addiction recovery

I wrote this piece recently and have submitted it to a few places for publication and to a writing competition. I’m still waiting to hear back, but I realized something while I was waiting: I don’t really want to wait to share it.

I didn’t write this because I wanted an editor to tell me it was worth reading. I wrote it because I was trying to put words to a feeling that can be incredibly difficult to explain, especially to someone who has never experienced it.

So I wanted to share it here, with this community.

Maybe you’re still somewhere in the water yourself. Maybe you love someone who is, and you’ve never understood why they can’t simply “keep swimming.” Maybe you’re a mental health provider trying to understand what profound despair can feel like from inside the person experiencing it. Or maybe you’ve already found your way back to land.

Whatever brings you to it, I hope you take whatever part of it belongs to you. ❤️🌊

***The Ocean Was a Pool***

Yesterday, someone confided in me that she could not fully grasp the emotional reality of wanting to end one’s own life. It’s a sentiment that is often difficult to convey to those who have not experienced such profound despair.

The only way I knew how to explain it was to tell her about the ocean.

I swam a lot as a child. Once, I was caught in a current and began drifting out to sea. At first, I kept swimming. Swimming had always been fun, and I believed that if I just kept moving, I would eventually find my way back.

But then it stopped being fun.

The shore moved farther away. My body grew tired. I could see the people on the beach, and they could see me, but the distance between us kept growing. Eventually, lifeguards had to come and pull me from the water.

Despair feels like that, except it feels as though you have drifted too far for the lifeguards to reach you in time. You keep swimming because everyone tells you to. Keep fighting. Keep going. Hold on. So you fight the current until your body cannot fight anymore. Then you try to float, but eventually you become too tired even for that.

And you go under.

Underwater, there is pressure everywhere. You cannot breathe. You cannot see the bottom, the shore, or the people calling your name. There’s only darkness and the crushing weight of the water.

Except you do not drown.

You do not necessarily want death itself. You want release. You want the pressure to stop. You want one moment when fighting is no longer required of you. But even that release remains beyond your reach. Death does not come; relief does not come. Life continues without feeling like something you have been allowed to live. So you remain beneath the surface. You are alive, unable to breathe, and in excruciating pain.

Eventually, the pain becomes numbness. You stop feeling it, but you are still underwater. You can stay there for years, suspended at a depth where sunlight barely reaches, believing there are only two choices.

Sink or swim.

Then, somehow, the light breaks through.

For a moment, it reminds you that a surface still exists. So you fight again. You kick and reach until you catch one breath. Just one. Then the current drags you back under. Night after night, you repeat this. You fight. You surface. You breathe. You sink. Then one day, you reach the surface and remain there long enough to look around. That is when you realize the ocean is no longer an ocean.

It is a pool.

Maybe it was never an ocean at all. Maybe it only felt endless because the pool was so deep, the bottom was invisible, and you had spent so long unable to touch anything solid.

The water is still real. So is the exhaustion. So are the years you spent beneath the surface. But the distance is no longer infinite. There is an edge somewhere, and there are people waiting beside it. They may not know how to swim. From the shore, they call your name and reach across a distance their arms cannot cross. They want to help, but some are afraid the current will take them too.

Others can only watch, carrying the guilt of standing on solid ground while you fight for every breath. Their inability to reach you does not mean they do not care. It means they cannot enter the water without risking being lost in it themselves.

So you swim toward the edge.

Not because you deserve to struggle alone, but because you have to get close enough to reach the hands extended toward you. You have to pull yourself from the water before anyone can help you recover from what it took to survive there.

And that is what I did.

I swam.

I found the edge, took hold of it, and pulled myself out.

At first, even the air felt foreign. Breathing hurt because my lungs had learned to survive without a full breath. Feeling again hurt too. Emotions that had been numbed beneath the water returned all at once. The sunlight was almost too bright after so much darkness, and the quiet felt unfamiliar without the roar of the current surrounding me. Even peace felt strange.

But beneath that unfamiliarity was relief.

