The Road Back to Myself

It was the usual—or rather, it was everything but usual.

I’ll start somewhere in the middle of my journey, at the moment when everything changed. It was Saturday, October 19th. By then, I had been intoxicated for three or four months straight, drinking daily without a break. You know how time blurs when you’re in and out of consciousness. It was a relapse—another in a long line of failed attempts to quit. I had tried everything, but nothing worked. This time, though, it felt different. I had lost everything worth living for. There was no will, no spark left in me. I honestly didn’t care—about life, about death. In fact, death felt like a mercy. I believed that was the reason God kept me alive, as some kind of cruel joke. My relationship with Him was strange—I felt abandoned, betrayed. I don’t see it that way now, but at the time, I was drowning in resentment.

I woke up that Saturday like clockwork—too drunk to function, yet not sober enough to stop drinking. I don’t remember what room I was in or how I got there. All I knew was that I needed more alcohol. I got up, bought a drink, and went back to bed. I hadn’t eaten in four days. My nausea wouldn’t let me. I’m sure I had more alcohol than blood in my veins.

That morning, my father—broken, exhausted—stood in front of me and said, “We are taking you to rehab.” I didn’t fight him. I didn’t care. I knew I needed help but had no idea what to do. I wasn’t the type to resist the people trying to save me, but my problem was different. Then again, what is the ‘usual case’ when it comes to addiction? This disease is too cunning to pin down.

I wasn’t a social drinker. I didn’t go to bars or clubs. I thought that was a good thing—until it became my greatest downfall. No one was around to caution me, to intervene. I drank for two reasons: to feel something or to feel nothing. For a long time, I felt nothing. I was numb to everything.

A month before that day, my father lost his most beloved sibling—an aunt I loved dearly. I was there when she died. We were in the village, where my father had taken me to see a pastor to pray for me. When we returned, she was gone. If he hadn’t taken me, he would have been with her in her final moments. That’s why I say my relationship with God is funny—tragic events in my life always seemed to unfold like that. At her funeral, everyone wept. She was so loved. And I, as usual, felt nothing. I knew I was supposed to grieve, but I was mentally, emotionally, and spiritually bankrupt.

Things had been like this for fifteen months. But my problem didn’t start fifteen months ago—it started fifteen years ago, after my first depression as a teenager. I don’t blame my childhood, but I do know that life threw a lot at me, and I concluded early on that existence was just coasting through chaos, a constant train wreck with brief stops of happiness. I did what I was told—passed my grades, played the role expected of me—but I shoved my problems into the darkest corners of my mind, locked them away in a safe, and sank them deep into an ocean of untapped emotions. I vowed never to open that box again. Drinking made sure I never did. It wasn’t even my biggest vice—tobacco was—but alcohol was the key that kept my emotions buried. Even now, I haven’t fully dealt with it. I keep unearthing memories I had forgotten, and each time, I am shocked to realize they actually happened.

Back to October 19th. I packed my things and walked to the car. As I got in, I heard a sound I had never heard before—like an animal being slaughtered. Something had died. And it was true—my father was crying like a child. I had broken a seventy-year-old man. I had been so selfish in my destruction that I hadn’t realized I was killing him too. In that moment, for the first time in months, I had a clear thought: this man actually loves me.

I cried a little as I got into the car. But I didn’t want to exist. I made it my mission not to, at least before I reached rehab. I found a way to drink myself into a severe blackout—something I had perfected. In those final days, I wasn’t even drinking much; I was simply blacking out. My goal wasn’t to be alive, but it wasn’t to die either. Looking back, I realize it wasn’t my body rejecting alcohol—it was my spirit. It was as if God Himself was calling me to stop, to not harm myself any further. (To this day, I am amazed that all my organs are still functional.)

I arrived at rehab, passed out, and was taken straight into detox.

And that was the beginning of something new.

To be honest, addiction is not just about sadness, suffering, and anger. It’s actually about the exact opposite. For anyone confused about why addiction happens—to a relative, a friend, or a loved one—it’s more about a solution to a problem than the problem itself. In fact, the one without the problem is often the confused one, wondering, “How are you always fine with all these issues in life?”

It’s like having a dirty shirt but instead of washing it, you just put a clean one over it. Every day, you add another clean shirt, covering up the mess beneath. At first, it works. But eventually, the layers become too heavy to carry. That’s the cycle. Removing the shirts seems like too much work, so you just keep piling them on, as long as you can still function.

For me, drinking was about balancing everything—happiness, sadness, joy, emptiness. It was like a cure for every disease, a close friend who was always there when no one else was. I loved drinking alone. I was alone but never lonely—that’s something God is fixing in me now. My biggest triggers were loneliness, sadness, and boredom. Stress wasn’t even the issue—I loved working. But quitting? Quitting felt like holding a funeral for your closest friend, the one who had always shown up for you.

