A coat check for your calm

You're fine. Then, a while later, you aren't. Restless. Short with people. Unable to settle on anything. Then a cigarette, and a few minutes later you're fine again. Fine was the whole purchase. Not joy. Not a reward. Just a ticket back to where you started.

The whole deal worked like a crooked coat check. It took your calm on the way in and charged you to get it back. Again and again. Same hand taking, same hand selling. The relief felt real every time, so you kept paying without a second look. You weren't buying calm. You were renting back your own.

Early on, that restless stretch still shows up asking for its fee. That's withdrawal, and it fades as your brain resets. Underneath it sits a calm nobody manufactured. God built it into you before anyone thought to put a price on it. You never needed a ticket to get it back.

Find the hour that used to come due hardest. Set an alarm for it and label it free of charge. When it rings, check your shoulders, your jaw, your breathing. Whatever you find there, nobody charged you for it. Normal costs nothing now.