I sat there while droplets of water gathered on my skin and disappeared, little by little. I did not force them away. I let the sunlight dry me naturally. With every drop that evaporated, my body learned that it no longer had to accept the pressure of being underwater as normal.

Then I placed my feet on the ground.

There was something solid beneath me at last. I could feel the warmth of the sun against my skin. I could smell the trees. I could see color, shape, and substance in everything around me. The world was no longer a distant image distorted by water.

I took my first steps back onto land.

Other people could not heal me, but they could support me while I healed. They could sit beside me while I learned how to breathe again. They could bring warmth, offer steadiness, and remind me that I did not have to return to the water simply because it was the only place I had known for so long.

I am still learning how to live on land. Sometimes it rains. Sometimes water rises around my ankles. Sometimes a storm soaks me completely and, for one frightened moment, my body remembers the cold, the darkness, and the pull of the current.

But rain is not an ocean.

Even if I become wet again, even if another storm comes or the ground briefly floods, I will remember that there is earth beneath my feet. I know what the water is now. I know where its edges are. I know that darkness can distort the size of a place and make a pool appear endless.

I once believed survival meant never going beneath the surface again. Now I understand that survival means remembering that the water has an edge, even when I cannot see it. It means trusting that solid ground still exists, even when I cannot feel it beneath my feet.

Storms may return. I may feel the current pulling at me again. But I no longer mistake every flood for an ocean.

I know how to swim. I know my way back to land.

And that is how the ocean became a pool.

I’m Not Just an Addict. I’m a Person Trying to Survive Myself.

#Addiction #MentalHealth #AddictionRecovery #RiseAboveYourNorm

So far, I have collected the following that apply to me... (Ridiculous, I know)
#52SmallThings
#Abuse
#Addiction
#AddictionRecovery
#ADHD
#AlcoholDependence
#AlcoholUseDisorder
#Anxiety
#Arthritis
#BackPain
#BingeEatingDisorder
#bipolar2
#bipolar2disorder
#bipolardepression
#bipolardisorder
#brave
#buddhism
#bursitis
#cannabis
#cannabiscorner
#cannabisdependence
#cannabisusedisorder
#caregiving
#cbd
#chaos
#childloss
#chronicpain
#complexposttraumaticstressdisorder
#conditionguides
#cptsd
#depression
#depressivedisorders
#disability
#eatingdisorder
#eatingdisorderrecovery
#eatingdisorders
#emotionalwellbeing
#grief
#growthmindset
#healing
#healingjourney
#hope
#hospital
#hypomania
#hypothyroidismunderactivethyroiddisease
#ifyoufeelhopeless
#innerpeace
#insidethemighty
#insomnia
#journaling
#kindness
#lgbtq
#lifelessons
#loneliness
#lonely
#mania
#mentalhealth
#mentalhealthmatters
#mightyminute
#mightymoodtracking
#mightypets
#mightytogether
#mindfulness
#mooddisorders
#nicotinedependence
#obesity
#osteoarthritis
#othermentalhealth
#pain
#perimenopause
#personalgrowth
#positive
#posttraumaticstressdisorder
#programs
#psychosis
#ptsd
#recovery
#relationships
#selfcare
#selfharm
#selfharmrecovery
#selfreflection
#socialanxiety
#spoonie
#staystrong
#stimulantusedisorder
#substancerelateddisorders
#substanceusedisorders
#suicidalideation
#suicidalthoughts
#suicide
#support
#surgery
#thehealingprocess
#thoughts
#toxicfamily
#trauma
#traumarecovery
#weed

Everyone looks down on the addict in active addiction. Everyone has something to say when the DTs start, when the withdrawals hit, and when someone is literally falling apart right in front of them. People are quick to write someone off, throw them away, and act like a drug addict is somehow less than human.

But the second addiction gets a doctor’s signature, a prescription bottle, and a fancy program name attached to it, suddenly everybody wants to look the other way.

