It’s 8 a.m. on Saturday. Today marks 19 days of sobriety—a milestone I never thought I’d see. Earlier this month, I hit rock bottom: it started with a severe psychotic episode. Then, only a day after being discharged from the hospital, I relapsed. This time, though, the consequences were devastating. I had a seizure that led to a coma, bringing me closer to death than I’d ever been. They say in recovery circles that the options are jails, institutions, or death, and I nearly found myself at the last stop.
That final relapse was the wake-up call I needed to finally admit I was powerless over my addiction. I’d tried every way I could think of to manage it on my own, but “my way” wasn’t enough. Taking the first step and acknowledging that truth took longer than I’d like to admit, but it was necessary—and it’s neither the start nor the end of this journey.
Recovery, for me, is a combination of many things: it’s admitting I am powerless over drugs, surrendering, reaching out for help, being open and vulnerable, having a sponsor, attending meetings, doing service, and surrounding myself with a supportive community. There’s no manual to recovery; each person’s journey is different. What’s been giving me hope and helping me reconnect with myself is attending meetings. Online meetings have been useful, but in-person ones are powerful. Hearing others share their stories gets me out of my own head.
Since reaching my lowest point, I’ve felt a connection with something greater than myself. While I’m still figuring out what that “higher power” means to me, it’s opened doors I hadn’t imagined. I believe this is my last chance to make recovery work, not only for myself but also for the people who have supported me through this. One day, I want to help others who face the same struggles.
“Surrender” perfectly describes my journey to this point. It took a stay in intensive care, even slipping into a coma, to reach true surrender. For me, that means letting go, trusting others, and finally accepting support. I even asked to be sectioned at my lowest, knowing I couldn’t do this alone. This time, I’m committed to recovery.
Today, I’m going to an in-person meeting, catching up with a friend, and taking care of a few things on my to-do list. If I have the energy, I’ll go for a walk or a bike ride. By the evening, I’m usually exhausted. Just a few weeks ago, I would’ve been awake for days on end, numbing every feeling through using and mindlessly distracting myself. But today, my focus is on healing—one day at a time.
