Category: Recovery Stories

Whatever It Takes To Save My Daughter: Alissa’s Story

Posted on by Jessica Dueñas in Current Recovery Challenges, Recovery Stories, Written by Jessica

Alissa is a mother, a professional, a practicing attorney, and a wife. Alissa is also a recovering alcoholic who was in and out of facilities throughout New Jersey. Alissa could tell you anything about any facility in Jersey, “I could’ve written a ton of Yelp reviews,” she laughed. 

Alissa, the oldest of four children, moved to New Jersey when she was six. She was raised in a middle-income home by parents who made sure to keep up appearances. Alissa attended a Catholic grade school, a Catholic High School, had good grades, volunteered, church, sports, and even got a college scholarship. Law school. Like many, Alissa’s successful outward appearance did not reflect how Alissa spent her life feeling unaccepted, stifled, and controlled by her parents. 

“My parents had an innate need to control me and everything that was going on. Especially through money. In college, I saw that the less they provided for me financially, the more control I had over my life.” For Alissa, attending school was a typical experience. Parties from Thursday through Sunday, then recovering during the week to get work done. Then, come Thursday, it was time to fade to black again. After graduating, Alissa’s peers were able to stop, and that’s where Alissa’s relationship with drinking began to spiral.

Rather than moving back in with her parents, she got an apartment. Although it wasn’t easy, she worked three jobs to make ends meet. “I knew that if I could be financially independent, I wouldn’t have to listen to what they say. So even to attend  law school, I took out loans, and I didn’t accept their help.” 

I’ve come to learn that the more I speak with women with addictions, no matter how different our lives can be, the more our stories remain the same. I had to stop and ask, “Did you ever have anything traumatic happen while in school?” Unfortunately, the answer was yes.

Photo by Charles Deluvio on Unsplash

Alissa went on to describe a common nightmare that sadly comes true for many women. “Yea, so I once went out with my professor and some classmates to see a show. Afterward, I went back with one of the guys in my class to have a drink and decide what we would do for the rest of the night. We were having drinks…and he put something in mine. He sexually assaulted me…I woke up at his house the next morning. Rule follower that I am, I reported the incident. I thought that I would get justice and went through this entire legal process, even had a jury trial over it. And he was found not guilty. I had to wait three years for the jury trial to happen just for him to walk free.” The lack of justice, the isolation, and the lack of support all left Alissa diving, turning more to alcohol to provide comfort. 

“So, how did your drinking change once you were practicing law full time?” I asked.  “Oh, that was an every night situation, but EVERYBODY did it. Everybody drank, and that’s just how it was. If I had a jury trial, that was the only time I tried to take a break. But we all showed up to district court hungover. If you saw a lawyer with a blue Gatorade, you knew someone was having a rough morning.” “So, did you know you had a problem yet?” I asked her. “I mean, sure, there were consequences I was experiencing with my friends. But if something embarrassing happened one weekend, by the next one, someone else had already done something worse that took the attention away from me,” she responded. 

What about getting married? Alissa vaguely remembered her boyfriend proposing to her. In describing her wedding, Alissa smirked as she shared, “Oh, I barely remember my wedding; it was nice, it was pretty, but I was so wasted,” she retorted. “I mean, in hindsight, we got married, but we had nothing in common.” Completely relatable. When I married my ex, I tried hard to drink just enough to get drunk but not blackout. I really wanted to remember my wedding. I remember some of it. 

It didn’t take long for Alissa to find what she didn’t see in her husband with someone else. The summer following her wedding, Alissa’s boss sent her along with her colleagues to a week-long conference for attorneys. She recalled the team working diligently throughout the days and drinking copious amounts of liquor every night, the daily venture to the store. The sharpest memory in her mind from that week, however, was Peter. 

Peter was another lawyer on staff, and though she never thought twice about him at work, they connected romantically on this trip. Their affair was quiet, exciting, and a secret to start, but it grew into more than just an affair; they fell in love. Yes, she was married, and yes, he was engaged. Eventually, time and emotions forced them out of the dark, and they decided to each leave their respective partners in pursuit of a life together.

At this point, I was predicting this as the classic affair gone wrong—the type where the woman leaves her husband for another, only to be abandoned by both. Nevertheless, Alissa interrupted my wandering thoughts and exclaimed, “I mean, I never would have done this crazy shit had I been sober! And guess what, Peter is my actual husband now, and we had a child.” She continued, “What is difficult for me is the fact that I do love Peter very much, and I am so happy for my daughter. So when I romanticize alcohol, it’s easy for me to want to credit my relationship with it for giving me the love of my life and my family,” Alissa continued. 

Alissa’s train of thought reminded me of someone who recently emphasized that it is okay to have conflicting emotions. Both can exist simultaneously. In Alissa’s case, yes, alcohol did nearly ruin her life, AND alcohol also gave her the things in her life that she loves. Both are her realities.

“And don’t get me wrong, getting with Peter was so hard, especially on my career. We worked together, and though he never experienced consequences, the other women at work hated me. I mean, I represented a woman’s worst nightmare…Imagine being engaged. Your fiance comes home and is like, ‘I’m leaving you. There is someone else, so we’re not getting married.’ That’s devastating, and not to mention women are already terrible to each other. I had to find somewhere else to work. My job was becoming a dead end. And by then, I was drinking so much on the weekends that my body wasn’t back to normal til mid-week. I needed a change. I was pacing, shaking, anxious. I was telling people that I was ‘just’ suffering from ‘anxiety.’ Peter drank a lot, too.” 

“So Alissa, being an attorney, how were you able to balance your drinking with all your responsibilities, like your paperwork?” Her answer was simple and a common one for many women. Alissa was a performer. She was incredibly talented at getting people out of jail. She had strong relationships with prosecutors, was highly respected, and had what she called “jail cred.” If someone was in police custody, Alissa was THE lawyer to represent them. While everything inside was disintegrating, and Alissa often slapped her paperwork together, she always hit the mark in court. 

“I would get my hand slapped about not having someone’s documents done completely, and I’d respond, ‘Well, tell that to Joe, who I just got off of a 35-year sentence, and you let me know if he gives two shits about his paperwork being right.’ That was enough to keep everyone’s mouth shut.” And so she carried on, arranging her drinking around her work.

Eventually, Alissa’s body started to show signs of alcohol abuse. An emergency room doctor noticed during an urgent visit visible damage to her esophagus. In her mind, Alissa knew that it was due to her drinking and was expecting to be chastised by the doctor only to hear, “well, you have a stressful job. Make sure to take care of yourself.” How many doctors notice a patient is drinking too much and avoid confronting them? I wondered. 

Though the ER doctor didn’t mention Alissa’s drinking, as soon as she described her visit to the hospital to her parents, her mother cautioned her of her grandfather’s drinking and how it led to esophageal problems. “I felt caught! But still, I told her she was out of line,” Alissa laughed. But, all jokes aside, the emergency room visit was enough to get her to stop drinking, for two months. 

Photo by The-Lore.com on Unsplash

Alissa picked up a drink once again, and things quickly spiraled. She hit a low she thought she couldn’t escape from and tried to find a solution in a bottle of Klonopin. Hoping to not wake up, she found herself in a haze in a psychiatric ward to discover she was on a 72-hour hold for her suicide attempt. Alissa smirked as she looked back on that incident, describing how she thought she could “lawyer” her way out of it. She felt confident she would leave until the physician on call informed her that the courts would be involved if she tried to go home. Immediately Alissa knew that meant one of her judge friends would see the case. She paused,  “Nevermind, I’m good!” She sulked back to her room and stayed quiet for the remainder of the psychiatric hold. At this time, though her parents pretended to ignore the fact that she had a failed suicide attempt,they insisted that she needed to stop drinking. Peter was also concerned, so Alissa joined Alcoholics Anonymous. 

“I was working the steps, and things were going well, getting sober was great. Peter proposed. But then, I started doing Step 9. I went to make amends to my mom, and when I asked her what I could do to make things right, she said to me, ‘Now that you’re sober, what you can do for me is promise me that you won’t have kids.’” 

My mouth dropped open, and I muttered, “wait, what?” Alissa responded, “Right, so as I’m sitting there devastated looking at my mother wide-eyed, I’m doing what my sponsor said to do and take notes of all the shit she said. So when I left her house, crushed, I called my sponsor. Her response was, ‘pray about it.’ 

“What the fuck was I supposed to pray about? ‘This is bullshit,’ I said, ‘this program sucks.’ So I quit AA. I used it as an excuse and went back and forth drinking. Then I got pregnant so I stopped for my pregnancy.” The birth of her daughter brought the family together for a brief time to celebrate this new life. 

But by her first Mother’s Day, Alissa relapsed.

Her relationship with AA was on and off for a while. She would go back and attend meetings regularly for a time, baby in tow. Still, having a child and drinking that was not yet under control also gave Alissa’s parents the ammo to exert the power they lost when Alissa gained financial independence. Her fight against her parents’ control and the program’s suggestions for managing that conflict both motivated Alissa to drink and to stop drinking. She drank to escape and didn’t drink to outwardly prove she was acceptable in her parents’ eyes. Alissa did have a short span of sobriety, and as things started to calm down, she was up for a significant promotion at work. But then she drank, along with Peter, complicating her life once again. 

During this binge, they drank for about four days. Alissa threatened to leave during a drunken argument, and when Peter took her phone to prevent her from going out, she, in her words, “hurt him badly.” I didn’t ask what that meant. Nonetheless, it was enough for her parents to come and take their daughter away. Alissa was immediately hospitalized for 28 days. 

Alissa’s parents’ involvement became overwhelming, and this time because of her daughter, she felt pressured to yield to every request. Everything they asked for, she did in fear of them calling child protective services. She tried everything, but she still couldn’t stay consistently sober. When her parents caught Alissa drinking, they would take her daughter for a few days until she appeared steady. “I mean, I wasn’t really sober, but I didn’t want to lose my daughter. At this time, she was showing some delays with speaking and walking, and my parents proceeded to blame me for her developmental concerns,” Alissa said. “How is she now?” I asked. She responded, “Oh, she runs around and talks a ton now.” So glad to hear that. 

