The Armor I Wear

I feel like I’m wearing protective armor.
On the outside, it’s polished: a warm smile, a friendly greeting, a lighthearted tone.
It looks like confidence, but in truth, it’s camouflage.
It hides the pit inside me — an emptiness I once knew how to fill.

For years, that pit was topped up with warm, straight alcohol.
I could tread water in it for hours, floating in a false peace.
It wasn’t safety — it was sinking in slow motion.
Alcohol dulled the edges of my depression, but it also deepened the pit.

And if I’m honest, it wasn’t just about avoiding pain — it was about chasing pleasure.
Sometimes, in the middle of the day, I’d steal away for a slug of vodka.
That first burn and rush — it was exactly the dopamine high I was looking for.
It would change everything in an instant: my mood, my outlook, my whole chemistry.
It was quick, it was easy, and it worked. Until it didn’t.

But alcohol wasn’t my only source of that little jolt.
I learned pretty young that I could get another kind of high from people.
Entertaining others with my quick wit, dropping the perfect one-liner,
getting a room to smile or laugh — that was a wonderful feeling.
That hit of dopamine from their reactions felt so good.
I could ride that buzz for hours.

Lately, though, I’m noticing something unsettling:
I can’t always control what comes out of my mouth.
Sometimes my words hit harder than I intend.
The joke that gets a laugh from one person might cut someone else to the bone.
I don’t mean to be hurtful, but I can see in their faces when I’ve gone too far.
That’s a kind of hangover all its own.

Sobriety has taken away the pool, but not the pit.
Now I stand inside the armor, exposed to my own thoughts and impulses.
The smile still comes easily, but it feels more like a mask.
AA talks about honesty, and I’m learning that honesty isn’t just about not lying —
it’s about letting myself be seen without the costume.

I’m not ready to throw away the armor entirely.
Some days, it keeps me functioning in the world.
But I’m learning to open a visor here, loosen a strap there.
Letting in light. Letting someone see the real me.
It’s uncomfortable, but it’s also where healing lives.

I share this not as a confession, but as an observation.
Depression doesn’t always look like sadness.
Sometimes it looks like cheerfulness that never cracks.
Sometimes it looks like a quick joke at the wrong time.
I’m beginning to see that my strength may not be in holding the armor tight,
but in choosing when to set it down — and when to speak with care.