The first time I held a composition notebook in my hands at rehab, I felt like a soldier clutching a sword in a battle I wasn’t sure I could win. Recovery—from alcoholism, from myself—was not the hero’s journey I had romanticized in my more delusional moments. It was more like crawling through a swamp with a broken compass. And yet, somehow, amid the sweat-soaked nightmares and the relentless peeling back of layers I had spent years constructing, I found the spark to create.
Let me start at the beginning—or rather, one of the beginnings. You see, alcoholism has a funny way of offering you new beginnings all the time, but they’re never the kind you want. I had just hit one of those new beginnings, a rock bottom that made me look at myself and think, “This can’t be it. This cannot be how the story ends.” The days leading up to rehab are a blur, like a badly edited montage of shame, regret, and staggering attempts at normalcy. But once I walked through those doors, the reality hit me like a freight train: recovery is a battle that never ends. Not a fight in a ring with a single opponent, but a chaotic free-for-all against an army of inner demons.
One demon—let’s call him Denial—whispered that I didn’t belong there. Another, Guilt, reminded me of all the bridges I had torched. And then there was Fear, skulking in the corner, convincing me that sobriety would leave me hollow. But in that sterile, fluorescent-lit sanctuary, armed with little more than hope and the aforementioned composition notebook, I started to fight back.
It was in rehab, while scrubbing plates in the dish pit (a tale for another time), that the seed for “Cocaine Cola” was planted. Laphamville—the setting for my book—was born out of my own internal chaos. The town where the air tastes of copper and the streets howl with the cries of the infected was, in some ways, a mirror of my own mind. The infection in the story, a grotesque creation of human greed and moral decay, felt like a metaphor for addiction itself: humanity stripped bare, leaving only the raw, writhing hunger for more.
Dr. Moses Rock, the protagonist, is a weary scientist—and let’s be honest, he’s a thinly veiled version of myself. He’s someone who’s seen too much, who carries the weight of knowledge he didn’t ask for, and who’s thrust into the rotting heart of a nightmare seeking answers. Writing “Cocaine Cola” became my way of wrestling with questions I couldn’t face head-on. What happens when the thing you’ve relied on—your own mind, your coping mechanisms—becomes your enemy? How do you fight something that feels like it’s part of you?
The act of writing in rehab wasn’t just therapeutic; it was defiant. My hand cramped from scrawling page after page, but I didn’t care. The ink became my lifeline, connecting me to a part of myself I thought I’d lost. Each line written felt like reclaiming a piece of my soul. By the time I left rehab, I had two books in those composition notebooks. “The Dish Pit,” as I mentioned, is a story for another day. But “Cocaine Cola” felt like a mission, a message I needed to share with the world.
Fast forward to today, and “Cocaine Cola” is no longer just ink on paper. It’s a published work, available in paperback on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and as an eBook for Kindle, Nook, and other outlets. When I first held the finished product in my hands, it felt surreal. The cover was glossy, the pages crisp, and there it was: my battle cry, my proof that I had survived.
Surviving isn’t just about quitting the drink. It’s about rebuilding, about facing the wreckage you’ve left behind and daring to create something new. It’s about acknowledging that recovery is not a destination but a journey, a series of choices made one moment at a time. And let me tell you, I’ve had some moments. Some were triumphant, like seeing “Cocaine Cola” on a bookstore shelf. Others were quieter but no less profound, like sitting with my thoughts and realizing they didn’t scare me anymore.
I wouldn’t be here without the people who stood by me. Recovery is never a solo endeavor, no matter how much your demons try to convince you otherwise. To the friends who answered late-night calls, to the family who offered forgiveness I didn’t think I deserved, and to the mentors who reminded me that progress isn’t linear—thank you. You were the light when my world went dark.
Now, as I write this, I feel something I didn’t think I’d ever feel again: pride. Not the reckless kind that leads to hubris, but a quiet, steady pride. I’m proud of the person I’ve become, the battles I’ve fought, and the art I’ve created from the ashes of my mistakes. I’m proud of “Cocaine Cola,” not just because it’s a damn good book (if I do say so myself), but because it’s proof that something beautiful can grow from the darkest places.
Recovery is a constant battle, but it’s one worth fighting. And every day, I pick up my sword—or in my case, my pen—and step into the fray. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: the fight is what makes us human. The fight is what makes us whole.
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