Sometime between 9 and 10 a.m. on August 14, 2023—exactly three years ago today—I woke up in the woods not too far from my home.

If you’ve read any of my work, you probably already know how I ended up there.

If you haven’t, stick with me. You may just find out.

When I started writing on Substack almost four months ago, I had a plan. I wanted to start in those woods and give people a play-by-play of what happened next—a journey into a new life, or at least a new version of myself. One where I figured out how to live sober.

Since then, I’ve written a lot.

I’ve written about the hospital. Detox. The mental health floor. Rehab. My first meetings. Going back to work. The uncomfortable conversations. The anxiety. The overthinking. The small victories. The moments when I wasn’t sure what the hell I was doing.

But today is different.

Today, I’m going back to the beginning.

The woods.

Almost three years ago, I woke up early one Monday morning in the woods behind my house.

And no, I wasn’t camping or out for a peaceful nature walk.

I’ve been told I mumbled something along the lines of:

“I just wanted to die.”

Not exactly my finest moment.

But honestly, those slurred, half-coherent words may have saved my life.

I’m still not entirely sure why I said them. Maybe I was trying to make the situation less awkward. Maybe it was one last thing I could blame on the alcohol.

Or maybe, somewhere underneath all the booze and destruction, there was still a part of me that wanted someone to know I needed help.

While getting into the back of the police SUV, I made another comment that probably didn’t help my case.

I pointed out that I thought it was the first time I’d ever ridden in a cop car without handcuffs.

Not my best choice of words.

From there came the emergency room, the ICU, detox, nurses, medication and a lot of questions.

I vaguely remember waking up every so often just long enough to take medication before drifting back out again.

Wake up.

Pills.

Sleep.

Repeat.

Lying there, barely functioning, I remember thinking about how many people like me end up in emergency rooms every day because of drugs or alcohol.

How many nurses and doctors see the same faces again and again.

How exhausting that must be.

How frustrating it must be to try to help people who, from the outside, look like they’re destroying themselves on purpose.

At the time, I didn’t understand how much those people were doing for me.

I do now.

Eventually, the focus shifted from keeping me physically stable to figuring out what was going on inside my head.

The questions never seemed to stop.

“Do you know who you are?”

“Are you having thoughts of harming yourself or anyone else?”

“Do you own any firearms?”

“Do you live alone?”

“Does anyone close to you own guns?”

The doctor explained that when someone considers or attempts to take their own life, they need a thorough mental health evaluation before they’re released.

Looking back, that hospital stay almost feels like a strange kind of head start on sobriety.

I’ve joked with people before that it felt a little like using a “cheat code” when they ask me how difficult it was to stop drinking.

Don’t get me wrong.

Staying sober is still hard.

But I didn’t have to wake up the next morning and immediately make the decision to stop drinking.

The hospital had already removed that option.

For several days, I simply had to survive.

And then came the mental health floor.

I remember sitting in a wheelchair as reality finally started settling in.

I wasn’t going home anytime soon.

The second thing I noticed was another human being in the bed across from mine, tossing and turning under the blankets.

Before either of us even attempted introductions, a nurse stopped in and handed me a daily schedule.

Mealtimes.

Snack times.

Lights out.

Group activities.

Everything was structured.

Then I started walking the halls.

That was an eye-opening experience.

First came a blood-curdling scream from somewhere far down the hallway.

Then I passed a woman sobbing in her doorway.

A few rooms later, another woman was yelling at a nurse to get out of her room.

Near the end of the hallway, a younger man—probably in his late twenties—walked toward me carrying on a full conversation with himself.

At first I thought, Well... at least he’s calmer than the screaming.

On my second lap, his conversation had turned into a full-blown argument, and a nurse had to guide him back toward his room.

That was enough sightseeing for me.

During snack time, a man named Marc finally joined the conversation.

“So,” he asked, “when’d you get to the puzzle factory?”

Apparently, that was his nickname for the mental health ward.

We talked.

I told him what little I could remember about ending up there, and I asked him what sobriety was really like.