Let’s be real…..
If the “MAT PROGRAM” was really created for the addict, then why is it designed to keep so many people in it for YEARS? If the goal is to help fight addiction and prevent relapse, then why does the answer seem to be keeping people dependent instead of helping them learn how to live free?

Why do doses continue to increase the longer someone is in the program? Why are we offering this program to incarcerated individuals while dangling time off or credit served for participating in a 6-month program?

If we are really “SUPPORTING OTHERS IN ACTIVE RECOVERY,” then why are people spending years incarcerated, getting released with a prescription in their hand, and being sent right back into the same world they came from without the tools to actually survive?

Because let’s talk about what nobody wants to talk about.

What happens when that prescription becomes more valuable on the street than it is in their recovery? What happens when someone trades or sells it and goes right back to chasing the same thing that almost killed them?

Then when that person is found unresponsive days later, everybody wants to say, “Well, that’s just what addicts do.”

Because now we aren’t talking about the program anymore. We aren’t asking questions. We aren’t looking at what failed. We just blame the addict, call them a junkie, and move on.

Let’s talk about recovery centers.

Why are so many okay with pushing this as the discharge plan? Why are we acting like this is the only answer? Why are so many facilities staffed with program participants who are still relying on the same program they’re promoting?

Because the reality is, some people working in these programs are one missed clinic visit, one disruption, one wrong turn away from needing a detox bed themselves.

And nobody wants to talk about that.

How are we supposed to have honest conversations about recovery when questioning the system gets treated like attacking the people in it?

How is this any different than what happened with Oxy in 1996. Big Pharma came in claiming they had something that would help people, something they said wasn’t addictive, and we all know how that story ended. That was a huge part of what fueled the opioid crisis we are still dealing with today.

So why are we not allowed to ask questions now?

If this program was really designed to help the struggling addict, why wouldn’t we build it around helping people get through detox, survive early recovery, learn coping skills, rebuild their lives, and eventually stand on their own?

Recovery is supposed to be about freedom.

It’s supposed to be about getting your life back.

Not replacing one chain with another and convincing everyone it’s sobriety.

When I was seven years old, my life changed forever. At an age when most children are focused on school, friendships, and discovering who they are, I experienced a thalamic brain injury. At the time, I did not fully understand what had happened to me. Neither did many of the people around me. What followed was a lifetime of challenges that often seemed invisible to others but affected nearly every part of my life.
The thalamus is a small but important part of the brain that helps process information, regulate attention, and connect different areas of the brain. Because of my injury, I struggled with things that many people take for granted. Social situations could be confusing. Judgment and decision-making were often difficult. Stress affected me more intensely than it seemed to affect others. I frequently felt different without understanding why.
As I grew older, these challenges followed me into adolescence and adulthood. I often experienced frustration, isolation, and low self-esteem. I knew I was trying hard, but my efforts did not always produce the results I expected. Sometimes people misunderstood my behavior or assumed I was lazy, careless, or unmotivated. The reality was that I was navigating life with a brain injury that many people could not see.
Like many people living with neurological injuries and emotional pain, I eventually turned to drugs and alcohol. At first, substances seemed to provide relief. They helped me escape feelings of inadequacy, loneliness, and frustration. For a while, they made it easier to ignore the challenges I faced every day. But over time, addiction created even greater problems. What began as a way to cope became another obstacle standing between me and the life I wanted.
Addiction affected my relationships, my decision-making, and my ability to move forward. It deepened many of the struggles I was already experiencing because of my brain injury. Yet even during my darkest moments, there was a part of me that wanted something better.
Recovery was not a single event. It was a process. It required honesty, accountability, support, and perseverance. I had to learn healthier ways to manage stress, emotions, and daily challenges. I had to accept that my brain injury was part of my story without allowing it to define my future.
One of the most significant parts of my journey has been understanding competency. For many years, people focused on my limitations. Competency is often viewed as a fixed trait, something a person either has or does not have. My experience taught me something different. Competency can be developed, strengthened, and restored through support, education, rehabilitation, and personal growth.
Today, I understand myself far better than I did as a child. I recognize how my brain injury affects me, and I have learned strategies to work through those challenges. Recovery from addiction has shown me that change is possible even when the odds seem overwhelming. My journey has taught me resilience, self-awareness, and determination.
I share my story because there are many people living with brain injuries, addiction, and questions about their abilities. Too often, they are judged by their struggles rather than their potential. I want others to know that a diagnosis, a mistake, or a difficult chapter does not determine the rest of their lives.
Growing up with a thalamic brain injury was not easy. Addiction made the road even harder. But recovery has shown me that growth is possible, competency can improve, and meaningful change can happen. My story is not simply about injury or addiction. It is about resilience, perseverance, and the belief that people can continue to learn, grow, and contribute no matter where they begin. #BrainInjury #AddictionRecovery #MentalHealth #Neurodiversity

