I have been tasked with writing about my recovery to hopefully earn a scholarship, as I have dreams that need to be made reality. No longer am I the slurring a-hole, begging for and hiding another drink. I am a new person now, believing in a future and doing the work that helps me get to the places I want to be. I plan to continue on this recovery journey that I have worked so hard to achieve.

At the time of this writing, it has been almost eighteen months since I had my last drink, and I will keep this going until the day comes that I am no longer apart of this earth and even then, many more days still! I honestly never thought I would achieve such a feat… this many days of sobriety. It was hard and there were days when alcohol wouldn’t leave me alone. Now, I’m excited to see what every day brings me. Every day is truly a gift. I have a lot to be thankful for.

As I think about my time in recovery, I can’t help but go down the rabbit hole that is my past. All of the dirt keeps coming to the surface, much like when you get your carpets cleaned and some of the stains resurface that you forgot were there. Usually this is much later, after the cleaners have come and gone.

I’m sure I have wrote some of this before in previous articles and I am more than sure that I will write about it again. It’s healing for me to do so. The pain slowly subsides from talking about the things that used to make you hurt. You repeatedly open and reopen that box that all the hurt is hid away in until it doesn’t hurt quite so much to revisit it. Instead, you can now learn from it and move on to a brighter future.

My Starting Point

My mind first goes back to Thanksgiving Day of 2022. In retrospect, I had much to be thankful for. This was the day that started the journey of recovery, which eventually became filled with smiles, laughter, and everything that was missing since I took that first drink, many years ago. That day was the first day of the last eighteen months that I have remained without a drink. But damn, remembering those first days without a drink, those days were hard! And Thanksgiving Day of 2022 was a “first day.”

First Days

I know all about first days, because I have had a lot of “first days”. First days are born out of realizing a change needs to be made. First days are days you put in the effort to take the first step. First days take a lot of grit, a lot of preparation, a lot of mind, body and soul. A lot of acceptance of what is the truth and part of that truth is if I don’t quit drinking, I’m going to die. My quality of life will not be just crap, it will become nothing at all.

I’ve had a lot of “first days” throughout my twenty-years of drinking. In the first decade, there were first days but not for reasons so serious. Sometimes it was because I wanted to lose weight. Over time, I would recognize I needed to take a hiatus from drinking because I recognized the drinking needed to be curbed a bit. I could “control” it, or at least I thought so in my head.

The End All Be All: Alcohol

Let me admit, at the end of my many years of drinking, I became no ordinary drinker. I gave it my all. It was my god, my savior, my pain, my pain reliever, my devil, my demons, my evil, my everything. Alcohol was the end all, be all. Alcohol was my life. Nothing was fun unless there was alcohol involved!

Of course, it didn’t start out that way. In the beginning, way back when I took my first drink at the age of nineteen, it was fuuuun! I was shy, so drinking meant I could finally open up and be the life of the party! At least part of it, anyway. I only drank socially, never alone, and it was always something to look forward to.

Eventually, it crept its way into an after work thing. Ooops, she did it again! Some embarrassing moment with a co-worker. Oh well, it was all in good fun, right?

I met my significant other while drinking. Drinking was our thing too. We would then drink at home, after a long day at work or on the weekend. More good fun.

Deep down, I knew I had a problem by now. It’d probably been ten years of this constant cycle and I still couldn’t break it. At the time, it wasn’t causing any harm that seemed worthy of an intervention so the drinking continued.

Whatever fun I was having all came to a screeching halt when I discovered my Mom had Stage IV uterine cancer. My tumultuous relationship with her and her two-years to live prognosis all but shattered my psyche. My go-to coping mechanism became, you guessed it, alcohol.

Instead of going to chemo with her, I’d get drunk. If I went to her appointments, I was hungover and useless. I became a mess until I was deemed 5150 because I’d black out and cut myself (another topic for another time). Then came the psych and rehab (again, another topic for another time).

I spent all my time dealing with my problems instead of spending time with my Mom. Even on her death bed, I was drinking. When she took her last breath, I already had something to drink. One of the last things she told me before she died was to stay away from alcohol. If only it was that easy.

