapse waits with open arms, not in screams, but in quiet charms. It only takes a glance, a slip, to fall back off this fragile grip. So I hold tight, one day, one try, with clearer soul and brighter sky. Still healing, scarred, and far from done— but proud of who I’ve just become.