Working in recovery has been the most rewarding and challenging job I’ve ever had. It’s added so much to my life and pushed me to grow in ways I never imagined. At the same time, it’s shown me exactly who I don’t want to be.

I’m far from perfect. I fall short more often than I care to admit. I can be impatient, stubborn, and occasionally convinced I’m right when I’m absolutely not. But becoming a Behavioral Health Tech has been nothing like I expected when I first applied. Some days I feel like I climbed into a time machine and got launched straight back into the 8th grade cafeteria.

The cliques are real. The gossip is real. The endless play-by-play of who isn’t doing their job is real. There are days when it feels like more energy is spent keeping score on each other than helping the people who walked through the doors looking for hope.

And if you’re not part of the “it” crowd? Don’t worry. You still get included in conversations you just won’t be there when they’re happening.

I was recently told the reason for this is because many people are still fresh in recovery. Maybe there’s some truth to that. Maybe hurt people sometimes act like hurt people. But that explanation left me with a bigger question: what exactly does recovery mean anymore?

The Twelve Steps haven’t changed. The book hasn’t changed. The directions are still written exactly the same way they were when this thing started. Yet somehow over the years we’ve become comfortable picking the steps we like and stepping right over the ones we don’t.

We want the freedom of recovery without the inventory. The peace without the amends. The fellowship without the service. The spiritual growth without the uncomfortable parts that actually produce it.

Somewhere along the way, it feels like we’ve gotten really good at quoting the program and not nearly as good at practicing it.

Because when I got sober, recovery wasn’t about who had the best job title, the biggest friend group, or the most opinions. It wasn’t about finding a new social hierarchy after putting down the drugs and alcohol.

Recovery was about learning how to live. Learning how to be honest. Learning how to sit across from another broken human being and say, “Me too.”

The AA rooms that saved my life weren’t perfect, but they were filled with something special. There was a fire in those rooms. Not the kind that burns people down! the kind that warms people up. The kind that made a newcomer feel welcome before they felt worthy. The kind that reminded people they weren’t alone.

You could walk into a meeting carrying shame, guilt, fear, and enough emotional baggage to require its own baggage claim ticket, and somehow leave feeling lighter than when you walked in.

People didn’t save my life because they had all the answers. They saved my life because they cared. They listened. They shared their experience. They loved me when I was hard to love.

Lately, though, it feels like some meetings have become more about belonging to the right crowd than belonging to the fellowship. Like we’ve traded sponsorship for social circles. Service for status. Principles for personalities.

Maybe that’s not true everywhere. Maybe it’s just what I’ve been seeing lately.

What I do know is this: I didn’t stay sober because someone impressed me. I stayed sober because someone loved me when I was hard to love. Someone listened when I had nothing worth listening to. Someone reached out their hand and expected nothing in return.

That’s the recovery I want to be part of.

Not the one keeping score.
Not the one building cliques.
Not the one deciding who’s in and who’s out.

Just people helping people stay alive long enough to find a life worth living.

And maybe that’s the question worth asking: if a scared newcomer walked into our meeting, our treatment center, or our workplace today, would they leave feeling judged or would they leave feeling hopeful?

Because that’s the recovery that was freely given to me. And that’s the recovery I hope we never stop passing on.