At one point he told me the longest he’d ever stayed sober was three years—and that had ended about five years earlier.

That conversation planted the first real seed in my head about outpatient rehab.

Until then, I’d mostly been focused on surviving the hospital stay.

But talking to Marc made something painfully obvious.

Getting sober wasn’t going to magically happen just because I detoxed for a few days.

A couple of hours later, he was gone.

We said goodbye and exchanged phone numbers.

At the time, it felt like the right thing to do.

Although part of me wondered whether two people with nearly identical addiction stories should really be staying in touch.

My guess is we probably should have stayed very far away from each other.

The next morning brought the same routine.

The same doctors.

The same questions.

Then breakfast.

But during breakfast, I noticed something that has stayed with me ever since.

About half the patients—especially the newer ones—looked completely devastated to be there.

The other half, which probably included me by then, looked resigned.

Not comfortable.

Not happy.

Just accepting the reality that this was where we were and this was where we were going to stay for the foreseeable future.

At the time, it was just an observation.

Years later, I still think about that divide.

But the moment that stuck with me the most happened later that night.

Craig looked over at me and quietly said:

“You’re going to be okay.”

Then, after a short pause:

“There’s just something about you. Something that tells me you don’t belong in a place like this. You’re meant for more.”

I didn’t really know what to say besides thank you.

But I’ve thought about those words a lot over the last three years.

And looking back now, I realize that everyone I encountered during that time—the patients, nurses, therapists, instructors and doctors—helped me more than they probably ever realized.

Without them, I honestly don’t know if I would have found the right path.

Or maybe even wanted to.

Eventually, I was released.

And then came the texts.

The voicemails.

The questions.

The shame.

My phone was flooded with messages.

“Where are you?”

“Are you coming in today?”

“Hey, there’s a meeting this morning.”

“Hey, everyone is wondering where you are.”

And plenty of variations of:

“Where the fuck are you?”

I couldn’t deal with it.

I needed to lie down.

I couldn’t even think about listening to the voicemails.

I just wanted to hit the reset button.

Then AJ called.

He wanted to know what the hell was going on. He told me he’d covered some expenses for me and that I’d put him in a bad spot.

For a moment, I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about.

Then I remembered.

About a month earlier, AJ—who works in HVAC—had fixed something for me using his company account.

I was supposed to pay him back in a week.

Two at the most.

Obviously, my priorities had been a little out of whack.

I’d ignored him.

I told him I’d just been released from the hospital and that I was hoping to start outpatient rehab the next day.

That seemed to calm him down.

Then he said something that still makes me laugh a little.

“Holy shit, the hospital, huh? You did seem pretty messed up, but I just thought maybe you had a long day when I was over fixing your AC.”

Even though I felt like I wanted to jump out of my skin, that day was starting to show small signs of improvement.

It moved incredibly slowly.

Snacking.

Trying to figure out what I wanted to watch.

Pacing.

Waiting.

But I made it through another day.

And at that point, another day was enough.

The next morning, I was even more anxious.

It was time to see if I could get into outpatient rehab.

I woke up at 6 a.m. and planned to get there around 7:30.

The website said they opened at 8, so I figured getting there a half-hour early would put me near the front of the line.

It didn’t.

I quickly learned there were rules.

And waiting.

And paperwork.

And questions.

And caution tape.

I needed help.

I’d needed help a few years earlier.

Hell, maybe five or six years earlier.

And now that I was finally trying, there seemed to be a hundred obstacles standing between me and that help.

Eventually, I figured out the system.

Thursday morning, I was up at 5 a.m. and at the rehab center by 5:50.

Nobody else was there.

I stood right in front of that door like there was a Black Friday sale inside.

It was a good thing I did.

By 7:30, there were about eight people waiting.

Apparently, not everyone knew about the first-four rule.

The questions started.

What’s your substance of choice?

Are you currently using anything?

How often?

When was your last drink?

Any other substances?

Any prescription drugs?

When did you start?

Any previous treatment?

Any current withdrawal symptoms?