And then one day, people come into your life and tell you that this friend is bad for you, as if they were ever there when you needed them. That’s why quitting is so hard. Addiction is the most beautiful and toxic relationship—the fact is that it only ever ends in jail, a mental ward, or death, but somehow, we keep going like those are acceptable options.

Someone might read this and think, “Wow, this is insane.” And I would say, “Yes, it is.” Because at the time, it all seemed justified. It’s a crossroads where your closest friend becomes your worst enemy, and yet, you still find yourself forgiving them every time. If you think an addict drinks or uses to hurt you, you’re wrong. It’s all denial and justification.

To those who still suffer, I partially understand what you’re going through. But here’s the bottom line—no matter how much you justify it, addiction is the most selfish thing you can do to the people who love you. It proves that, in those moments, you never truly cared about anyone but yourself.

For me, this journey wasn’t just about getting sober. Sobriety is just another clean shirt. My journey became about peeling off each layer, washing them, and finally reaching my core—with God as my detergent. If I don’t do this, I will never be free of myself. I was selfish. I have to accept my flaws and cracks and admit that I can’t fix them myself. That’s all I’ve ever done, and has it ever worked? No. I have to rely on someone much stronger than me.

Some might call this religion, but it’s something much bigger. It can only be understood by the individual who is going through it. It’s a broken heart, a shattered spirit, a soul crying out for help but too full of itself to admit it has failed.

Despite everything, I don’t hate drug abusers. How could I? I see myself in them. Some people might be able to handle it, but I had to check out because I wasn’t just using—I was abusing. Along the way, I kept asking myself, “Do I know anyone over 50 who uses excessively and has their life together?” The answer was always no. Either their health, finances, or relationships were falling apart.

It all leads to hell. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when I ended up in a mental ward.

The first months of recovery were a cycle of denial, justification, and rationalization. But the beauty of it all was that, for the first time, I had to face the music—sober. It still surprises me how long it took for my mind to clear, to finally think straight again. It took almost a full month. Every morning, I would wake up and feel just a little more normal than the day before. Yet, the sadness, anxiety, and sorrow were overwhelming—so intense that I often questioned why I had even agreed to come.

But amidst the pain, there was one small victory: I had stopped the bleeding. I could wake up with nothing weighing down my mind, and if something did cross it, I felt powerless over it, no matter how much I thought or worried. There’s a saying: “When the body is trapped, the mind is free.” In that sense, I was freer than I had ever been in my adult life. I was so helpless that worrying lost its meaning—I simply took everything in stride. I call these the “I don’t care” days, but not in a reckless or hopeless way. It was more of a surrender, an acceptance of my reality.

Then, about a week later, my mind cleared enough to start peeling back the layers of myself, taking off the dirty shirts. And that’s when the real pain began. The holiday was over, and the hard work had to start. I didn’t know where to begin because the guilt was suffocating, yet there was no one there to apologize to. The only person I could forgive was myself—but I was also the person I hated the most.

On the outside, I looked normal to anyone who saw me. But internally, I was shattered. My mind raced constantly, yet I lost all sense of time, buried under the weight of everything I had left unresolved. Addiction is so cunning, so deceptive, that it convinces you to sacrifice everything—your job, your family, your finances—just so you can keep using. And the worst part? You believe those sacrifices are justified. After the phase of denial ended, I had no choice but to face reality. That’s when guilt took over. Every single person I had ever hurt appeared in my mind, tormenting me day and night. I was suffering from myself.

And then it hit me—every time I had tried to “fix” myself, I had only been fixing everything around me, never myself. I was the common denominator in all of my problems. Nothing was ever going to change unless I changed me. The 12 Steps became my guide, my roadmap to something greater. I honestly don’t think I would have ever opened another spiritual book if it weren’t for this problem. The program became my doorway to God.

I don’t know about anybody else, but for me, this journey doesn’t work without God—on any level. No earthly power can fix this; otherwise, addiction wouldn’t destroy the wealthy, the privileged, and the successful just as easily as the poor. Addiction doesn’t discriminate—regardless of sex, financial status, country, religion, or ethnicity, no one is immune. So I had to accept that I was no better than anyone, not even the most despised addict I could think of.

How do we glorify drinking competitions and call that normal? How do we walk into a shop every single day and ask for a heart attack? The number of times I almost died and still got up to drink again—it amazes me. I even wrote a death note once, convinced that I wouldn’t wake up.

I had lost my purpose and my will to live. I had a gaping hole in my chest, and I never realized I was suicidal until I asked myself: Why was I drinking to die? I drank to feel nothing, to exist in a void. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, about to fall off—but every time I reached that edge, I just needed more liquor to actually make the jump. And deep down, I think I knew that one day, I would finally get what I was chasing.

I had scored highly on nearly every mental defect, which didn’t surprise me. But at least, for the first time, I had a starting point.