Subsequently, Alissa relapsed for the last time. Her and her husband’s arguing escalated to the point that she ran to the neighbors’ house. Alissa claimed that Peter was abusing her, so the police came and arrested Peter. They sent Alissa to a nearby hospital for alcohol intoxication, where she blew almost a .4. After which, the hospital transferred her to a residential facility for 35 days. She barely spoke to her husband then. From jail, Peter also went to a different treatment center. The little communication time she had was for FaceTime with her daughter. 

“I mean, I didn’t love rehab, but I was starting to feel better and looked forward to getting out. Then one day, one of the therapists took me to her office. She opens the door, and there is a representative from child protection services there. I couldn’t’ believe it! My parents actually decided to try to take my daughter from me, and on top of that, my court date was the day I left treatment.” At the hearing, Alissa did agree to give her parents temporary custody. However, since then, her parents have fought with her regarding visitations and intentionally planning events to create scheduling conflicts. They purposely organized social activities with her siblings and daughter when Alissa couldn’t attend. As a result, Alissa’s parents alienated her from the family.

Photo by Yuris Alhumaydy on Unsplash

Despite this ongoing battle for her daughter and freedom from her parents that Alissa is in, she has stayed sober. She’s back in AA, and she’s accepted working with a sponsor. She doesn’t love the program, but it’s helping to keep her sober.

Alissa’s been sober since November of 2020, and her sobriety since has been anything but easy. “A lot is riding on me staying sober,” Alissa reflected. Peter got sober, too. Today, Alissa works her recovery program and works with a therapist. She exercises and stays busy. 

Alissa remarked as we wrapped up, “I feel like I was always trying so hard to get the approval and praise of my family. I got it from everywhere else but them. Now, look where we’re at. Now I realize and understand where my parents’ behaviors came from. It doesn’t make it easy, but it helps to understand.” It’s an uncomfortable truth to accept, but Alissa knows that moving forward, it’s going to take a lot of work, including staying sober. 

“I’m doing whatever it takes. I can’t lose my daughter.” 

Where I Was

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Recovery Stories, Written by Jessica
Audio

“I can’t post about my dating life! My dating life has nothing to do with my recovery,” I said. 

My friend Chris very quickly responded, “But your recovery is more than just you recovering from being an alcoholic. Your message of recovery is the life that you live now, so even if that includes a boyfriend, or whatever that is, that is your message of recovery. You’ve recovered from where you were. From the heartache, from the death of Ian…and you’re moving on with your life. That’s the testimony and that’s the recovery that you’re in. So you’re still portraying the same message. The message of wholeness, the message of happiness, the message of joy, the message of love, like all that’s prevalent. Everything that you post as far as your recovery does not have to be directly about alcohol or the stuff that you’ve dealt with. Having a new relationship is just as much recovery as well.” 

I never thought about it that way. 

I got anxious thinking about my fear of judgment because I’m “breaking” yet another one of the invisible “rules” of early sobriety. You know, “don’t do this…,” and, “don’t do that…,” and everything in between. esp

Suddenly it dawned on me that when I tried to follow invisible rules, attempting to didn’t get me sober. Accepting help from above and those around me, cutting myself loose from my secret, THAT is what helped me get and stay sober a day at a time to this point. 

My mentor often says, “you can do ANYTHING you want, as long as you’re sober. ANYTHING.” She’s definitely an admirable “rule-breaker” who has been sober for many years, so what she says is always something to really process. 

Anything, right? 

Well to that list of doing “anything” I want, I’ve added allowing my heart to mend. 

My heart has been touched by someone, actually. My hope is restored and crazy enough, I’m feeling again. I don’t know where this journey will take me, or what it may mean for my future, but what it does mean is that today I’m healing. 

We do recover from alcohol. We do recover from drugs.

And…we do recover from broken hearts. 

Better Than Using

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Guest Submissions, Recovery Stories

A Submission by Cosette DeCesare

Please note that Bottomless to Sober does not endorse any specific recovery program or path to recovery. Neither does it endorse meeting or not meeting in person during the pandemic.

My story is your story, and your story is mine. I see the value in sharing them. Actually, that’s an understatement; telling our stories, that’s the lifeblood of the recovery community. When we share our stories, we are participating in mutuality. Kertz Ketcham once discussed how we give by getting and we get by giving. Not a single part of my story has NOT already been told by the women who have gone before me. Like them, I too felt insecure and uncomfortable in my skin and used my drinking and drug use to cope. Like them, I, too, have trauma and relied on perfectionism to feel some semblance of control and appear put together. Like them, I, too, ultimately engaged in behavior that is morally reprehensible. 

On and on.

I regularly engaged in swaps, giving a piece of myself, of dignity, trust, or consent away to others when I was in no position to give these things away. I would give anything in exchange for whatever was going to give me that sweet, sweet buzz. People who don’t feel whole ought not to go about giving bits of themselves away. Alas, that is what we all do. What alcoholic/addict would know NOT to do this? We do not know what we do not know.

We can describe the myriad of chaos and endless examples of the insanity of the disease through our stories. Of all that we did to get that freeing feeling. Frankly, thank God for that relief. That reprieve is how I got to feel better, sometimes, back then. How could I progressively move through MY life feeling the way I did without the respite from the chaos and the insanity that being glazed provided?! Using became the only thing that provided me relief. And it did…until it didn’t.  

That anyone gets and stays sober is an absolute miracle. People do it. I did it. I’ve been clean and sober as of writing this for twelve years. That is a miracle.  

I needed drugs and alcohol to live. So when I stopped using them, I thought to myself, “I had better replace them with something that works, and it better feel good!” To both of these proposals, I say they do!

If sharing our stories is the lifeblood of recovery, then living recovery is spiritual oxygen. This oxygen can only be inhaled by the community. 

Saint Francis, the 12th-century mystic, taught that the antidote to confusion and paralysis is always a return to simplicity, to what is right in front of us, to the nakedly obvious (Rohr, 2020).

It’s simple. We need to stop using, but we need others to help us. In turn, we need to help others so that we stay “stopped.” As trite as this sounds, we must go to meetings, get into the literature of recovery, and not drink or use in between meetings. Only then can we hear what we need to learn. We will hear what we need to do when we are ready for it. But we won’t if we are not at meetings or in recovery literature.  

We live in an extraordinarily technologically advanced times. Options are infinite in terms of the recovery spaces and resources that exist today. I am not suggesting that the sheer magnitude of the amount of these offerings is a bad thing, hardly at all. Someone could get overwhelmed though looking for help. 

Photo by Misha Vrana on Unsplash

Psychological theories and self-Help books abound. Have you noticed how large that section of the book store is? It’s huge. There are many talking heads and experts. Treatment centers are everywhere. Podcasts and Youtube channels. However, these offerings would not exist without what has been called “the most significant phenomenon in the history of ideas in the 20th century” (Kurtz & Ketcham, 1992). This, of course, is the Twelve Step recovery program outlined in The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. Therefore, as St Francis encouraged, let us get back to simplicity and back to basics. Let’s get back to The Big Book.  

While returning to simplicity sounds just as it is, simple, it is in no way easy. What The Big Book offers takes time and work. This is difficult to accept in this instant gratification world we inhabit. The Big Book unequivocally emphasizes the absolute importance of community. Within the community of recovery, we become acquainted with ourselves by getting acquainted with others.

Cosette, provided by author

Thank God we live in this technologically advanced age where we can connect with others online. That said, I would be remiss if I did not pointedly suggest that our online community must be supplemented with actual in-person connection and regular study of the literature. It is in this space where that spiritual oxygen can be exchanged. If the space is not physically shared by individuals, how then can this essence be transmitted? It can’t. It is not lost on me that as I write this, the global community has been rocked by an airborne pandemic. We have been prohibited, by law in some cases, to come together in our fellowship. All the more important that we come together again when we can as soon as we can.

One may very successfully stay dry or clean solely utilizing what is available at their fingertips and without crossing the threshold of their home. However, one might be denying themselves the opportunity of a type of quality of sobriety which creates the ultimate motivation to no longer use drugs and alcohol. That is the development of emotional sobriety. And it is this emotional sobriety that feels good. It takes time to obtain, but it is possible, and it is there for the taking for anyone who has the capacity to be honest, and works for it.

You may contact Cosette directly at cosettedecesare@gmail.com.

You Don’t Know What You Don’t See: Ana’s Story

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Recovery Stories, Written by Jessica

**Please consult with a medical provider when seeking treatment for drug addiction.*

Audio

Life in active addiction is difficult. Getting sober can be nearly impossible for some, and a sober life does not necessarily equal an easy life. Ana’s story is full of countless challenges, lots of falls, and even more comebacks.

“Sobriety’s been a challenge, but I wouldn’t trade my life today for anything.”

Raised by her abusive mother. Ana’s childhood only increased in chaos as she grew. She described her mother as, “The older she got, the crazier she got. I mean, she caught herself on fire.” Yes, Ana meant this literally. “What about your dad, Ana?” Ana’s dad was primarily absent from her childhood. “My dad, I saw him a handful of times growing up. I always wanted to be with him, especially because my mother was constantly hurting us. She hurt us a lot. My dad had a wreck drinking and driving. He actually killed someone, so he went to prison.” Ana’s a fast talker and can get a lot out in a single breath, so she paused then continued, “There was always something that was causing me trauma, and I didn’t even know, I didn’t understand that it was happening to me. I didn’t understand any of it. I wasn’t allowed to kiss my mother, hug my mother, tell her I loved her. I just couldn’t find the love. I was a good kid. I wasn’t a bad kid.” 