December 2020 and A Shocking Find

The drinking, and many “first days” in between, continued until the beginning of December 2020. I had another first day and subsequent days to back it up. I was ready for 2021 baby!

Christmas that year was wonderful. My daughter was happy with her gifts. All was well. Although it brings up a random memory and a short embarrassing story that has nothing to do with this post… I was not drinking, I swear. However, because it was cold, I had fluffy socks on. Fluffy socks and linoleum do not go well together, unless you want to get injured. I came into the kitchen, slipped, tried to catch myself, banged my eyebrow on a stool, and laid on the floor in total shock without muttering a sound, holding my bleeding eyebrow. My husband was alerted because it was so quiet after he thought I had dropped a sack of potatoes in the kitchen. There was no cussing to be heard from the dropped potatoes, so the silence piqued his interest. So he came in and found it was not a sack of potatoes. Nope, that was me, sprawled on the floor with a bleeding face. Again, I was not drinking, I swear. It was funny in retrospect.

But during this time, while sprawled on the floor, I felt my left boob because I had hit it during my fall. And there it was. A lump. I thought it could have been because of the fall, so I tucked the thought away. However, I felt it more a bit later and realized this was something to be concerned about and made an appointment… and then the cancer ball was rolling and the appointments became endless.

Since this post is supposed to be about my recovery, I’ll redirect you here if you want to read more about my cancer.

After the cancer news, I went back to drinking and the cycle continued.

And now, out of the rabbit hole and back to my recovery.

The Thick of Addiction

To truly understand what recovery means to me, you would have to understand what it was like being in the thick of addiction. Let me walk you through one of my worst days.

It’s 5 o’clock in the morning. I first open my eyes to the bright light from the window. Regrettably, I start waking up after passing out some time last night. But I made it another day alive, right, so there’s that. The first thoughts and questions in my mind came rushing in, uninvited. Was there any alcohol left? Where is the bottle? I need to see the bottle so that I know how much I drank and to see if there is anything left to curb this terrible dread in my body. I know I’m going to get the shakes soon. I feel the alcohol leaving my body, and so the withdrawals will begin soon.

I go look for the bottle. There’s no alcohol. DAMN. I lay, shivering in bed, heart pounding, cold perspiration beads on my forehead as I contemplate my next move. I need alcohol. So how am I going to get it? I could go to the store, but in my current state, that seems nearly impossible as I can’t drive. I could beg my husband to bring some home when he gets off work, but that’s going to be hours from now. No, I need it now.

I make plans in my head, behind my husband’s back, to order a bottle through an ordering service. He’s asking if I’m okay and I’m lying there, shivering and sick. “Please leave please leave please leave already!” I chant in my head as he’s pestering me about how I’m feeling and giving me a “he told me so” lecture. He tells me not to order, as this is my pattern in the past. He says he will bring me something if I do not feel better by the time he gets off work. I then use the excuse that it’s not safe to suddenly stop drinking. Okay, whatever. I agree with the intent of breaking my agreement the moment he walks out the door.

After twenty agonizing minutes, my husband has finally left and I’m on the ordering app in an instant, ready to order a handle of vodka. I tell myself I’m going to pace myself. Just drink enough to take the edge off.

When the alcohol finally comes, I shakily dress into respectable clothes and meet the driver to show them my ID. I’m trying to appear normal but I know its written all over my face. The driver doesn’t seem to care, I finally have my alcohol. I run up the stairs, find a potential hiding spot for my newly obtained treasure, make sure it will suffice, open the bottle and begin to chug. I planned to put it in the hiding spot as a way to slow the drinking but no, I decide to put it next to me by the bed. My husband isn’t coming home for hours, so it will be fine right there and I can reach for it whenever I want.

After about five minutes, the warmth from the vodka has filled my belly and the shakes begin to subside. Ahhh, finally. I can rest. Let’s take another drink, shall we? Gulp gulp gulp.

The intense buzz is in full swing now, and now I’m feeling guilty. I want to die. I’ve failed again. I text my husband and tell him that I ordered and now he’s worried. I know he’s worried he will find me dead. I cry. I then black out and wake up to my husband at home. I’m in bed again. But where is the bottle? Not where I left it. He’s hid it again!

