My Story | Addiction to Rehabilitation
You are here:Home-Testimonials in Recovery-My Story
My Story2004-07-01T02:29:38-08:00
Viewing 2 posts - 1 through 2 (of 2 total)
  • Author
  • Anonymous
    Post count: 22

    That night I surrendered to God. His will be done, not mine. I did the first three steps with God before I even knew what they were. Within a week he had guided me safely into the loving hands of one of the best inpatient rehab centers in America. There I learned how to live again. I learned about AA, the steps, and most importantly, how to become a decent human being again. There were a whole lot of tears and fears but I applied myself and worked the program.
    I got, and have stayed sober by working the steps, reading the book, going to meetings, getting a homegroup, getting active, and separating myself from my old life including the people and places. Its not always easy, I miss a lot of my old friends. But, I know where I’ll end up with them, and I never want to go back to that again.
    This program is about balance. In my experience, a good balance between the program and spirituality will keep you sober. There is no half assed here. Either get your feet wet, or get away from the recovery pool, because this is all or nothing. There is no bargaining, or compromising what you need to do. Read the book and do what it says. If that’s too much, or you’re not ready, then keep coming back. But, remember, we all have another relapse in us, but how many of us have another recovery? Some must die so that others can live. That is the sad truth of this world. I don’t want to die today. Do you?
    Today, I am a very grateful, recovering alcoholic and drug addict. Everyday is a gift because; I know I should be dead. God gave me a second chance at life and this time, I’m just taking it one day at a time. Living for him one day at a time. I’m by no means perfect. I slip daily on my spiritual walk. But as long as I strive for progress rather then perfection, I will be okay.
    I wont lie and say sobriety has been a springtime picnic but it has gotten better. Stick around for the miracle, it will happen. In times of distress and uncertainty, I remember that all the things I strive for today would never be possible actively using. So therefore sobriety comes first, always. If I stay sober I know good things will follow. To quote the second half of the serenity prayer, “accepting hardships as a pathway to peace.� I’m grateful for what I went through, for if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be who I am today and today I am happy. Thanks for reading. Don’t drink go to meetings, and follow to the letter, the first three words on page one hundred and twelve of the fourth edition A.A. Big Book and you will find peace. The end. :35:

    Post count: 7

    21 and loving it.