“When I was 16, that’s when I found alcohol and drugs. My first drink felt like I could breathe. I felt that people cared about me. The people that did drugs and alcohol didn’t judge me. They didn’t make fun of how I looked. I fit right in.” Ana described how drugs and alcohol brought her the peace and comfort she yearned for since early childhood. Her life was really chaotic and confusing, so for her to escape was bliss. I assumed that since her mother had been so abusive, that her doing drugs would have only brought on more chaos at home.  

“How was your relationship with your mother now that you were older and she found out that you were doing drugs?” Ana chuckled, “At that time we started using together, it brought the relationship to a different level. I finally had something she wanted, she started to be nice to me, it was good. She started liking my friends, too. She just was easier to be around.” 

This new bond didn’t last long. One day her mother had Ana drive up to her mother’s boyfriend’s house. As she got out of the car, she turned to Ana and said in a harsh yet hushed tone, “don’t get out of the car, don’t say anything, and shut your mouth,” Ana recalled. Her mother went into the house and rushed out shortly after, taking Ana straight home. Ana’s mom had just robbed her own boyfriend. As they heard a call pull up, the boyfriend’s car, they went and hid in the back. Ana recalled watching the car slowly pull into the driveway and pausing. They held still, watching him. Steadily, he put the car in reverse and backed away, driving off as he had come in. Had he gone a “hair further,” he would have seen them. 

Photo by David Monje on Unsplash

Once he was gone, her mother went through the house, ransacking it, searching for all the drugs in the home, including what she stole, making sure not to leave a fraction of an ounce of weed, and balancing the beer that remained in the fridge. She walked out. They didn’t see her again for about four months, 

“So you must have been devastated, right?” I asked. 

Wrong.

Ana and her sister, ages 16 and 14, respectively, were alone for a week. The “wicked witch was gone.” So they partied, had friends over, they were distracting themselves. Yes, they thought about their mother, they wondered where she went, but they also felt relief. No one was in the house who could hurt them. Shortly after her mother’s departure, the family got involved. It happened to be that her father was wrapping up his prison sentence. As soon as he got out, he pulled the girls out of school to live with him and his girlfriend, her two kids, plus the additional two kids who would come over every other weekend. Eight people in a one-bedroom apartment. It was tight, but her father eventually got them into a house where they had room to stretch. With her mother gone and her father back in the picture, Ana looked forward to having a dad around. The time lost while he was away now could be made up. Hope filled Ana’s heart as she started this new life with her father. 

She said, “I wanted my dad my entire life. But when I finally got my dad, I didn’t have my dad at all. He was focused on his girlfriend and her sons. All the strangers were getting the affection. So one day, I came home high on weed. Then he called the police on me! They didn’t do anything, so I did it again. I was so angry. All these years, you abandoned me, and you hadn’t been around. And now I’m still not good enough.” Things weren’t any better at her new high school either.  “I had been to ten schools, and that was the worst school I had ever been in.” As a teacher, I’ve seen my fair share of parents who would come to school and raise hell if they suspected their daughter was being bullied. Instead, her father pulled her out of school senior year. “I didn’t get to go to prom, walk at graduation, participate in any senior trips. Instead, I spent my senior year in a treatment facility.” 

Like Sara, despite being the youngest in the facility, Ana adjusted fairly well, but she was furious and felt betrayed. “I didn’t need to be around strangers; I needed someone to show me that they cared, but he just sent me there. I didn’t get a yearbook when I was 17. I got a Big Book. I got a Big Book with everyone’s signatures.” When her time in treatment was up at age 18, Ana prepared to go back home only to find that her stepmother was sending her to another facility instead of letting her come back into the home. At this point, Ana’s mother had reappeared. She also had gone to treatment herself. When Ana was getting transferred to the new facility, she escaped and hid from the police dispatched to find her.  “I walked in the snow, knocking door to door, hoping someone would let me in so I could avoid the cops.” No one let her in, but Ana did eventually get a hold of her mother. Her mom had a place to stay, so she let Ana stay with her. Though they each had just completed treatment programs, they didn’t stay clean. Ana didn’t live with her mother for long either. 

The next years of her life were a blur. “I don’t remember what happened, I just know that shit happened, and it was all bad.” Her drug use got worse, crack, homelessness, moving around to different cities hoping to get her life together. 

She lucked out when her aunt gave her a chance, and she moved into an apartment with her cousin in a new city. She was grateful. Her drug use slowed down as a result, which was positive,  but her drinking continued and along with it, so did her depression. One day, on her birthday, she hit a low point. 

Ana attempted suicide. 

In the hours leading to the attempt, Ana went out drinking for her birthday, hoping to find someone to spend the night with. She had the apartment to herself as her cousin was away on a camping trip. When she didn’t connect with anyone, she came home drunk, upset, rejected. Two dozen bright red roses were sitting still, waiting for her when she arrived. They were a gift from her sister. 

Ana snapped. She scrambled around the apartment, looking for anything with a sharp edge.  Razors, knives, whatever she thought would cut her flesh. She laid in bed preparing to rip at her wrists when the doorknob rattled. She heard the door squeak and then a shriek. Her cousin had walked in. Seeing Ana lying with the blade against her wrist, her cousin leaped onto the bed. When she landed, her cousin felt a poke and ripped the sheet up off of Ana, revealing every sharp tool in the apartment laid around her. She called 911, and Ana went straight to the hospital again.

“I was pissed. I always wanted to D-I-E,” she spelled out the word die, being mindful of her son possibly being within earshot as she spoke. “I felt horrible, I wanted to die, and no one even let me try. I would pray to God, I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be here anymore. I have always asked God since I was a kid. I never had any love, no kindness. I couldn’t take it. I just didn’t want to keep going through life. It was too overwhelming and hard.” 

After her suicide attempt in the apartment, Ana’s aunt didn’t allow her to return. Ana eventually ended up back home and moved in with a friend. She did find her way back to drugs, but this time not for long.

When she moved in, she met John, “the boy next door.” He later became her husband. Ana had a habit of attracting younger men, so throughout our conversation, she occasionally referred to them as “boys.” Her connection with John filled a void for Ana, and she found herself willing to give up everything for him. The drugs, the alcohol, even cigarettes. “Those were the rules that I wanted him to live by, and I was willing to do the same. He was okay with it! He chose me! He gave up all of his comforts with his family for the sake of being with me; I felt loved.” 

For the duration of her marriage, about six years, Ana didn’t touch alcohol or drugs. Toward the end of their relationship, she started stealing his grandmother’s prescriptions. Though the pill use appeared minor at the time, this was a slip that would lead to an eventual landslide. When they divorced, Ana was happy to move on. In her married years, she did well for herself and was ready to be an independent single woman. Outside of those few pills she was sneaking, everything was great.

Ana was recently divorced and 30 when she met up with some friends at a festival. She hadn’t had a drink in seven years, and her friends were excited to taste wine. Ana said, “I thought to myself, I’m grown, I’m a woman now. I know right from wrong. I mean, I drive a Mercedes. Certainly, I’m not going to drink and drive in a Mercedes! I had become sophisticated!”

On day one of drinking after seven dry years, she went straight from tasting wine to pounding drinks at a bar past 2 in the morning. Shortly after, drugs came right back into the picture.

So much of what Ana gained in those seven years that she was sober, vanished, or was at risk of being ruined. Nothing in Ana’s life was steady except for the hold of drugs and alcohol on her. 

During an attempt to get sober in 2015, Ana moved into a halfway house and met a “boy.” He was eleven years younger than her and was barely a few months sober. Things moved quickly. It was August, they met. October came, and they moved in together. Come November Ana’s pregnant. By the end of the year, Eddie relapsed and left town after he robbed a local heroin dealer. 

Ana was alone briefly, but she followed after Eddie because “I wanted my baby hell or high water to have a mom AND a dad there.” Eddie couldn’t stay out of jail, nor could he stay sober. Once Bryson was born, Ana couldn’t stay sober either. In the years that followed, there were attempts at getting clean. They tried to get it together. They moved cities, looked for different environments, but no matter where they went, they couldn’t escape their addiction. 

The following years consisted of breakups, attempts to get sober, broken promises, and increasingly worse drug use. Then things took a turn for the worse. 

Photo by Michael Jin on Unsplash

They pulled in from having bought some spice. They looked at their money. In front of them were only five one-dollar bills. They looked at each other. They knew what to do. Sure they had just come from buying the drugs, but why not be efficient and get the five dollars’ worth NOW so that they wouldn’t have to turn around and worry about it later? 

The last thing that Ana remembered was putting the car in reverse. 

She opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by white smoke. It was choking her. Her entire body was throbbing. She didn’t realize where she was until she looked up, and as she focused her eyes, a tree came into view as the smoke cleared. Ana had swerved into oncoming traffic, crossed four lanes, and crashed into a tree on the side of the road. Eddie was in the car with her. 

So was their son. 

I figured this is the part of the story where the arrest happens. “So, did you get arrested there?” I asked. “No, I woke up real quick. I made up this whole story about how I had to swerve to avoid someone who looked like they were on the phone, and so to avoid hitting that driver, I said that I lost control of my car. They believed me: no ticket, no arrest, nothing. I didn’t even have insurance or any papers for the car. Nobody was even hurt, but I took that as a sign, and I left Eddie again.”

Though she was briefly clean, Ana connected with another “boy” with who she had gone to elementary school, Jason. She obsessed over him for a year, and after much anticipation, upon meeting, she immediately felt something. She said, “Something was not right, I thought, ‘Jason’s probably not sober.’” She continued to describe the moment, “It was something about the way his head was cocked to the side, oh, and he asked me for money, too. I knew I shouldn’t have talked to him, Jessica. The problem with me is that it never matters. If I want something, I’m gonna get something. I just don’t care.” 

“He was a heroin user, and at this point, I was no longer scared of the high. I wanted to know exactly what everyone was talking about. He didn’t want me to try it, so I told him that either he get me heroin and would help me use it, or I was going to go out there, find it myself and probably die trying because I wouldn’t do it right. I told him, ‘I’ll die, and it’ll be on your conscience.’ That was enough to have him get me the heroin.” From then on, they used heroin together, always in secret. It was fun at first, she said. “I was high all the time. I pretended to be a mom, I pretended to be present, but I was high all the time.”  The one thing she didn’t do was put a needle in her arm. She only snorted it. “I was almost at the point of shooting up, but then my mom died, and that changed everything.”

