I Relapsed — Addiction Is a Cunning Beast

December 1, 2025

Judy Walker, Author and Independent Writer 

Tom O'Connor, Publisher

Author Judy Walker comes to us from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Judy was once terrified to write about her addiction to alcohol and her work of sobriety. She then found out that many readers and writers resonate with my experiences. So she continues her writing.

According to Judy Walker

After three months, twenty-five days, and seven hours of sobriety, I'm back to day one.

Addiction is cunning. She hides quietly and stealthily beneath the surface. She can sniff out complacency, distracted states, inattentiveness, shifts in focus, and fatigue. Emotional triggers become opportunities for Addiction to pounce. She patiently waits for weakness in my resolve. She is like an understudy secretly praying for the leading lady to fall ill so she can take center stage.

I grew complacent in my recovery. I let myself believe I wouldn't succumb, like others may have, to the voice inside my head that whispered: You do not have an addiction.

Alcoholism is not your disease. You're normal. You can enjoy a glass of wine. I thought I was too special to relapse. I was wrong.

A Month Before Relapse

In the first week of April, I received a diagnosis of osteoporosis. Fine, I thought. osteoporosis is not a death sentence. I will not let it define me. I have the power to take action. I will beat this thing.

I told everyone I was grateful to know the truth about my bones. I told myself I now had a reason to take care of my body in a way I had only previously discussed.

Denial, a powerful ally of addiction, shielded me from the truth, creating a fierce internal battle. I was in denial about the impact of aging — menopause, weight gain, skin and hair changes, and mood fluctuations. This denial was a battleground where Addiction's whispers clashed with my sober self's warnings.

I bulldozed over my feelings straight into fix-it mode. I threw myself into learning everything I could about reversing osteoporosis. I borrowed books from the library, spent hours watching YouTube videos, started eating animal protein, Greek yogurt, drinking Kefir, and taking handfuls of supplements. I ordered a weighted vest and incorporated it into my strength and impact workouts.

Gentle self-care went out the window, and with it, my ability to feel gratitude and appreciation. I focused my obsessive, addictive eye on this new distraction, this desire to reverse the condition in record time. I would be that person!

Instead of feeling stronger, my body grew tired, depleted. I refused to listen to my feelings and sensations. I shut down the intuition that told me to slow down and take a moment to feel this through.

Addiction began to stir from my slumber. I started to whisper lies with my forked tongue. For the first time in months, thoughts about drinking wine began to tug at my attention. My sober self warned that I was playing with dynamite, that this would not end well. I shut her up. I'm fine! I said, and tossed the dynamite from one hand to the other.

Addiction knew that if I started talking about having wine, my beloved, Keath, would eventually assent. He does not have alcoholism, never suffers from shame and guilt after having a few glasses of wine or a highball with his brothers. All things in moderation is his favorite motto.

He loves me, and even though he doesn't believe I have a problem with alcohol, he offered not to drink around me when I decided to live a sober life in January. His support has been a lifeline, a constant reminder that I'm not alone in this battle.

*If you are relating to Judy's article, you might also like Vigilance is the Price of Sobriety

Relapse Day

Keath has been working hard helping my daughter paint her new apartment. It is the first summer-like day of the year. The robins and chickadees are singing their lungs out, and a warm breeze pours in through the open window. The vibe is perfect for a drink on our backyard patio.

"How about I buy you a bottle of Sangria?" I say. "Buy us, Sangria," he corrects. "I'm not drinking in front of you." I take a beat and hear myself say, "I'll join you."

And with those words, the director nods to Addiction. The leading lady is out of this performance. Addiction is on as her replacement for the night.

She is delighted, her mouth watering in anticipation. Her eyes shine, and her insides itch. She's been waiting for three months, twenty-five days, and seven hours, and finally, finally, it's her turn.

Walking into the liquor store, I'm on autopilot. Addiction is already center stage, rehearsing her lines. I am just in it for the ride. I buy the most expensive Sangria, check the alcohol level — 11.5%. I'm excited by the number.

At home, Keath takes a shower. There are some things he has to attend to. I keep checking my watch. Let's get this show on the road!

It's not me talking anymore. It's Addiction, and I'm just a passenger in my own life, feeling the overwhelming loss of control.

I wrap a wet paper towel around the bottle — a trick to cool it faster — and put it into the freezer. While I wait for Keath, I watch YouTube videos about the dangers of alcohol. Addiction is laughing. You know you're going to drink tonight. Why are you torturing yourself?

There is a fleeting ping from Sobriety. It's not too late. You could drink cranberry juice instead. I ignore her.

Keath and I sit opposite one another on the patio. The sun feels warm on my bare skin, and the scene reminds me of other happy times we sat there enjoying a bottle of wine. We clink our glasses. Lights out on sobriety, and I don't care.

After the first two sips, I feel the alcohol spread the familiar warmth through my body. It's as if I can finally relax after months of holding tight. The first sip, a deceptive comfort, lured me back into addiction's embrace, highlighting the seductive allure of addiction. We finish the bottle, and I want more. I floated the idea to Keath. "I'm good," he says, and we go inside.