Many call addictions a terminal disease, like cancer, or define it as a descent into insanity. Both are true. But at its core, my addiction came down to one thing—I had a choice, and I kept choosing wrong. For a long time, I justified it. I searched for reasons, blamed circumstances, and convinced myself that it wasn’t my fault. But if I keep pushing my past onto something else, then I am refusing to own it. And if I cannot face my wrongs, how can I ever make them right?

Honesty became my compass. I made a promise to myself—if I couldn’t speak about something openly, then it was still a problem. This simple rule has helped me move past so much. The beauty of recovery is that every journey is different. Who am I to judge how someone else finds their way when I couldn’t even choose the right path for myself?

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: never underestimate the value of fellowship. Someone once told me, “Since we drank in fellowship, we have to heal in fellowship.” That stuck with me. When I arrived in recovery, seeing people who had built lives beyond addiction gave me hope. Watching them move forward, stumble, pick themselves up, and try again—it made me feel normal in an abnormal place. Some inspired me, some discouraged me, but all of them reflected parts of myself. The good, the bad, the broken.

Maybe I was lucky to find the people I did—those who pushed me forward, who made it easier. But at the end of the day, the choice was still mine. I could walk out of recovery unchanged, or I could embrace the experience and learn from it. I treated it like school: knowledge won’t hurt me. They say if you stand outside a church long enough, you’ll hear a sermon. That was my approach. I wasn’t seeking change—I was seeking a different lens.

One of the hardest parts of sobriety wasn’t the withdrawal, the guilt, or even the fear—it was trying to live a normal life. I had to relearn how to enjoy the things I had neglected for years: reading books, playing soccer, watching TV, listening to music. The last time I got sober, I cut all of these things off, thinking they were triggers. But I was wrong. The trigger wasn’t external—I was the bomb itself. And shutting everything off only kept the bomb ticking.

Addiction is a full-time job. It consumes every part of you—your time, energy, thoughts. Sobriety, on the other hand, leaves a giant hole. And in the universe, energy doesn’t die; it only changes form. I had to redirect mine. I started seeing the parallels between addiction and faith. The bar is the church. The camaraderie, the rituals, the loyalty—it all mirrored religion. If I had been willing to drink daily, why not pray daily? That’s when I understood my addiction as idolatry. It wasn’t just a habit; it was devotion to something that was destroying me.

These realizations didn’t come overnight. They were a process, and they are deeply personal. What worked for me might not work for someone else. Recovery isn’t a one-size-fits-all journey—you have to find what speaks to you.

Along the way, simple phrases started making sense to me: Easy does it. One day at a time. In all our affairs. Conscious contact with God. Turning our will over to a power greater than ourselves. They weren’t just words anymore—they were survival tools.

Surrender was my biggest hurdle. It felt like someone was telling me, “Close your eyes, turn around, and trust that after five minutes, everything will be okay.” Child’s play, right? But try it. It’s terrifying at first. And it doesn’t always make sense. But if you pray about it, if you sit with it, it starts to.

I used to believe everything was solvable if I just tried hard enough. That belief had to die. I had to let go and hand it over to something bigger than me. Now, I turn everything over to God as I understand Him—from the biggest struggles, like my finances, to the smallest things, like whether the light in my room is working. Because if I don’t, everything will be my problem.

I do my 50%, and I move on.

This journey didn’t teach me how to survive—it taught me how to live. It’s strange, isn’t it? How could I be the happiest I’ve ever been during one of the toughest times in my life? It all comes down to one thing: hope. Hope that I can be better. A better son, uncle, brother, friend, and cousin. Hope that I can finally show up for the people I love—not just in presence, but in spirit.

For so long, I struggled with acceptance—of others, of myself, of my circumstances. But now, I’ve made peace with who I am. I’ve stopped trying to force my will on life and started surrendering as much as I can. I accept my emotions, both negative and positive, and I hand them over to God. Instead of getting lost in endless thoughts, I focus on my feelings—because thoughts can be changed, but feelings must be acknowledged.

I used to believe that if I fixed everything around me—the job, the relationships, the finances—I would finally feel whole inside. But I’ve learned that it works the other way around. Fixing the inside is the only way to truly change the outside. Just the ability to sit with my family without feeling like I am the problem is enough proof that I’m healing.

I no longer let people steal my peace. The only one who has the power to keep me up at night is God—because He is the one who takes care of everything else.

At many points, I feared that this new version of me would be too different. That I would lose myself. That I would become passive, soft, someone I didn’t recognize. But those thoughts don’t last long anymore because—who cares? There is only one me, and God created me with a purpose. That’s the only identity that matters.

There’s a statistic that says only one in ten people stay clean after rehab. Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not—I don’t know. But it doesn’t mean anything to me. Because there is only one me, and that’s the only statistic that matters.

I don’t know where my life will go from here. I haven’t “succeeded” in anything yet. But I do know this—I am grateful. I am grateful for another chance to live. And for that, I thank God.