We Do Recover

 

There are two types of drunks: the kind who get soft and glassy-eyed, and the kind who snarl like cornered dogs. I was both. A coin flip. Heads: I’m sobbing into the neck of a stranger, talking about childhood dreams. Tails: I’m spitting venom at people who love me, daring them to stay. I drank like I was trying to erase myself—fast and with no mercy. And for a long time, I chalked it up to being “young and wild and free.” You know, that bullshit Bukowski-lite swagger people wear like a leather jacket they’re too broke to dry clean.

But the truth is, I always drank alcoholically. Even when I kept it to weekends, even when I showed up for work Monday morning with my shirt tucked in and my guilt folded neatly inside my chest pocket. I was the poster child for the Jekyll-and-Hyde drinker. You could count on me to show up, but you could never count on who would get out of the car.

In 2020, the mirror finally cracked. I caught my own eyes staring back and didn’t like what they had to say. That was the first time I sought treatment. And it helped. I got into a good relationship. I showed up for life. I kept my promises. For a while, I had my shit together in a way that felt stable, almost like something you could build a life on.

But addiction is a sneaky bastard. It doesn’t bang on your front door—it picks the lock and waits on your couch like it never left. In 2023, I relapsed hard. No poetic way to say it. It was a nosedive straight into the concrete. The wreckage was personal and public, and if you noticed I disappeared from social media, it’s because I was somewhere trying to stitch myself back together in treatment centers. Again.

I’ve been to rehab a few times in the last two years. Not because I’m weak. Not because I wanted to play the tragic artist trope. But because I needed help. Because I needed to learn how to stay sober when life got dark and ordinary and achingly beautiful all at once. And through all that—the relapses, the reckonings, the slow crawl back—there was one thing I never let go of: writing.

Writing was the life raft when everything else sunk. I wrote through detox sweats and group therapy silences. I wrote on napkins, in journals, in the backs of books. Cocaine Cola—yeah, I handwrote that entire thing in rehab. People don’t always realize that some books take years to be released, but they’re born in fire long before anyone reads them. Writing has been the one constant. The thread that stitched me back together every time I came undone.

I’ve lost things. Relationships. Opportunities. Self-respect. And then I’ve clawed them back. Only to lose them again. And again. It’s a brutal dance, addiction. One step forward, two steps off the edge. But I’ve also gained so much—perspective, humility, resilience. And above all, clarity.

I owe everything to the people who stuck with me. My parents, who never gave up on their son even when I disappeared into myself. My uncles, who offered steady hands when mine were shaking. And my best friend Job Pete—my brother in spirit, my anchor when I was drifting.

Today, I’m sober. Really sober. Not just dry. I’m working a program. I’m waking up with purpose and going to sleep without apologies. And more than that—I think I finally reached the point where I got so sick and tired of being sick and tired that there’s no going back. I’m not naive. I know that everything can change in an instant. So I stay vigilant. And I keep writing. Because that’s my compass when everything else gets blurry.

To everyone who’s supported me, who’s bought my books, who’s read my words when I was silent elsewhere—thank you. From the marrow of my bones, thank you.

This journey has been messy, painful, beautiful. I’ve burned bridges and rebuilt them with trembling hands. I’ve hurt people I love, and I’m still doing the work to make amends. Recovery isn’t some gleaming mountaintop. It’s a trail of broken glass and small miracles. And I’m walking it one step at a time.

But if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: rock bottom is a hell of a foundation to build a life on—if you’re willing to do the work.

So here I am. Still healing. Still writing. Still becoming.

And this time, I’m not going anywhere.