Day 1 Post-Relapse

I feel off. My brain feels like it's full of cotton, and my body feels like it's moving through quicksand. I put on a brave face, shut down any whiff of shame and guilt. Nope, not letting you bastards in. The next day, the hangover hits me like a ton of bricks. I'm nauseous, my head is pounding, and I can't seem to get out of bed. The shame and guilt I tried to shut out yesterday are now overwhelming me.

Day 2 Post-Relapse

Shame and guilt catch up with me. I can't get out of bed. Can't change out of my pajamas. Can't lift the blinds to let in the light. I'm consumed by a sense of failure, of letting myself and those I love down. The weight of my actions is heavy, and I struggle to find the strength to face the day.

I spend the day wanting to disappear, distracting myself by watching movies and scrolling on my phone. The rest of the time, I cry and sleep, sleep and cry—waves of self-hate roll through me. I can't see my way out of all-or-nothing thinking — my old behavior pattern in hyperdrive.

Day 3 Post-Relapse

An epiphany. My addiction is smarter than I gave her credit for. A genius. An opportunist. She may be in sleep mode, but she is never completely gone.

I view the relapse as an opportunity — a lesson to learn. I'm not out of the woods; the dark, foreboding woods will always be behind me. I must remember that. Never lose sight of them.

"I wasn't strong enough," I tell Keath. "So you do feel guilty," he says. "We just had some Sangria on a warm evening after a hard day's work. Why are you torturing yourself?" He doesn't understand the shame that crawls under my skin like a thousand spiders inside their nest.

I admit to Keath that I've been pretending to be okay for the past month when in truth, I've been fighting off feelings of hopelessness and depression. I hadn't permitted myself to grieve, did not shed a tear for this dear body of mine that has done her best. I turned my back on my feelings and went full tilt into do, research, and fix-it modes. I compartmentalized.

Perhaps the emotional shutdown after relapse was a reminder that I can never afford to let my guard down. Addiction is a liar. Her intentions are never honorable. She's after what matters most to me: my serenity, creativity, my inner child, my self-love and acceptance, my self-worth. Systematically, she'll behead all of them and wipe her bloody chin with the back of her hand. She wants to destroy my inner life because when she succeeds at that, I'll do the dirty work of setting my outer life on fire for her.

The days post-drinking are a feeding frenzy for self-hate thoughts. I'm left cleaning up the emotional mess addiction left behind after only two glasses of Sangria. It's demoralizing to start the sober count at one again. Unless I create inner change, my sobriety will continue to be an open target anytime life gets hard.

The Silver Lining

This relapse was a valuable reminder that I am not special. Addiction spares no one. I was not wrong in my realization that I am an alcoholic. The thing speaks for itself.

There has to be hope; otherwise, what's left? I want to continue evolving, learning, and growing. Acknowledgment that yes, I will experience challenging periods in life, and that's part of being human.

I must practice being loving with myself, using gentle, kind, yet firm words, rather than punishing myself with shame, remorse, regret, guilt — the exact methods used to control me when I was a child.

My body yearns for rest. She wants to hear me say: You've worked so hard over the past 58 years, my darling. Let's take it slow. I promise to listen to you, check in with you every day, and ask, How are you feeling? Is this okay? We'll do this with gentleness. I'm sorry. I love you.

The Lessons

Never talk to Addiction. Although what she says may appear to be negotiation, it is merely manipulation. She's after the quick fix, the rush, the I-don't-give-a-shit, let's have a drink and bask in the warmth of make-belief.

Never turn your back on Addiction. She's smart. She'll make you believe she's not a threat anymore, that you've beaten her at her own game. She wants to own you. When I believe her lies, I'm more likely to give in to her wants. I'll join her with a glass in hand, lips on rim, taking my first swallow of booze.

Addiction is part of my human incarnation. I cannot deny her existence. Cannot deny who she is and what she's capable of. Drinking puts my soul in handcuffs. It blinds and silences it.

Any time I hear myself justify, I know it's Addiction making its way to center stage and picking up the microphone. I must always be one step ahead. Never let myself believe that I've got this addiction thing beat, that it was not that bad, that maybe I made a mistake, and that I don't have the addiction gene in me. That I should be able to enjoy the good things in life.

But if the good things bring with them shame and guilt that can level me, are they really good things? The brain fog, hot flashes, mood swings, and emotional shutdown. It's the price I paid for two glasses of Sangria.

Addiction doesn't care about the consequences. She only cares about making my internal landscape unbearable, so I'll succumb to the painful feelings of unworthiness and drink.

This relapse is not a failure. I cannot afford to give up. I cannot, because Addiction will use it as ammunition against me. Addiction is slumbering again, and I must take excellent care of myself. I will grieve, feel my feelings, and treat myself with kindness, gentleness, and appreciation. I will speak loving words to myself.

Those are my tools of sobriety, tools that will remind me that I am here to learn how to love myself without conditions.

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Judy Walker can be reached via email at walker-j@shaw.ca

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