People imagine addiction as chaos. Yours was administrative. Timing, placement, receipts, which route home, which story you had already told to whom. You kept a running ledger in your head of what each person believed, and you updated it constantly, and the effort of that alone would have exhausted anyone even without the substance underneath it.
You may have been functioning the entire time. Holding the job. Making it to church. Being, by most accounts, reliable — which is not evidence that it was not serious. It is evidence of how much of you was going into the maintenance.
And you were completely alone in it. Every room you were in, you were the only one who knew. People were talking to a version of you that you were constructing in real time, which means the closer someone got, the more alone you became. The intimacy was with the secret.
If it has come out, you know the question. Everyone asks it first and they cannot help it: how long? And you watch the number land, and you watch them start going backwards through years of memories, re-reading everything, wondering which parts were real. That look is a separate grief from anything the substance did.
And if it has not come out — if you are reading this and nobody knows yet — then you know the other thing. That every day of not saying it makes the saying harder, because the number gets bigger, and the number is the part that will hurt them most.