Ana was going to her mother’s house one day with her son, she was heading to work, and her mother was going to babysit. “I don’t know what happened to her, I walked in with my kid, and she was dead on the floor. I think when my momma went to Heaven, she found out what I was doing and shifted things, so I had to stop heroin.” 

Ana had not experienced “dope sickness” because she never ran out of heroin. Then one day, the “jump out boys” got her and Jason. She started to explain, “The police officer came to my car.”  At that moment, I thought,  “Oh, okay, so THIS is the part of her story where she gets arrested.”

I was still wrong. She got off with a warning, but she had to give all of the drugs she had over to the police officer. She described the moment saying, “I said, ‘Here you go sir, I’m sorry.’ And he let me go. Then, as soon as he walked away, it hit me that not once in my life did I ever have to go get drugs.” Finding heroin was practically impossible, it seemed. People would sell her fake drugs. It got bad enough that she had to find a former sponsee who had also relapsed to get her drugs. Eventually, Ana grew tired of the struggle. She decided that she needed to get off of heroin, and she left Jason.

“Did you go to treatment to get off heroin?” I asked.

“No, I smoked meth for four days.” She responded.

For four days, she stayed in the bathroom, using meth to help her get through the dope sickness that heroin withdrawal brought on. All the while, her son was home. “I made sure to check on him, feed him, leave him, and go retreat into the bathroom to stay high in there. I made sure he ate, he had a toy, the TV on, anything to keep him entertained while I hid in the bathroom.” 

When she learned what long-term meth use does, she freaked out and got sober. Again.

Then Eddie called.

Just like before, he came with promises, waving the white flag of so-called sobriety, that he was “just” using CBD. Curious, Ana tried some when he offered. As soon as she hit the pipe, she felt the smoke flow into her lungs, and suddenly her heart sank. It wasn’t CBD. It was THC. 

They were driving, and when Eddie saw her face overcome with worry, laughing, he said, “Let’s make a stopover at this house. We need to pick up something.” Angrily, she cried as they picked up drugs. She cried as she watched him go mad in her house, taking things apart, being obsessive, being compulsive. He had to leave.

Eddie finally left, and Ana felt she needed to take the edge off and drink, so she picked up two wine bottles. She uncorked one, sipped some, and as she felt the buzz start, she realized, “I don’t want to do this.” She opened the other wine bottle, and she poured all she had left down the sink. This was on July 18, 2019. “I pray to God that was the last time I picked up a white chip.”

So, how has Ana stayed sober ever since?

“I have stayed away from men. My thinker doesn’t work when I’m around them. I only have made bad decisions. I decided to focus only on my recovery.” Then she paused. “But things changed recently,” she said.

“Mark, a family friend who was going through a divorce, started reaching out. For months I refused each invite to dinner, to a movie, to a walk.” Then one day, after a long work week, she agreed to go to a movie. “From there, it was perfect. We connected on a deeper level than any I felt before. He told me he would take care of me, of my son, that he wanted to have a baby with me. He even told my father. I thought to myself, ‘I’ve been patient, I’m finally gonna get something good!’” As Ana spoke, her voice picked up an enthusiastic note. I even got excited for her. I thought, “Yes! She’s been so patient, now she’s getting the love she’s been waiting for!” 

Her tone changed. “Then one day, I get a call at work.” I cringed and immediately braced myself, “Oh God,” I thought.

“He told me to come and get my things, that his wife was coming back. That he didn’t love me anymore, that he loves his wife. I didn’t have anywhere safe to go, my roommate had relapsed, and I couldn’t go back there with my son. So I stayed with a friend in the program.”

This all happened three weeks before we met. Thankfully Ana did just find a home recently, so she now has a safe space for her son. “It’s the most beautiful home I’ve ever lived in. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before.”  

Despite this heartbreak, Ana stayed sober. She maintained optimism and was ready to move on and not let this set her back. Yes, she was hurt and reeling from the shock, but she was grateful to have a home and be safe. 

Then she started to feel sick. 

She felt different, so she took a pregnancy test. 

It was positive. She took more. Each one was positive. 

“Mark called me, telling me to meet him at the clinic to get rid of it. I’ve done too much in my life to go get an abortion. I told him to get fucked and hung up.” For days he persisted, calling her phone, calling her at work. “I told him not to worry, I don’t want him. This isn’t a trap. I’m a grown woman. I made my bed, I’m going to lie in it and take care of my kid. So that’s where I’m at.” Ana spoke firmly with strong resolve.

“So, how are you feeling now?” I asked her. “Well, I’ve never made it to two years while trying to be in recovery on my own. The fact that I have a baby inside me makes me feel hopeful that I will make it. So far, I have a good history of not doing drugs while pregnant, so I think I’ll make it.” She laughed. “This baby is a blessing. This baby has saved my life.” 

The baby is due in October of 2021. “Mark’s tried to deny that it’s his, but he’s just in denial. He begged for this baby for two months, and now he’s trying to deny it. I can’t WAIT to meet my baby. I have all the love to give this baby that I didn’t get.”

So a few wrap-up questions. “Where’s Eddie?” I asked. He’s in prison. Though Ana knows they won’t have the family she once dreamed of, she prays for him.  She wants her son to have his father. “I’m scared for Eddie. He’s not using when he’s in there. When people sober up for a while, and then they go shooting up, it’s too strong for them, and they’re dying. I want my son to have his father. I don’t want Eddie to die when he gets out.” Ana’s right. That is too often a common story in recent years. 

What’s next for Ana? “Well, I never got to finish music school when I was younger, but one thing that I will be doing is offering voice lessons. I can’t wait. I’m really excited to do that here in the next few months. I’m working on a book. I have a lot of goals. I’m really taking care of myself this time. I’m not letting my sorrow, my emotions, or my pain get the best of me. I cope differently today. I don’t cope with a bottle, a pill, or heroin. I cope with serenity, with God, with my support group, with music, with walking. Anything and everything, without putting some shit in my body. I refuse it. I’m definitely not above it though, when this break-up first happened, I was really close to getting myself a bottle, but thank God. Today, I think everything through. I think, think, think. I think about my life and how I will go right back to where I was if I put anything in my body. I just can’t. I’ve got two kids to think about now. I’ve got a future that I want to have.”

Photo by Nadine Shaabana on Unsplash

What about work? Actually, Ana’s been a nurse for 12 years. She completed college and nursing school during those different periods of sobriety she’s had throughout the years. Did I intentionally leave out the fact that she’s a nurse? Maybe, but to be honest, her line of work never came up in the conversation until the end. Ana is and has always been a professional. A mother. Addiction doesn’t target any specific group of people. A disease is a disease, and it manifests in the same way regardless of the host. So be mindful in your daily interactions with others because you don’t know what you don’t see. 

My Last Dance

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Guest Submissions, Recovery Stories
Audio

Anonymous Submission

**If you are addicted to alcohol, please seek medical advice when considering your options to quit.**

Or Should I Say, My Latest Dance?

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

I’m now two months sober. But I’ve been through this too many times to say with even a shred of believable confidence that I won’t slip up again. Don’t get me wrong. I want this sobriety. I wanted it with equal sincerity every time in the past, too. 

What did my last day of drinking look like? It was January 6, the day of the insurrection in the US. My quitting on that date was merely a coincidence. Rather handy, though, as I’ve never previously taken note of my last day.

My quitting didn’t come on the heels of a big epiphany. You see, I couldn’t go cold turkey. I was so interminably dependent upon alcohol that even after I knew to my bones that I could no longer drink, I had to continue to do so to prevent myself from dying from the withdrawal. I had to agonizingly cut back for weeks before I could cease entirely, which felt like sharing a bed with someone I knew wanted to kill me.

What My Alcoholism Looked Like Before I Quit

In a nutshell, I drank around the clock. I no longer drank for pleasure. I drank for relief from the agony of withdrawal, which would rear its head after barely more than an hour or two without alcohol.

I’d wake up in the middle of the night with what felt every bit like a panic attack – heart racing, an inability to catch my breath, sweating so much that my sheets adhered to my skin. I’d reach for the bottle I kept next to my bed and swallow and swallow until I’d get pulled under.

Middle of the night drinking would only last until 6am at best, when it was time to take another drag. If I didn’t drink in the wee hours, by the time the morning was to start, I’d be shaking so hard that I could no longer hold a glass at all, not even be able to use a straw, could barely walk for the shaking. Even after a drink, when the liquid heat would steady my tremor, I still needed two hands to hold a drink to my mouth. And so, when most people are listening for the first birds of the day, I was filling up on liquor.

Repeat at around 9am, before noon, middle of the afternoon, before dinnertime, after dinnertime, around 11pm, again closer to 1am until one day bleeds into the next.

I could maintain short bouts of consciousness when work needed my attention, cooking for my family, most of all for my trips to resupply. Other than that, my eyes would slide shut with the force of iron doors. I was horizontal for most hours of most days.

Photo by Anshu A on Unsplash

I was going through 3 handles of hard alcohol about every 4-4.5 days, no fewer than 24 units of alcohol per day, sometimes as much as 30.

Physical Symptoms that Were New During This Period of Extreme Dependence

Not only did I no longer have any quality of life, I could absolutely feel my body shutting down. Even when fully dosed, I still shook enough that it was hard to conceal. If I started to withdraw, the shaking was so out of control that you couldn’t put a drink in my hands without the entirety of its contents flying out of the glass like a volcano erupting. My hands weren’t the only thing shaking. I shook from my core, my whole body, out of control. The feeling was miserable and felt like it arose from a place of anxious compulsion, not like the neutral shivers of being too cold. My tremors were tinged with a metallic unease.