Eventually came the referral issue.

My first thought was:

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Now I had to go to my doctor and say:

“Hey, I’m an alcoholic, I didn’t want to live, and I need you to write me a letter so I can go to rehab.”

Typing that now, I can see how unreasonable that panic was.

Of course my doctor would give me the referral.

And she did.

No questions.

The office even sent a letter supporting my decision to enter the program.

Before I left, Dean asked me one final question.

Was I serious about getting help?

I said yes.

He nodded.

“Okay. Because you’d be surprised how many people just go through the motions.”

That question stayed with me.

Was I serious?

How could I not be?

But then I thought about Marc.

How many times it seemed like he’d relapsed.

How many people I’d already met who had been through treatment more than once.

The question wasn’t an insult.

It was fair.

Then came outpatient treatment.

Then meetings.

Then work.

Then trying to figure out how to put a life back together.

I went back to a workplace where people knew me before everything fell apart.

Some of them had a front-row seat to at least part of the show.

Maybe they didn’t know exactly what was wrong.

But they knew something was wrong.

You can’t hide that kind of deterioration completely, no matter how functional you tell yourself you are.

My boss laid down the ground rules.

No leaving work during work hours.

No sitting in my car during work hours—not even on breaks.

No going out to lunch with outside salespeople, whether they were trucking reps or supplier reps.

And the big one:

No more drinking.

Zero tolerance if I wanted to keep my job.

I told him I understood.

Then he told me something that mattered even more.

I’d broken his trust.

But he was willing to give me the opportunity to earn it back.

And just like that, I was back at work.

I used to think my thirty-five or forty-minute drive home was perfect for drinking.

Three or four drinks.

Roadie sodies, as I used to call them.

Now I appreciate that same drive for an entirely different reason.

Peace.

Quiet.

Reflection.

I was beginning to settle into a routine.

Work Monday through Friday.

Meetings Monday, Wednesday and Thursday.

Football Saturday and Sunday.

It wasn’t glamorous.

But it was structure.

And structure was exactly what I needed.

At one meeting, people started talking about how many days sober they had.

One person had 120.

A couple were in the 90-to-100-day range.

I realized I hadn’t really been counting.

Most of the time, I was just trying to get to the next day.

When I did the math, I was approaching 60 days.

Sixty days doesn’t sound like much to me now.

Back then?

It felt enormous.

Especially because in my first twelve meetings, I’d already heard five or six people talk about relapsing—some more than once.

There were people who talked about rehab like it was a hobby.

Those stories mattered.

Because I didn’t want to be common.

I wanted to be one of the people who came in, learned the lesson the hard way, and didn’t have to keep relearning it.

One who lived long enough to talk about it.

One who could tell the story not just as a warning about what not to do, but as proof that it is possible to come back.

Even after waking up in the woods.

Three Years Later

And that’s really where this story brings me today.

Three years ago, I woke up in those woods not knowing whether I wanted to live.

Today, I’m sitting here writing about it.

That’s something I don’t take for granted.

When I started writing on Substack, my intention was to start at the beginning and tell the story from there.

I’ve done that.

But I’ve also realized that the story doesn’t really have an ending.

It just has chapters.

The woods were one chapter.

The hospital was another.

Rehab.

Meetings.

Work.

Learning how to live without alcohol.

Learning how to deal with my own thoughts.

Learning patience.

Learning that recovery isn’t just about putting the drink down.

It’s about figuring out what comes next.

And that’s where my writing has taken me now.

I’ve already started my next series, One Week at a Time.

That series follows the final eight weeks of Phase Two outpatient therapy.

I’ll take you through the days leading up to each meeting—the excitement, the anxiety, the overthinking, the days when I couldn’t wait to get there and the days when I wondered why I was going at all.

Then I’ll follow each week with an article about the meeting itself.

It’s a different part of the story.

The woods were about surviving.

The early days were about getting sober.

This next chapter is about figuring out what life looks like once sobriety starts becoming less of an emergency and more of a life.

Three years ago, I woke up in the woods.

