Rebuilding the Nest

The cold was the first thing that hit me, not the sharp, biting cold of the street in deep winter, but a deep, internal chill that settled in the marrow of my bones. It was the cold of withdrawal, a relentless traitor within my own system screaming for what felt like survival. They called it detox, but it felt more like an exorcism, one where the demons fought back with every nerve ending and every muscle fiber.

The room was small, sterile, and painted a shade of beige that seemed designed to induce apathy. Six walls closing in, but for the first time in years, they weren't the walls of a cramped hideout, a forgotten boiler room, or the back of a beat-up van. These walls felt—safe. A foreign sensation, like trying to learn to walk after a lifetime of crawling.

The first few days were a blur of nausea, tremors, and sweats so profuse I felt hollowed out. Every shadow seemed to writhe, every sound amplified into an accusation. I remember screaming, though I couldn’t tell you what the words were. They were just noise, pure, unfiltered misery escaping a vessel that had been tightly sealed for too long with chemicals and adrenaline.