Both malnutrition and problems within my brain led to terrible problems with balance and walking, a problem much deeper and more complex than the drunken stumbling depicted in movies. The shaking met with muscle weakness and brain distortions to make me completely unsure on my own legs. I could no longer safely manage stairs. I couldn’t walk for any distance without support. Additionally, my depth perception was impaired, and my eyesight was blurred.

Standing for more than a few minutes at a time was impossible. Before long, I’d grow so tired that I’d have to lean over for support, gasping for breath. More times than I could count, I ended up sinking to the floor in a puddle of tears, unable to stand. Even sitting was out of the question, for the most part.

I’d started having tingling in my hands leading partway up to my elbows. My lips were also fuzzy with the prickles of tingling. My tongue was so raw from the alcohol that it burned 24 hours every day.

The drinking stole away my eyesight quickly. I could no longer see or read at all without my glasses, and words were often out of reach even with them. Between my eyes and my shaking, it was hard to communicate with anyone via messages. Even the simplest sentence would take a ridiculous effort to type.

The alcohol had left my nervous system too tightly wound. Even the smallest movement or sound, from the ding of a new message to a reflection in my glasses, would make me jump.

The swelling above my beltline had become painfully obvious as even my elastic-banded pants became too tight. When standing, I could feel my liver pressing up on my lungs, making it hard to breathe.

My sense of smell became perverted. Most everything smelled horrible. Especially food, but my clothing and bed sheets were not excluded. I also experienced phantom smells. The trouble with my sense of smell combined with a lack of appetite meant that I’d go days at a time without eating. Even when I tried, my throat would reject food. It would also reject water. My desire to drink enough alcohol to keep the withdrawal symptoms at bay and my constantly passing out meant that there were some days when I’d not even drink a whole glass of water.

It was entirely and abundantly clear that I’d succeeded in poisoning myself, and my body was disintegrating.

How I Quit On My Own

Both because of my mother’s alcoholism and my own experience, I knew that a person dependent upon alcohol cannot safely go cold turkey (and I know of no professional who would advise doing this without medical supervision). Withdrawing from alcohol is incredibly dangerous, and potentially deadly.

Even though I knew it was explicitly killing me, I was equally well aware that I couldn’t just pour my supply down the drain and count my first day. I had to taper slowly and gently, all while enduring the grinding symptoms of withdrawal.

At first, I drank on the same schedule, as often as needed, but I’d only allow myself enough to ease the withdrawal symptoms. Instead of gulping until I’d pass out, I’d take deliberate drinks, then observe, drink and observe. This meant experiencing more shakes than I was comfortable with, and also more time awake with symptoms. This period lasted about a week.

The next step was to start to increase the length of the intervals between drinks. At first, only a little bit. Then, I’d stretch it an hour beyond comfort before allowing myself enough alcohol to relieve my symptoms.

I can remember how it felt like I’d made a big step when I “only” drank six times per day, and still in the middle of the night and first thing in the morning. Eventually, I moved down to four times per day.

Photo by Angel Luciano on Unsplash

The first time I went a whole overnight without drinking was another milestone.

Nearer to the end, I’d only drink after 5pm. And finally, only at bedtime. The last night, January 6th, I had just one drink before bed. 

I felt no joy. I felt no pride. There were no balloons. I may have starved it of energy and attention, but my alcoholism, my monster, is still waiting quietly for me in the shadows. It is as patient as time.

Find more writing by this author here

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It Can’t Just Be Me: Life With Alcoholic Liver Disease

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Recovery Stories, Written by Jessica
Audio

In her segment, “Sharp, ‘Off The Charts’ Rise In Alcoholic Liver Disease Among Young Women,” Yuki Noguchi discusses the implications of statistics that capture the increasing rates of alcoholic liver disease among young people, especially women. 

Reading the article, then listening to my voice back from April 2020, full of almost innocent-like hope, was so incredibly painful. 

Flashbacks are real. 

Anyway, I decided to expound on the experience of having had alcoholic liver disease. Statistics and numbers are great for envisioning the number of incidents, but they don’t paint a picture of what it’s like. My intention with this piece is to capture a sliver of how terrible ALD is. I also want to clarify that though I felt horrible, I had it fairly “easy” because I stopped drinking. My liver healed.  

Carolyn, Susan’s daughter, also had alcoholic liver disease, and she passed away in January. (See, “In Memory of Carolyn.”)

The summer leading up to my decision to start my recovery process was dreadful. In August of 2019 I drank at least a fifth of alcohol a day, around 17-20 drinks, in ONE day. I was POISONING MYSELF because I hated everything about existing. I perceived having no purpose because it was summer and I wasn’t accountable to anything or anyone. It was the perfect opportunity for me to isolate myself in my then-apartment. I had no commitments except to the bottles I nursed from when I woke up, until the moment I passed out, over and over and over again. I woke up, felt sick, drank, fell asleep to forget how sick I was feeling, rinse, cycle, repeat. 

Then one day, I had a doctor’s appointment. 

I remember being at the doctor’s office shaking, sweating, hoping I didn’t smell like liquor from drinking the night before. I tried drinking as much water as I could stomach that morning, knowing that it felt horrible to drink, well horrible to drink water, let me clarify. I hid my hands in my pockets to hide tremors. Then I felt the tremors in my neck and my head, my brain twitched, “Am I about to have a seizure?” Every single part of my body was aching or shaking. I just wanted to go home to snuggle up under the covers with my bottle in hand. While in the waiting room, I looked down at my feet. My sandal straps were cutting into them they were so swollen. I looked up instead. My eyes hurt. I remembered they were starting to get a very slight hint of yellow, so I grabbed my glasses from my purse and put them on to distract the doctor and nurse from looking right into my eyes. 

Signs of ALD in 2019

On that morning like many others, I couldn’t stop hacking. The fits were uncontrollable, and my ribs were so bruised that the few moments I could laugh in those times, I wouldn’t. I coughed up slimy green acidic bile, retching over whatever sink or toilet was near me until I could get to a drink. When I was off, I soothed my violent nausea in the mornings with whatever splashes of cheap bourbon remained in bottles I picked up off the floor around my bed or bathroom. When I gripped a bottle, I braced myself, anticipating the horrible taste and burn. It was fire down my throat, I burned while waiting for the temporary relief. The nausea stopped. The shaking subsided. Gasping, gripping the vanity in fear of falling over, I would look up in the mirror with liquor dripping out of the side of my mouth. I would look at and not recognize the woman looking back at me. I saw the unusual weight loss, random bruises, the dark circles. Cracked lips. A plump aching belly with no baby in it. I was transforming. I was imploding. 

I was fearful of getting on my phone to check my lab results. I didn’t want to think that I would be like my cousin, who died after bleeding out from a simple procedure because she could no longer heal. When I got the blood results back, however, I accepted my dark fate. I got a note from the doctor saying that I had alcoholic hepatitis. If what you see in the screenshot is something you would even want to consider a note. With no explanation from my doctor as to what numbers meant what, I spent quite a bit of time doing research.

2019 Lab Results

My AST/SGOT was 429, a standard range is 15-46 U/L. What did this mean? According to the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, “AST/SGOT is one of the two liver enzymes. When liver cells are damaged, AST leaks out into the bloodstream and the level of AST in the blood becomes elevated. AST is different from ALT because AST is found in parts of the body other than the liver–including the heart, kidneys, muscles, and brain. When cells in any of those parts of the body are damaged, AST can be elevated.” And my ALT? It was 9 times the normal range. It was 160. That normal range was supposed to be 13-69. “ALT, is one of the two liver enzymes. When liver cells are damaged, ALT leaks out into the bloodstream, and the level of ALT in the blood is elevated.” My bilirubin was 1.8 when normal ranges are 0.2-1.3, so that was another indicator of my poor liver function. 

2019 Lab Result “Interpretation”

At that point, I was terrified because I understood that I had to stop, but I was afraid to ask for help without letting my secret out. I knew I needed alcohol to not feel ill but the idea of putting the bottle down terrified me. In my previous experience with getting sober in 2013, I simply stopped drinking, that shit wasn’t going to wrok this time. This time, it was different. I had been alone for what had been almost two months, and I just wanted to stay hidden in my apartment and forget this was even a problem. I wanted to disappear silently. Maybe one day I would fall asleep and not wake up, no one would notice, right?

The physical symptoms very quickly turned into psychological ones. I started to feel crippling anxiety and minor hallucinations. I noticed I would hear and see flashes of things that no one else saw. It got worse when I had to go back to work. Going back to school, I was forced to modify my drinking because I had to make it to the school building alive and barely sober. The daily withdrawal symptoms led to the worst school days. My only safe space, my classroom, riddled me with fear and panic. The sound of a notebook falling, a chair squeaking too hard, a child’s laughter, all those sounds terrorized me. They made my stomach drop each time. My coughing fits got so bad the kids thought I was having an asthma attack. I carried an asthma pump to “explain” the coughing. I knew what was going on. When your liver stops working, the fluids that should be leaving your body don’t, so they find other places to settle. In my case, it was my feet, ankles, and my lungs. It’s a miracle I didn’t get pneumonia. 

It wasn’t long before the panic, anxiety, and illness brought me to my knees. 

One morning in September of 2019, I couldn’t get out of bed to drive to work. I was terrified of walking out the door. I couldn’t go to work. I knew something had to give when I couldn’t go to the one place I loved the most. The only people I told that I was going to a hospital to were my principal and my sister. Neither knew I went in for my drinking. I blamed it on depression and anxiety. The rest is history, but I don’t know how I functioned when reflecting on those times. 

I don’t know how I functioned so SUCCESSFULLY. 

I stop sometimes and think, “What the hell?!” The only explanation I can think of is the power of the mind and its determination. A mind fueled by shame and guilt is profoundly capable of massive feats to put up appearances. I was killing myself, and yet I was showing up.

So yes, all these conversations about women and their dangerous relationships with alcohol need to happen, and I’m SO grateful that they are. I can only speak from my experience, but I will say a million times, it can’t just be me. The more we have these conversations, the more people we’ll have come forward saying, “You know what, I’ve got that problem, too.” 