I didn’t know where I was going.

I didn’t know what the next day looked like.

I didn’t know if I could stay sober.

Hell, I didn’t even know if I wanted to.

Today, I found out something I didn’t know then.

I don’t need to figure out the next three years.

I just need to keep moving forward.

One day at a time.

One week at a time.

One story at a time.

And if you’ve been reading along, thank you.

If you’re just finding me now, welcome.

This is where the story started.

In the woods.

And somehow, three years later, I’m still here to tell it.

Since it was Tuesday, I didn’t have a meeting. Which meant I didn’t really have anything to do.

I should also mention that I made it home in record time, which shouldn’t have been a surprise considering there were no “roadie sodies” involved on the drive back.

Once I got home, the nervous energy kicked up a notch. I knew I needed to eat, but after that... then what? I tried TV, but mostly I just bounced from app to app, unable to settle on anything. That turned into me getting annoyed with myself, which turned into anxiety, which turned into frustration. At that point, my phone was still the best distraction from my own brain. I played word scramble games and tile-matching games for a couple hours before bed.

Sleep was still a battle. I could fall asleep okay, but staying asleep for more than three hours at a time felt impossible. Then, before I knew it, the alarm was going off and it was time to get ready for work again.

Off to work I went.

That day was pretty normal, and actually a little better than the one before. I didn’t have to deal with the flood of good to see you back greetings, which I had been dreading. Don’t get me wrong — I appreciated the fact that I had clearly been missed and not forgotten. But when someone feels the way I felt at that point, that kind of attention can be a lot to process.

Like I said, the day itself was normal. I was back to handling most of my everyday tasks, and before I knew it, it was time to leave.

Then I headed straight to my meeting.

I remember that particular meeting because a couple things happened that gave me some real perspective about my own situation compared to some of the others in that room.

The first guy to share that night started by telling all of us he had relapsed the night before. He went into detail about arguing with his ex, going for a walk to calm down, and somehow ending up at a gas station buying a shooter and a 22-ounce beer. Then he started crying as he talked about how worthless he felt.

That was a reminder of just how easy it could be to slip.

Then he mentioned that he had only been out of inpatient rehab for a week. Not outpatient - actual rehab. Sixty days clean, and then one week later, gone.

That is some seriously scary shit when you’re brand new to sobriety.

A couple more people shared the usual I’m doing okay, I haven’t had any cravings, things are mostly good. Then came reality check number two.

The next guy said he was not okay and that this might be his last meeting.

Dean gave a nervous little laugh and asked, Why do you say that?

The guy answered, Because I might be getting my ass locked up.

Dean asked what he’d done.

Nothing yet, the guy said. But if I catch whoever’s been stealing from me, I’m going to beat the shit out of them. And then, well... I’ll be going back.

That was when it clicked for me that this guy was on parole and living in a halfway house. I don’t know if anyone in the room knew exactly why he’d been in prison before, but if he was required to be in that program, I could only assume drugs were part of the story.

Other people shared after that, but obviously nothing was topping that. My turn came and went. I talked about going back to work and joked that it was probably a good thing I’d been there so long, because otherwise I might have needed retraining.

I left that meeting with two big thoughts stuck in my head.

The first was that this was not going to be easy, and I needed to do whatever it took to avoid any situation where I might be tempted to slip.

The second was that I needed to be grateful. I had a steady job. I had people there willing to stick with me. I had my own home to come back to. A lot of people take a lot of things for granted, and after that night I realized I had more to appreciate than I had been giving myself credit for.

From that point on, the days started to move a little faster. Maybe it was because I was going straight from work to meetings, or maybe it was because I was finally starting to live inside some kind of structure.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays became my favorite days of the week for the next month.

It wasn’t that I was making lifelong friends in those meetings. It was something else. The structure. The routine. The familiar faces. Learning people’s stories. Hearing pieces of myself in some of them and warnings in others.

It was there that I started hearing ideas for how to fill time with something other than word games and boredom. People talked about journaling, working out, cooking, sports, and hobbies - regular life stuff. Most of it was things I had actually enjoyed in my previous life, before alcohol consumed every bit of energy I had.