    Two weeks ago I celebrated my twenty-first birthday. Eight days later, I celebrate one year of sobriety from alcohol and drugs. Why not drink on such an important drinking holiday you may ask? Well, it’s because I am a true blue, full-blown, alcoholic and drug addict. The real question is, am I now twenty one, or am I really one? Or am I the age at which I first started using, plus a year? That would make me seventeen. I feel like I’m seventeen. Alcohol and drugs stunted my emotional, and materialistic growth. So it makes sense that I feel, act, and now live, like I’m seventeen all over again. But, I’ll tell you, seventeen looks a whole lot more promising this time around, sober this time around, truly alive this time around.
    I grew up in a very strong, loving, supportive Christian home. The only child of two very proud, wonderful parents who taught me the difference between right and wrong, to always love before hate, and to always be the best at whatever it was I choose to do. Who would of guessed I would’ve grown up so self-destructive? The big book speaks of the alcoholic tornado. Well, I was an F-5 on a course for chemically induced oblivion.
    My first drink was typical, sneaking a beer in my friends’ basement when we were sixteen; we thought we were getting away with something. My use increased steadily but remained social for sometime. I was just trying to enjoy my youth. Around this time I was prescribed anti-depressants to try to lift my always-saddened persona. The combination of anti-depressants, alcohol, and marijuana soon proved disastrous.
    My downward spiral into insanity and alcoholic despair was rudely interrupted by the girl of my dreams. We fell in love and dated for several months before she was forced to move cross-country. Saying goodbye to her was the hardest thing i’ve ever done, and it was the most painful day of my entire life. While we were together, she was my drug. I think I used only once or twice while we were together. But with her gone, alone in the darkness, lost in my own despair, and the only attendee at my favorite pity part, I had nothing but the drugs and myself. I hated myself, because I hated myself without her. Getting out of myself became my hobby. Self-medicating became my lifestyle. Whatever it took to make the pain go away would never be enough, because I was the pain, and I couldn’t make myself go away. The storm clouds were rolling in fast now.
    She moved in January of my junior year. By February, the drop into my self-made pit had begun. Prior to this, I had never been in any real trouble in my whole life. Never had a detention, never had a grade below a C, hadn’t even met a police officer. On Valentines Day, upon seeing all the happy couples dressed in red, I could take no more. I walked out of school and my life.
    I began smoking weed and drinking as much as possible, at least daily. I was a frequent visitor to the luxurious police stations holding cell, from which my parents rescued me frequently. Suicide became my only shot of true escape. Weed, which had been my daily pain represent, was not cutting it anymore. But, I couldn’t kill myself. The most interesting thing I learned during my two separate five-day stints at the psyche ward is they have to take your shoelaces because people have hung themselves with them before. If only I had known that sooner. Open my last release from the loony bin in April; my parents put me into out patient rehab. My intake appointment was on four-twenty, needless to say, I took known of it seriously, and did not stay sober for more then an hour. But the true beginning of my end would not come until May.
    My newly discovered tolerance to marijuana left me at a turning point. I had no money because I had quit my job, but staying sober was by far, out of the question. So, I did what any self respecting alcoholic and drug addict would do. I started stealing beer from the local store. Stealing beer for a living wasn’t my brightest idea. But by now, the addiction demon was in full control. The voices in my head were no longer my own. For two weeks in May, I was the model of mayhem. I was the king of the hill of inebriation. I was a fall down, sloppy, belligerent, drunk. Seventy percent of those two weeks are a black out. Unrepairable damage was done, and I lost all I had worked towards my entire life.
    I awoke from my two weeklong nightmare, in an even scarier place. Juvenile hall. This had been my first stay in such a place, and thus far was not impressed. Unsure of where I was, how I was still alive, and what had happened, I did what any self-respecting alcoholic would do. I cried like a little girl. I cried because my subconscience plan of drinking myself to death had failed, and because I was now left sober, in the wake of all my mistakes, to go through withdraws in the prettiest of places. I had stopped spinning and found that my alcoholic tornado had destroyed everything but what I wanted it too, myself.
    I was sentenced to nearly a month. I was to be released on June seventh, my birthday. Everyday I awaited freedom. Little did I know, being locked up would be the freest I’d be for the next two years. I claimed the desire to change and stay sober but my parents and no one else were buying it. On my eighteenth birthday I was released to a homeless shelter. I had lost my car, my job of a year and a half, and my education a year and a half short of graduating. I was homeless, broke, lost, and hopeless. But, none of that mattered because the sun was shining, it was my eighteenth birthday, and I was sure as hell going to celebrate my newfound “freedom�.
    For two years I ran the streets. Either squatting at friends houses, or living the true homeless life. For two years I lived a nightmare that it seemed to be no wake from. I adjusted to it and learned to live with my pain. I accepted it as God’s will and though didn’t understand, didn’t blame him. After all it was brought on by all my own wrongdoing. Over these hellish years, I abused many different drugs and different drinks. Saw a lot of horrible things, things I don’t want to remember. I met people that I pray for constantly, and I met people that I’m told, prayed for me constantly. I don’t understand why these things had to happen; I don’t think any of us do. However, I do understand why what happened next happened.
    I had always prayed to God for release from this disease, for help in gluing my shattered life back together. When he didn’t answer I figured he turned his back on me, and how could I blame him? But the truth is, it’s God’s time, not ours. He soon saved my life once again, and answered all my prayers, bringing me back from the brink of death, and permanent insanity. I was living with a friend, about to be homeless yet again, had just quit yet another job as a direct result of my addiction.
    This is where I reached a folkway in life. I had a job in place waiting for me, and another temporary roof over my head. And I also had the prospect of an inpatient rehab center at the urging of my parents and God. I felt the sting of death slowly coming over my body. I was dehydrated, and very malnutrioused. I had dropped over a 100 pounds during this whole ordeal and all the physical and mental elements of my disease were racing to the surface.
    I knew something had to be done. I knew in my heart that I would be dead soon if I didn’t do something. I also knew where that new job would take me. Absolutely nowhere. I could no longer function, I was far past manageability. I would loose it as quick as I could get it. There and then, in my friends wooded back yard, clutching my favorite bong, tears flowing like I wished the beer had, I made the decision. The decision that would save my life. I could not go on any longer. I had already been running far to long.

Viewing 2 posts - 1 through 2 (of 2 total)
  • The topic ‘My Story’ is closed to new replies.