My Journey Through Cancer and Addiction

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Guest Submissions, Recovery Stories

Submission by Victoria English Martin

Audio of the story

Triple-negative breast cancer stripped me of my armor: hair, uterus, and breasts. But eight months out of treatment on New Year’s Eve 2019, I was determined: 2020 would be my year! 

Photo by National Cancer Institute on Unsplash

I welcomed the New Year at home, in bed, actually. I was recovering from my final surgery. My three daughters were healthy and stable, and my 21-year-old son was finally sober. He was thriving in college. 

Getting cancer both required me and inspired me to stop drowning my feelings in alcohol. Going through cancer treatment, I had to develop a new set of coping skills. I faced the trauma and the disappointments of my new reality. I acknowledged the hurt, anger, and fear I had. I learned how to live life on life’s terms. 

That New Year’s Eve, I was approaching one year of solid alcohol-free living. I was getting my hair done at that point in life, wearing cute outfits. I even started a podcast. The cluster*&%$ was over. 

But by March 2020, instead of looking stylish, instead of building my career, instead of traveling to see my kids, I was doing quite the opposite. I found myself in ratty sweatpants, baking banana bread, and staring at three-inch-long salt and pepper roots. COVID-19 forced the world to pause. We had to sit still, examine our relationships with others and ourselves, and cope with a new way of life. We were either suddenly all things to all people or left in absolute isolation and loneliness. If you’re reading this, you know these scenes because you lived them. Maybe you still are. 

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

My therapist told me that her clients who had been through cancer and addiction were dealing with quarantine much better than those who had not. Perhaps it was because although everyone has experienced challenges, not everyone has had to face a life-threatening crisis head-on. Many individuals lack the tools necessary for managing financial challenges such as caring for ailing parents, one’s own illness, or career uncertainty. Experiencing hurdles like these for the first time, these uncertain and uncomfortable circumstances turned more people into maladaptive behaviors. Drinking and doing drugs became a simple solution. I noticed the marked increases in alcohol sales, domestic violence, overdoses, and suicides. The universe told me it was time to share my secret. 

My drinking had been in the closet. Literally. I drank in the closet, so nobody would know I had a problem coping with this disaster. Seeing the impact of COVID-19 on society propelled me to come out of my own closet and share my story. A year ago, if you had told me I would go public with my addiction, I would have laughed in your face. However, a year ago, we would have all laughed if a psychic had told us that this, this is how life would look today. 

My drinking did not land me at “rock bottom,” but it made me sick. It made me sad. It wasn’t serving me any useful purpose. Today, I run into people who I know feel the same shame I used to feel. They persist in hiding their precarious relationship with alcohol and drugs from friends, family, and frankly, even themselves. I did, too. I get it. They are not alone. 

You are not alone. 

Since the start of the pandemic, a growing number of people drink and use to cope. If people like me don’t come forward, the stigma and the impact of maladaptive drinking or drug use will always prevent us from living our best life. 

Today, my closet? It has become my office, a safe space where I record my podcast, “After the Crisis.” I share my story, talk to people who have overcome serious life challenges, converse with experts, all while offering healthy coping strategies to others on their journeys. 

Photo by Matt Botsford on Unsplash

Before I revealed my secret, I was a highly efficient mom of four, an active PTA member, and was deathly fearful of exposing my weaknesses. After sharing my story, people came forward to admit they were struggling just as much as I was. They confessed to having had uncomfortable relationships with alcohol and asked for help. 

Now, I have unmasked the real Victoria English Martin. She has bad moments, bad days, and even bad weeks, but nothing compares to those wretched days when she sought solutions at the bottom of a wine bottle. Today’s she’s free.

2021, I’m ready for you. 

Contact Victoria at victoria@afterthecrisiscoaching.com

99 Days

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Recovery Stories, Written by Jessica

I got 99 days but I’ve really got just one. 

I couldn’t help but be corny, but today’s a big deal. If all goes well, it’ll be the last time I’ll ever be 99 days sober. If it doesn’t and I spiral entirely out of control to a certain dark fate, it will still be my last time being 99 days sober. If I fall and bounce back, then hopefully, I’d make it back to 99 days. At this very moment, all that matters is now.

Just about the same thing that I wrote, in case you don’t feel like reading.

I finished an interview about a month ago with Vic Vela from Colorado Public Radio for his show Back from Broken. We checked in this weekend, and I shared how I’ve managed to stay sober for this many days in a row. 

Immediately I thought of the generic response, “Well, you know, I follow the steps, I follow suggestions, I go to meetings, etc.” Not to say I don’t do those things, because I certainly do. They are a critical part of my toolbox along with accepting that I need medication and therapy.

However, the biggest thing that I’ve picked up on is my writing. Being sober makes it pretty easy to string a couple of sentences together coherently. It turns out that many feelings (especially my grief which triggered me nonstop) that I was always trying to suppress now have a way out. It’s either through pen to paper or by hitting that keyboard. A part of this writing is a part of my program,  a part of it is trying to capture others’ stories, and a lot of it is also just letting everything inside me out. No matter what, it just feels really good. It’s a great distraction, and I’m finding joy today in what I create rather than seeking joy grasping onto the external.

Clips from The Lost Weekend.
Clearly time doesn’t change addiction.

Oh, and a random thought worth sharing. I watched this old 1940’s film, The Lost Weekend, after a friend recommended it. I’ve experienced near end-stage alcoholism through my own eyes. However, I’ve never seen what it looks like from the outside to be nearly dying and to feel ready for it because every waking moment is a nightmare physically and emotionally. I’ve always known what it felt like, but not what it looks like. It’s terrifying, and I hate that several people I love had to see me like that, but I’m grateful not to be there today.

I pray I’m not there tomorrow, and that’s why I say I just have today. The 98 days before today are gone, they’ve vanished. Tomorrow’s not here. If it comes, however, it will be day 100 and that’s a nice number.  I do have hopes for tomorrow and for the tomorrows after that. 

The hope I carry is enough for me to stay sober, just for today. 

I’ll try again tomorrow.

It’s My Recovery and My Journey: Chris’s Story

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Recovery Stories, Written by Jessica
Audio

“From the beginning? I was born prematurely, four to five months premature. Apparently I was full of crack cocaine, survived that, went into foster care and was adopted at 18 months.” Chris was so casual, as if being born addicted to drugs and being placed in the foster care system was no big deal. Then I reflected on the stories I’ve heard, about my own story even, and realized that maybe the ability to be one step removed emotionally from our own story is a trait we all carry for the sake of surviving. 

Chris was raised by his adoptive black family in Dallas Fort-Worth. Childhood was great, and he described his environment as “warm” and he felt like he fit right in. Then he learned that he was adopted. “What changed, the environment?” I asked. “No, it was me,” he replied. There was a change, a shift in Chris. When he was six, his parents sat him down to let him know that a sister was on the way, and she was joining the family exactly as he did, through an adoption. His perception of the world around him was forever altered. 

Photo by frank mckenna on Unsplash

The court had to make sure his home was safe for another child. There were proceedings, meetings, and home visits. He was soon a big brother. Did his behavior change at this age? No. However, Chris had discovered the world was not as it had seemed. He was adopted. Parents put up children for adoption. These were new realizations. Chris asked himself, “What else is there? What else don’t I know?”

He started to wonder. “Where? Who? Why? What?” he said. “All the wondering, really.” “So did you ever find your parents, or look for them?” I asked. “I did,” Chris said. He was 29. He attained unsealed records from his entire adoption process, including his birth records. He was able to read through those. “I found the names. I went to Facebook. There they were.”

“Okay, so did you meet them? Were they together? Were they using? Were they sober? What was it like?” I stopped myself. Sometimes I don’t realize how quickly I can speak, so I took a breath. I often experience the “frenzied speech” behavior that is part of bipolar disorder; if I get excited about something I’ll never stop. 

Chris smiled.

“First, I’ll tell you about my mother. She was still using. I mean, I’m not gonna lie, it was rough to meet her, but to be fair, I was extremely drunk at the time as well.” No surprise there—I would be, too. Who wouldn’t get drunk? Well, I suppose a “normal” person wouldn’t; I forget we’re not all the same.

It was the same day that he also met his biological father. And no, not at the same time, (because of course, I asked), but on the same day. His parents are no longer together. His father wasn’t high or drunk to his blurred memory. “To be honest, I’m not sure if my father was or is sober.” They haven’t spoken in two years. He hasn’t seen his mother since the day they met.

The conversation went back to the early days of Chris’s using and drinking. Like many high school students, he began drinking on and off in party settings. “It started then and it felt like it lasted until forever, until I finally stopped. It was still social then. Sometimes the drinks were spiked at parties, sometimes I was with cousins who had access to the liquor cabinets. My drinking didn’t become heavy until I got to college, so I was around 18.” 

So how heavy is heavy? 

“Thursday through Sunday, every weekend.” I remember those weekends, drunken weekends. The weekends that made it easy to blend in, the weekends where an alcoholic or drug addict might still, albeit falsely, feel a part of the group. The good old days when drinking was the norm and no one judged you yet for your awful hangovers or your reckless behavior. Chris described himself as a “lucid drunk” during his college years. He never blacked out. Though he wasn’t spiritual then, he definitely credits “the universe” with making sure he got home safely even when he didn’t remember it.

His drug use started when he was 19. “Touchy, feely, energetic, spacey” was how it felt in the beginning. “Okay, so when did it stop being fun?” I asked.

Adderall. “It’s one of those drugs where you think, ‘I can do this,’ until you realize that you can’t stop. You think you’re okay, then you realize you’re not okay.” Further, Chris realized his drinking was problematic when he couldn’t manage to stop once he started. His tolerance was so high that people would give him non-stop drinks, but he wouldn’t get sick and he never threw up. He started coming home drunk, getting some sleep, waking up, and then going to class and later work like nothing happened. “I didn’t need to be watched while I drank, but come to think of it, I probably should’ve.” Smiled again. 

