This is the beginning of my Journey. Day 1 of sobriety.
Here I am at 23 years old, living in my mother's apartment, out of work, nothing but time on my hands. There wasn't one single moment that led me to where I am, but rather a long string of events. Let's go back to when I was 19 and moved out of my mom's place for the first time. This is not the first time I've tried to get sober. When I was 17 I managed to muster up 10 months sober, then I thought, "I bet I could smoke weed again" so I did. The experience wasn't that great but I stayed away from AA because of the shame I felt. It seemed like everyone was throwing shade at me, like because I only had 24 hours sober, I was somehow tainted and would tarnish their sobriety. So, I went back out.
I was madly in love with my boyfriend at the time and he got accepted into a university in another city. I immediately decided to move to the city so that I could be with him. I started selling weed so I could save up enough money to move and that summer I moved into my first apartment. Moving to Austin, TX was a fresh start for me. I knew few people there and could become anybody I wanted to be. I started diving into my studies. There were sleepless nights fueled by adderall and coffee, but they paid off. After a year at community college I got accepted into St. Edward's University, the same University that my now ex-boyfriend went to.
My academic career became my Identity. I was on dean's list, I was actively involved with organizations; I even charted my own club that (ironically) helped students deal with stress in a healthy and wholesome manner. It seemed like everything was going along smoothly. While this was all happening, I was still selling weed and heavily involved in drug culture. There were times where I went on this "Cocaine Diet." It's this diet where you do so much coke, that you don't eat for two days and then scarf down as many quick calories as possible. I was doing so well in school that I didn't consider that I had a problem. Boy was I wrong.
One day I left my backpack in the library to go to a club meeting. Someone turned it into lost and found thinking that they were doing me a favor. boy were they wrong. I had a single gram of psychedelic mushrooms in my backpack, leftover from a concert I had gone to weeks ago. At first I denied that they were mine but the moment before I went in to talk to the Dean, there was this paralyzing fear of lying. Something took hold of me and I completely surrendered and told them the truth. They didn't care what my excuses were and my parents didn't have the money to pay for "reparations" so I was suspended. They assured me that I could reapply after one semester. I was so livid, upset, distraught, confused that I said "Fuck this school" and I never went back.
At this point, I was on the brink of turning 21. I had completely lost myself. School was everything to me. My high academic standing was the only thing that gave me a sense of purpose, a sense of me. I didn't think that life could get any worse, but I was horribly mistaken. 3 weeks into my suspension one of my closest friends from my hometown had passed away from a drug overdose. The same night that she passed, I stepped on a broken glass bottle that sliced the bottom of my foot open so badly that I couldn't walk for 2 months. It felt like the entire world was crashing in on me. I could no longer feel anything but sadness and then came numbness. I was completely empty. So I started filling myself. I filled myself with drugs, alcohol, sex, adrenaline, ANYTHING that would take me out of myself. This went on for quite some time.
Somewhere along the way I managed to get a pretty stable job working for an Environmental non-profit. It was challenging work, but I was up for it. I would have done anything at that point to get out of the grave I was digging myself into. Environmentalism was weird; somehow, it seemed, that drug culture and environmentalism were somehow intermingled. Because of this combination, I ended up living in cooperative housing or "Co-op" as it's often called. I was all about it. Party as hard as you want just as long as the veggies get watered in the morning. I seemed to have had it made, I built a lifestyle out of using drugs. Everything seemed so normal. That was, until I went down the rabbit hole with psychedelics.
One bad trip changed the way I felt about the world. I had completely lost hope in anything. For about two weeks I would hardly leave my room. The only thing that kept me living were the drugs and even the drugs eventually lost their ability to numb my pain. I decided I was going to end my life. I took somewhere between 15-20 xanax and hoped that I would just fall asleep and never wake up. Well I did fall asleep, but when I woke up, or more like came to, I was in a psychiatric hospital. I remember sobbing at the hospital and asking someone to give me a hug and they said, "no, you smell bad." I completely lost my shit. I barricaded myself in the room and tried to find a way to get out. I wrote "Kill Yourself" all over the walls before they eventually were able to get into the room. I spent the next 5 days coming down off the drugs and stabilizing before being thrown back into society. I thought I was ready to go back to the hustle and bustle of everyday life but as soon as I got back to the co-op I had been robbed of all my money. Dealing with drugs all of my "assets" were liquidated. All of my money had been stolen. That night, I had the worst panic attack I've ever experienced and my immediate thought was, "I need a xanax." This was the moment I knew I needed help.
One week later I was on a plane to Los Angeles for drug rehabilitation. I popped the last of my xanax on the plane and managed to get some coke through security. When we landed I boofed the last of my coke. For those of you who are unfamiliar with drug culture, boofing is when you put it up your ass. It's like doing it intravenously, but without the needles or track marks. I bounced around between 3 different rehabs before returning to Houston to live with mother. Both Promises and Hazelden Betty Ford couldn't (more like wouldn't) help me with my mental health issues. I only managed to stay at each rehab for about a week. The third one, Breathe, I lasted a bit longer, but the addict in me still kept screaming ,"Run, RUN, RUN!!" and so I did. I left rehab and was scheduled to fly to Houston the next day. I stayed in a motel 6 and smoked meth within 3 hours of leaving treatment.
When I arrived to Houston, I immediately picked up where I left off. I was sticking needles in my arm just to feel anything other than what is my reality. Today was different. I looked back on everything I had done, everything I was doing, and I completely surrendered. I realized I had to do something different if I want to truly live. I can't say that I don't regret my past, but I accept it, for it is those experiences that have made me stronger. I thought I was an empty shell but I am now filled with a spiritual presence. I see new meaning in life. We are here to love and create. It is genetically written in us to create new life. I no longer feel the need to numb my pain, but embrace it as just another sensation that makes me feel real. Who know's If I'll stay sober, but I've created this vision board to help me remind myself of what I'm here for.
