sober-living

I would have sold myself short

I often think about how much I would have missed out on if I’d gotten what I thought I wanted when I was younger. My life would be so small and I would be so lonely if I’d have had my way.

In my youth, when I first got clean and sober, in my depression and my pain, I had given up on hope and on happiness. I hated people and I wanted to hide. I did hide.

I hid in my anger, my pride, and my self-centered fear. I did my best to push everyone away and I longed for the day when I could be alone and independent enough to stay that way. I wanted my life to match how I felt inside.

But over time, as I did the spiritual work necessary to get and stay clean and sober, my life started to change. As I healed and began healing my past to the best of my ability, my heart started to open up, and my world started to open up.

Now, many years later, I look at my life in disbelief. It hasn’t been all great. There have been some really difficult times over the years. I’ve experienced pain, loss, and even moments of spiritual and emotional desperation.

Through everything though, I can honestly look at the life I have now with a sense of amazement and gratitude. It is so much different than I hoped or imagined. I am so much different than I hoped or imagined. At times it’s more complicated and more difficult than I would prefer, but it is also more full and rewarding than it would be if I’d gotten what I thought I wanted.

Left to my own devices, I would have sold myself short. God knows I tried to.

I assume it was grace

Thirty days before my nineteenth birthday, I entered rehab. Looking back, I still don’t know how I found the courage to go. At first, I was willing because I had nowhere else to turn. I had no home to speak of. I was barely getting by, working at McDonald’s, making enough money to eat and get high. 

I had been sleeping on friends’ floors and couches for a while, and occasionally in my car that had expired tags to match my suspended license. My mom had let me back in her home for a short period because I was too sick to take care of myself, but I had worn out my welcome once again, especially as far as her husband was concerned. I was running out of options. 

One night, at a Pizza Hut, my parents got together for the first time since their divorce, sat me down, and told me I needed help. My dad’s insurance would cover me going to rehab and they were giving me one last chance to turn my life around. Of course, I was angry and belligerent. This perceived betrayal was more fuel for the fire of resentment and self pity that burned me from the inside out. I said I needed time to think about it and I left. 

I knew I was in trouble. If I rejected their ultimatum, I would have nowhere else to turn. With the exception of one or two people, I had burned all of the bridges that I had crossed. I called one of my last friends up, a girl I met through drugs and drinking, and with whom I lived for a while when I dropped out of school and ran away from home. She had just recently gotten out of rehab and, as soon as she was out, we were drinking and getting high together. 

I told my friend what was going on and she came to get me, or at least I assume she did because all I remember is the two of us sitting on top of Federal Hill, smoking weed, and talking about rehab, and I know I didn’t drive there. I told her my sob story, we commiserated for a while, and then she said, “It might be good for you to take a break for a little while. Go to rehab. It’s like a vacation. I’ll be here when you get out. But, if you don’t want to go, you can stay with me at my mom’s house.” 

Her mom lived in the city. We used to go there to get high with her and she would buy us alcohol, but she was into some things even I wouldn’t touch. She had a drawer full of pills and smoked crack from time to time. That stuff always scared me. Although, with the way I was headed, who knows how many of my “nevers” were really just “not yets.” 

My friend’s offer was tempting. It was a way out. If I accepted, it meant I had a roof over my head for a while longer. It meant I could keep running. But I was worn out. I was tired and beaten. I told her I’d think about it and she took me home. 

What happened next still baffles me. The next day, I called my father and told him I would go to rehab like he said. I guess I was done, but I don’t know how or why. I don’t know what it was that gave me the power to make that decision when I had another option. The only explanation I have is that it was grace. 

My father contacted his insurance company, they set everything up with the facility, and gave me an intake date. I didn’t fight it. Thirty days before my nineteenth birthday, I was driven to rehab and I was given a chance that many do not get. I was given the opportunity to start my life over and, even thought I’m convinced that it was some kind of divine intervention, I took it.