What about heroin? As he said, “Culturally, as a black person, needles have always been looked down on.” But laughing, he continued, “For all the shit I put into my body, the needle standard was so arbitrary.” Sure, he snorted it and got high, but he got sick. “I felt like trash and it was one and done.” Many first-time heroin users tell a different story, of feeling an intense relief washing over them. For Chris, though, he vomited as if possessed by a demon, and he never touched heroin again. 

Chris didn’t finish college but it wasn’t his drinking and drug use, he said. “I never did finish, but it’s because I never wanted to start either.” He didn’t want to go in the first place, but he was pressured to live up to societal norms and his family’s expectations. “I mean, it’s what you do. You graduate from high school. You go to college wherever you get accepted and can afford to go to. You work. Then you die. For a lot of people, they can live that linear life, but I couldn’t. I was always an adventurer, always an explorer. It’s a part of where the drugs came in. I was always curious about them, and I was bipolar. They helped.” 

Chris was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at 15. He found that psychiatric medications made him feel horrible, so he stopped taking the meds and like many others, self-medicated with drugs and alcohol. There wasn’t a drug that was off limits, except for heroin after that one use. His doctors warned him about his drug use, that the manic spikes would be dangerous and the depressive states even more intense given the path he was on, but that didn’t stop him. I understood the feeling. When I was told my liver enzymes were dangerously high and that I had alcoholic hepatitis, I should have stopped, but I didn’t.  

Photo by Warren Wong on Unsplash

For people with bipolar disorder, sobriety can be a delicate balancing game. The extremes lead to self-medicating with drugs and alcohol. The use of the drugs and alcohol create a physical dependency so when the bipolar person tries to break free from the physical addiction, their “medication” is gone. Their relief is gone. It’s merely a matter of time before a bipolar person gets triggered, falls apart, and goes back to drinking or using. According to American Addiction Centers, “The rate of co-occurring substance use disorders in individuals diagnosed with bipolar disorder ranges from about 20 percent to as high as nearly 60 percent.” 

So he dropped all the substances and started going to Bible study. Even though he was trying to stay sober, he still didn’t feel whole. So when he started to drink, he started to feel the conflict between his need to drink for relief and the persona he created for himself at church. He couldn’t “feel through” himself, so he ended up heavily drinking and smoking again, and before long he was back to hard drugs. 

So is Chris an alcoholic since he started to drink first and drugs came after? I know several people in the 12-step community who call themselves alcoholics even though they have had extensive drug use. Why? They say that once they drink, they can’t just stop there. Chris didn’t need a substance in any particular order in order to want the rest. Anything that was mind altering and brought relief was his substance of choice in that moment. His moods dictated what type of relief he was seeking, so for him the words “alcoholic” or “drug addict” are irrelevant. He could do three lines of coke and suddenly decide to drink or the other way around. It was the disease of “never enough.” 

Remember, Chris doesn’t fit inside boxes.

For some people, the motivation to stop is a significant consequence, a terrifying moment, but for Chris, the desire to stop came from within. “I’m drinking all the time by myself. I could drink everyone under the table, do drugs all night, stay awake for four or five days. I’m tired of it. It’s not serving me, it’s not benefiting me, it’s just costing me a bunch of money, and what for? And that was literally it.” 

Chris does face some challenges. Chris was known as a source for drugs. “I still have friends or distant family who will text me asking if I can help find them this drug or that drug. It was just who I was. It was an entire personality I had.”

For Chris, a 12-step program wouldn’t work. He’s too much of an individual and he likes to blaze his own path, but he’s not against 12-step programs for other people. “If that would work for you do it. You have to do what’s right for you.” So he has not necessarily abstained 100%, but his life today is drastically different than what it was before. He tells himself not to be so judgy or so hard on himself but to try his best for that day. He felt going cold turkey would be too difficult because it would make him fixate on wanting it more. He’s not counting days and he’s not putting pressure on himself to say that he’ll never drink or use drugs again. He’s had about two shots of alcohol since last fall, and for him it’s important to focus on the fact that it’s two shots compared to the three bottles he would have slammed in the past. 

For Chris, it’s harder to deal with the people who are surprised he’s not drinking than it is to not drink. Recently, he faced a challenge when he went to a Super Bowl party and didn’t drink and didn’t use. What about “One is too many and a thousand is never enough”? For Chris he could have one, but he asks himself, “What am I thinking? How am I feeling? Why would I do it? I already know where it’s going to lead me and how I’m going to be feeling later. After one, it’s going to be two. After two it’s going to be three. At that point, I’m just drinking. It creates a circle. The more aware I become daily, the better I am at stopping those thoughts when they creep up.” 

Every morning, Chris gets up and looks in the mirror first thing and says to his reflection, “I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I don’t use.” He prays, he meditates, he exercises. And then it’s time to face the world. 

Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

“Sara”

Posted on by Jessica Duenas in Recovery Stories, Written by Jessica
Audio Version

Sobriety Date September 23, 1994

“I still believe that voice telling me it was my last chance to this day. I knew it was my last chance.” Sara reflected on her sobriety date. After listening to her story, I stared at my phone in shock. 

“How? How have you stayed sober continuously for 26 years? That’s an entire lifetime. I could barely get through a couple of weeks at a time last year!” Sara paused for a moment; I could hear her breath drawing in as she braced herself, “Well, let me tell you how it started…it’s a long story cause I’m old as fuck.”

Born and raised in Louisville, KY, Sara’s upbringing led her to believe that the only acceptable and valid family structure was the one she was brought up in. I definitely related to some parts of her experience when she talked about her childhood. She was bright, looked good to others, all-around excellent behavior and grades, and was an award-winning student. She was the type of child that any parent would be proud of. The only facet of her childhood that I couldn’t relate to was that she was a dedicated athlete to what felt like a laundry list of sports. Ice skating, swimming, she did it all. She should’ve walked around feeling good about herself, right? 

She didn’t. 

Sara and her mother had a turbulent relationship. Wherein Sara desperately sought her mother’s affirmations, love, attention, anything really, she received the opposite. Sara’s mom was usually too busy for her, on the phone, always telling Sara to “go away.” Sara paused her story. She wanted to clarify that despite what she was about to say about her upbringing, her parents took care of her physical needs. I laughed because I know that feeling, too. I also carry scars from my childhood. At this point, though, the best way for me to be at peace about my past is to accept that my parents, and frankly most parents, tried their best given the circumstances they were in. She proceeded to explain that she grew up with a roof over her head, food on the table, but she felt perpetually ignored or in trouble.

That didn’t make sense, “So, wait, how were you in trouble if she wasn’t even paying attention to you?”  

Another breath. 

“I remember being threatened to be taken away to an orphanage when I was 5. That was the beginning when that (getting in trouble) started happening. I had had a tantrum, and while in the shower, my mother dragged me out to the car, wet and naked, shampoo still in my hair. She had a suitcase packed telling me that she was going to take me to an orphanage…I shrieked in terror and threw a fit. Ever since, I always felt and believed that I was bad, you know, just bad. I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t good enough. Nothing I ever did after that was good enough.” 

She carried those same feelings with her into middle and high school, where the awkwardness of teen behavior did nothing to help her feel like she belonged. Gossip and kids constantly turning their backs on one another didn’t provide Sara with any secure relationships with her peers. Her teachers loved her. That was about it. Around this time, Sara discovered cigarettes, and she was 12. Within a week of her first cigarette, she discovered marijuana (which Sara calls pot, so I’ll call it pot moving forward) and alcohol. Well, correction, Sara backtracked; it was more of a reunion; her father would let her have some of his nightly beer in an orange juice glass from the age of three. “‘More, more, more! I want more!’ From the very beginning, I knew that phenomenon of craving was in me.” 

Sara learned to sneak around with alcohol after that. Now sneaking, that I know all too well. She replaced liquor with water in her parents’ bar, filled nail polish bottles with it, and would snatch her dad’s beer when he wasn’t paying attention, anything she could do to get to her drink. I couldn’t help but laugh, “it’s so funny to me how we’re all so good at hiding things when we need to. We’re so creative!” It’s true; we addicts and alcoholics are a bright bunch. Too bad that smarts don’t save us from our own disease.

Older teens and adults started to take an interest in Sara once she crossed over to drinking and using. Suddenly she found herself “not giving a shit. I didn’t care if they (her classmates) liked me or didn’t like me. I just started partying really hard. In the 70s, people called them the ‘freaks.’ That’s what I was, a ‘freak.’” The feeling of rejection from her mother and then her peers quickly disappeared. Alcohol and drugs started to give Sara a feeling of power, a sense of belonging, a false sense of maturity. She described the “relief” she felt of no longer worrying about anyone else, of their judgments. She felt at that time like she was in control of herself, of her feelings. 

Of course, that relief was only temporary. 

Sara started to hang around gas stations with her girlfriends, waiting for creepy uncle types who would be willing to buy them alcohol. Any and every party that she was invited to, she attended, using and drinking whatever she was offered. “So, you’ve talked a lot about quaaludes, pot, and alcohol. Where was heroin in all this?” I was so curious about the late 70s, early 80s, considering that today overdoses with opiates are so prevalent. “Heroin got big after ‘big pharma’ got everyone hooked on pain pills. That was way after I got sober. Back then, people died from drunk driving or on occasion from suicide, not from overdoses, not like today.”

Sara was spot on. According to the CDC, in the US in 1980, the number of people who died from drug overdoses was 6,100. By 2019, it was 70,630. Out of that number, 49,860 died from opiates, including pain pills and heroin. 

Drugs and alcohol had become so instrumental to Sara’s stability that she leaned on them through what would be anyone’s worst nightmare, rape. 

While on a liquor run, she ran into some older friends who invited her to a boat party. There were over a hundred people who crowded this boat, older kids. Sara drank the whiskey fast, smoked some pot. All the while, someone at the party had targeted her. 

