Three relapses. That's the truth of it.
In the beginning, the rooms helped me. They gave me structure, something to hold onto when everything felt like it was slipping. But somewhere along the way, they started to bring me back—not forward. Back to days I don't remember, and days I wish I could forget. Back to the version of myself I don't recognise anymore.
I became someone I never thought I'd be. Drinking until I lost myself completely. Saying things, doing things, showing parts of myself that should have been protected. Then it escalated—cocaine, blow, whatever was there. Before I even realised what was happening, I was gone. A three-day bender, completely detached, ending up asleep on a random person's couch in someone's ma's sitting room.
The shame of that... it stays with you. It's heavy. It's the kind of memory that creeps in when things get quiet.
But that's not where my story ends.
I'm sober now. Back on track. Not perfect but present.
I'm happily married. I have five kids who know me as I am today, not who I was in those moments. I'm studying criminal law in a private college and helping others in ways I once needed myself.
That didn't happen by accident. That happened because I chose to come back. Again.
Recovery isn't clean or easy. It's messy. It's humbling. It will bring you to your knees if you let it but it will also give you a life if you fight for it.
And I did fight for it.
Life does come back but only if you grab it. Only if you decide, even after everything, that you're not done yet.
Because the truth is, not everyone gets that chance.
I did.
And I'm not wasting it.
S xxx