I fly out of the room and demand to know where the bottle is. He says he put it in a safe place so I wouldn’t drink anymore. Come on! I need a little bit more because I can feel the shakes again. “Pleeaase, give me a little bit so the shakes don’t come back.” I beg and plea. Finally, he agrees but I need to heavily mix it this time, not chug it.

Back to the room I go, drink in hand. I black out again and the next thing I remember is screaming at my husband at the top of my lungs, on the verge of attacking him. I don’t remember why. I want to leave now.

I grab my keys, husband on my heels, and I jump in the car and lock the doors. BAM! Windshield suddenly spiderwebs on the driver’s side and cracked across the passengers side. It took me a moment to realize what happened. My husband jumped on the car and punched the windshield so I wouldn’t leave. Meanwhile, Twenty-One Pilots is playing in the background, “Am I the only one I know. Waging my wars behind my face and above my throat? Shadows will scream that I’m alone.” The lyrics of the song Migraine penetrate my brain. I have totally lost it now.

I get out of the car, defeated, and ready to go back inside. I go lay down and my husband retreats to the other room, upset. “I’m a failure”, again, bounces around in my head. I get up to go to the bathroom and take with me a razorblade. I slightly draw blood and stare at it intently.

My husband eventually realizes what I have done and takes me to the ER. But the ER isn’t going fast enough for me. He already checked me in but I want to leave, and I talk him into doing so, telling him I feel better. At home, I’m back to wheeling and dealing. I will be better next time. Tomorrow will be a better day knowing full well that it would probably end up the same.

However, the day is not over yet. We hear someone pulling up to the house. It’s the police. Shit, the hospital called them. They question me and look at the arm I cut. “With marks like that, we have to take you back in.” I reluctantly agree. The policeman and woman were both nice. No reason to cause a scene. Back to the hospital we go.

Once there, I’ve submitted to my fate of an overnight stay, knowing I will have to talk to a social worker in the morning once the alcohol has come down to an acceptable level. I think that time I came in at .4, enough to be lethal. As you can see, I already knew the drill. This wasn’t my first time here.

But I lived. Lived to fight another day and relapse again, fight again and relapse again. And there went my 30s. Fighting for my life, losing what was left of my youth to alcohol.

I was 40 by the time it stuck. My fear of getting older with this affliction plagued me until it finally stuck, that Thanksgiving Day in 2022.

Recovery, Finally

So, as you can see, recovery to me is life itself. Every day, I wake up willingly and refreshed from a night of good sleep.

Recovery, to me, is a breath of fresh air. It’s being fully present in the moment—feeling the cool breeze on my face and inhaling the invigorating scents of nature. Recovery is everything that active addiction is not. It signifies freedom, clarity, and the ability to pursue my dreams.

In my journey through recovery, I have rediscovered the joy of living fully. I cherish moments with my daughter and husband, no longer clouded by the haze of addiction. I can read with my Dad and spend genuine, meaningful time with him, speaking clearly and sincerely.

Recovery means my daughter doesn’t have to shed tears because I’m away in a facility. It means being there for my family, embracing every moment, and building a future filled with hope and love. Recovery is my path to living authentically and wholeheartedly.

Every day is an adventure to do something more with the time that I have left. A part of me feels the need to “catch up” and get to the place I would be had I not been held down by alcohol and cancer. But then I realize it’s all in the journey, and quite a journey it has been.

I started taking classes to further my career that had been put on hold for several years. I started making candles and going to craft fairs to show off my hard work. Then, I finally applied out from a job I hated because I felt ready to move on. I was finally healthy and free. Now, I want to get my Masters degree to even further enhance my future, something that wouldn’t at all have been possible in the midst of addiction and cancer.

I beat the demons and learned so much more about myself and what I am capable of. Thank God for getting me to this point that I am not owned by either the disease of alcohol addiction or cancer. Everything is a bit more sweeter now than it was before this whole thing began.

If you would like to support me and my future, I would truly appreciate it: https://gofund.me/5dafd30c

If you are struggling, do not delay. Dial 988 for suicide, crisis, or substance abuse. They are available 24/7.