“This guy came and grabbed me. He pulled me off of the boat, and it was dark. It was night. I had a swim meet earlier that day, and this girl on my team French-braided my hair; I left the French braids in….anyway, I remember I escaped from this guy, I got back on the boat and hid from him. He came in there and he found me and he dragged me out. I was screaming, screaming to all these people, ‘Help me!’ And nobody would help me. They just let him take me away. He took me out there and he raped me. Then this other guy raped me. I think I knew who one of the guys was, and possibly the other guy. They were in on it together.” 

My heart broke for her. I was scared to ask if this was her first time. It was. 

“They beat me up. They ripped my hair out. I was covered in dirt, in pee, their pee, grass stains, mud. They tried to shove gravel down my throat to keep me from screaming. I was left there for dead and someone from my neighborhood found me and dumped me on my lawn. My brother found me out there, carried me inside, put me in my room and closed the door. I came to the next day, my parents never noticed. They didn’t even know. I woke up torn up. I think that was my first hangover. I was 14. That was the first time I felt true fear, horror, how awful everything was. So I put my clothes on, snuck out, and went back to the gas station to get more liquor. I went to another party, did acid and quaaludes. I knew then I shouldn’t go around these people anymore, my soul told me not to, but I would do it anyway. After that, I left my body mentally every time I had sex. I just felt like men were always going to take it, anyway.”

I hated it, and though I don’t share the horrifying experience that Sara just described, I recognized the feeling of the pain, the dread, and the need to drown it out. The need to cope through oblivion. The feeling of knowing better yet being driven to do the exact opposite. 

Needless to say, Sara’s behavior continued to spiral. Once again, she was betrayed by friends and nearly drowned when she drunkenly fell off a boat and into a river while hanging out. “You’re going to drown by the time we get to you!” they shouted. Panicked that even her swimming experience couldn’t save her, she felt herself swallowing water and was prepared to give up when she heard a voice reminding her to do the dead man’s float. She survived, but her risky behavior led others to think she wouldn’t live to her next birthday, and they contacted her parents. Sara’s mother and father acted like they were shocked. Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t, but Sara ended up in treatment and got sober for the first time.

I remember that I was terrified my first time in treatment, and that was being a grown woman. By the 8th time, I was just tired of it, but what was it like for a teenage girl? To Sara, it was okay. She got used to it, and being a sober high schooler wasn’t bad. She had a tiny circle of sober friends, and they did fun normal teenage things. She remembers going to meetings with people who now have over forty years of sobriety. Things got steady for Sara. She finished high school, kept her good grades, and started college. It was not long before things fell apart, again.

Sara managed to stay sober the first semester of her freshman year, but the day she moved on campus, literally semester two day one, she got drunk. This time around, Sara didn’t go back to drug use. She stuck only to alcohol. 

“You knew being sober worked. Why did you go back out?” I asked, knowing damn well why she did, because she’s an alcoholic, enough said. Nothing we do ever seems to make sense.

“I wanted to fit in. When I was younger, I didn’t want to fit in with my peers, this time, I did.” The classmates she hadn’t cared for had now grown into classic binge drinking, partying college students, Sara’s kind of people. At this time, Sara knew she had a problem, she just ignored it. She started having run-ins with the police. Despite her increasing number of arrests, she had about six of them for public intoxication, what felt like never-ending community services that the judges kept giving her, and nearly getting expelled from school, she didn’t stop drinking. She was horribly sick every morning, barely taking “nights off” of drinking. At this point in her story, I figured she must have dropped out of school.

I could envision the smirk on her face. “I’m smart, I still got good grades. I was on the Dean’s list, and also on the dean’s list, for my conduct.” she laughed. I chuckled, too. Come to think of it, if I wasn’t naturally bright myself, I don’t know that I would have ever finished any schooling, either. Sara got by with taking night classes to accommodate her drinking schedule and eventually graduated, arrests and all.

“I didn’t know what living like a normal person was,” Sara told me as she described the sound of the dot matrix printer as it printed her arrest record, page after page after page. I later Googled what a dot matrix printer was and what it sounded like. The funny thing about addiction is that despite us being from entirely different generations, the undercurrent remains the same. A disease is a disease, diabetes doesn’t change from one person to another. It was the same disease thirty years ago as it is today. Our experiences are our own, but the disease of addiction remains the same. 

After college, Sara met her husband, who she stated became her “new drug.” She still drank, just not as much. She was now getting validation from him and not just the bottle. He joined the military, and they lived what appeared to be a beautiful life in Florida by the beach. It was like a return to her childhood, everything on the outside looked “perfect,” but on the inside, she felt far from it. She still lived in fear, and she still had an emotional and spiritual emptiness. Even skimming her high school yearbook, she realized that though her classmates described her as joyful and cheerful, she knew even then that she had a void that she always needed to fill. 

While married, she became a periodic drinker instead of a daily one. Though she could stay away from alcohol for periods at a time, when she had the first drink, she couldn’t stop. Sara required an intervention each time she drank in order to stop. She wanted to seek help but her husband at the time discouraged her, telling her that she didn’t have a problem despite getting angry with her every time she got drunk at his suggestion and then couldn’t be his designated driver. Sara knew better, but she ignored what she knew because she valued her husband’s word as the end all be all, even when he became verbally abusive. Once again, she lived with low self-worth. She suffered in silence daily until he abruptly divorced her before getting stationed in Japan. She returned to Kentucky, and her drinking picked back up.

Sara started drunk driving, losing cars on weekends, waking up with the sick feeling in her stomach, dreading the unknown. Had she hit something? She vaguely remembers several near-death experiences, and then in July of 1994 (a few months before her sobriety date), she got her first DUI. She should have gone to jail, but on her fifth court date in September, the arresting officer did not show, and the DUI dropped down to a misdemeanor. Did Sara stop and think, “Maybe I should stop?” Not at all. That night, Sara got drunk and drove to celebrate getting out of her DUI situation.

That was the night of her last drink.

She remembers waking up in the morning at home. She didn’t know where her car was. She really didn’t remember much of the night before. However, she was incredibly sick, and she dragged herself into the bath, barely able to hold herself up. She sat down in the tub as the water washed over her, that same voice that saved her from drowning spoke to her again. This time it said, “This is your last chance. You better take it.” Sara said, “I believe that voice to this day. I knew it was my last chance.” It was the voice of God. It was September 23, 1994. The Tuesday after, she went to her first recovery meeting since her teenage sober years. Her reception was not a warm one.

She decided then that she would be sober despite others’ attitudes or behaviors toward her. Even if they didn’t reach their hand out to help her, she was going to stay sober and stay alive. Sara had gotten through the worst of times in the past when people betrayed her, and she was going to stay sober, even if it was just her and God carrying her through. It was a moment of clarity. She thought to herself, “this is the end. There is nowhere else to go. I couldn’t drink; I had no other choice. Am I going to do this or not do this?”

It’s been twenty-six years of sober living since.

We were running short on time, but considering that she has at this point lived more years as a sober woman than as an actively drunk/high woman, I had to have her share about living sober. 

Jokingly she said that her first motivator to stay sober was the desire to stay out of jail, “that’s the easy reason,” she chuckled. 

Seriously though, she described her first two years as the hardest. At 105 days sober, she looked at herself in the mirror, and it was the first time she could see herself. “I actually was present. My soul, body, and mind converged into one for the first time.” St. Patrick’s Day and other days that people celebrate by drinking weren’t easy to get through. “I was salivating, craving. I remember getting off work at five. I was going to get off the expressway to go to a bar, and I said, ‘well, guess this is it.’ But while driving, I remembered someone saying to pray for cravings to be removed, and while I prayed to God, I ended up missing the exit.” 

For Sara, staying sober isn’t all about the fellowship, the socializing. Being around other sober people is definitely important, but she needed to break her codependent tendencies. She spent her life using the external to being her internal joy, and it was always fleeting. Working with a sponsor, building her spiritual base, and her connection with her higher power, which for her is God, has filled that void she had felt all those years ago. 

Sobriety isn’t easy. Sara wanted to make sure that anyone who reads her story understands that. We did not get to cover twenty-six years of her life, but she’s dealt with life on life’s terms. Death, heartbreak, loss, ailments, Sara’s lived through all of it, and she’s stayed sober. For Sara, staying sober means having power. It means knowing that she’s enough. She has freedom. She has peace. Anytime she’s been triggered, she asks herself, “If I drink, what will my life look like in six months?” Suddenly, whatever trivial thing was triggering her becomes insignificant in the grand scheme of things. “Whatever is going on, you won’t remember what pissed you off in six months. It’s not worth it. It’s temporary. I ask myself every day what is worth more than my peace and serenity. Nothing is. I’m willing to give up everything to have peace and serenity.” 

When I heard Sara say that, I felt inspired. It was a hope shot for me. I literally just gave up everything in December to have my own peace and serenity, and hearing a woman with twenty-six years of sobriety essentially say the same thing lets me know that I need to keep doing what I’m doing. Maybe one day I’ll be like her, telling my story to a newly sober person.

So, after all she’s lived through, how does Sara feel moving forward? 

“If you’re a victim, you’re never free. You’re never happy. Everything you feel is always dependent on what someone else does, says, doesn’t do, or doesn’t say. I don’t want to be dependent on other people for my happiness anymore. I learned to write a new story. I mean, I always used to tell my story with a negative connotation. That was who I was. I always framed it as something that kept me from succeeding. I was held back by self-pity because I kept blaming everything that happened. Telling that same old negative story kept me stuck in it. I tell a new story now. My story is now about me living how I want things to be. I firmly believe that anything is possible with God. There is power in our words. If you say you can, if you say you can’t, you’re right. Even if things aren’t how I want them to be right now, I’m still going to speak them into existence in the way I want them to be.” 

“Sara” participated in Bottomless to Sober anonymously, but her story, like all of our stories, carries a message of hope. 

We don’t need to know who it was to know that we do recover. 

Thank you for sharing your experience, strength, and hope. 

Photo by Yoann Boyer on Unsplash