It’s early January 2021. I’m at my late grandfather’s house with my mother, son, and girlfriend at the time. The house was like a cabin in the country our family would use to get away and relax. It was cozy and warm there in the wintertime.
I had been trying to quit drinking for weeks, failing. Everyone, including myself, was growing exhausted with me and my addictive behavior in particular. I was overwhelmed with depression and anxiety. It was pushing me deep into suicidal ideation harder than it ever had. I had been desperately keeping loved ones close, at my doctor’s recommendation, because of this.
I was waiting for 2 phone calls. One was my on-call doctor my girlfriend made me call because my new depression med didn’t seem to be working and my suicidal thoughts, which I had JUST started being transparent about, scared her. The other was a phone call from the recovery program my doctor was trying to get me into. At this point, I was desperate for the latter.
My girlfriend and I were sitting in the loft and it was uncomfortably warm. She had witnessed the nightmares and been there through the worst of the suicidal depression. I was sharing what I was going through, emotionally/mentally, when the phone rang. I got accepted into the recovery program.
“The goal isn’t to be sober. The goal is to love yourself so much that you don’t need to drink.” -Anonymous
The relief was like a wave and the room just seemed cooler. It was temporary though. The phone rang again and it was my doctor. She highly recommended that I admit myself to the Emergency Room for a voluntary psych evaluation, due to the suicidal thoughts. I tried to tell her that the acceptance call from the program had made me feel better. She persisted, worrying that it was temporary. My girlfriend agreed, knowing my mother, downstairs, was going to be supportive of anything I had to do to get better.
I dreaded walking down those stairs and having to face my mother and son. Admitting myself for mental health felt like a failure at that moment. They had dealt with so much of my addiction and here it was again, ruining a weekend together before it could even begin. I was holding on to so much shame for how I let my addiction affect the people I loved and cared about.
Despite my anxiety, I walked down those stairs and was met with love and support from my mother and son. We all hugged and cried. Then I got in the car and took what could be identified as my first real step into long-term recovery. That hospital trip triggered events that found a depression medication that finally worked, and I did my intake into the recovery program less than a week later.
It’s been roughly three years, to the day, since I took these steps toward freedom. Today, my life is almost unrecognizable in all of the best ways possible. The journey has been a day-by-day path of stepping stones that looked impossible to walk three years ago. But I did it. Today, I’m free.