I used to work out, and I liked it. But working out isn’t really an option when you’re drunk 90% of the time.

I loved cooking before alcohol stole both my drive and my appetite.

And sports - I loved sports. Baseball, football, boxing, basketball, UFC. But even that had become hard to focus on. Alcohol had taken me and everything around me that I used to enjoy with it.

Hearing other people talk about how much they enjoyed these things, and how those things were helping them stay sober, stuck with me. I didn’t know exactly how I was going to start building that back into my life, but I knew I needed to try.

It wasn’t some instant movie montage where everything just snapped into place. I didn’t suddenly make a plate of wings after a workout and then sit back and fully enjoy a college football game like I’d solved the problem.

It was slower than that.

But I did notice something: I was able to sit through a football game and actually pay attention to it. That was the first thing I could watch for more than twenty minutes without feeling like I needed to get up and get away. I was relearning how to enjoy something. And when I think about that now, it’s kind of ridiculous that I had convinced myself I needed alcohol to enjoy a football game.

Between college football on Saturdays and the NFL on Sundays, the weekends started coming a little quicker. They also started going by faster. I found myself almost excited for game days again. And I say almost because my excitement level was still operating pretty low at that point. But you have to start somewhere.

Honestly, I don’t think I’d be writing this now if I didn’t have something that small to build from.

I was starting to settle into a routine:

Work Monday through Friday.
Meetings Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday.
Football Saturday and Sunday.

Simple, but it was something.

Then the first Thursday in October came. I think it was Week 5 of the NFL season, but that isn’t the important part.

The important part was that I had passed the first phase of outpatient rehab, and for the next two months I would only have one meeting a week.

Great news, right?

Kind of.

I had mixed feelings about it. I had grown used to that three-day-a-week structure, and I didn’t know what I was going to do with all the extra time. At that point in my recovery, I wasn’t prepared for that much open space.

I don’t know if I looked less than thrilled about moving to the next phase or what, but Dean mentioned that if I felt like I needed more meetings, there were plenty of AA and NA meetings around every night of the week.

That was something I’d have to figure out as I went.

That night, while everyone was sharing, a few people brought up how many days sober they had under their belt. One had 120. A couple more were in the 90-to-100-day range. It made me realize I hadn’t really been counting. I guess most of the time I was just trying to get to the next day.

When I did the math, I was coming up on 60 days.

Sixty days doesn’t sound like much to me now, but back then it felt huge. Especially because in my first twelve meetings, I had already heard five or six people talk about relapsing - some more than once - not to mention the ones who talked about rehab like it was a hobby.

Those stories mattered.

I have to give some of those people credit for where I am now. I needed to hear how easy it is to screw it all up. I needed to hear how common that was.

Because I didn’t want to be common.

I wanted to be one of the ones who came in, learned the lesson the hard way, and didn’t have to keep relearning it. One who lived to talk about it. One who could tell the story not just as a warning about what not to do, but as proof that it is possible to come back - even after waking up in the woods.

I started to feel like if I was going through all of that, I might as well try to turn it into something positive.

“I was starting to understand that recovery wasn't just about quitting drinking - it was about learning how to live in all the hours alcohol used to occupy.”

That’s all for now on this part of my journey, I hope you’ve enjoyed.

My next series will be coming out soon.

One Week at a Time it will follow my week-by-week doings through this phase of my recovery.

I entered through the warehouse door just like I had almost every other day for twenty years. But this time it felt different. Scary, even. Like I didn’t belong there anymore.

Thankfully, my desk was close to the door.

I looked around. The guys in the warehouse and the nearby maintenance area were just working like it was any normal day. I had to go into the office to put my lunch in the kitchen fridge. Nobody was in there yet except my boss. I stood there for a second debating whether to head back to my desk or face him right away.

I figured I should just get it over with.

I popped my head into his office and said, “I’m back.

He was genuinely glad to see me. He asked if I was sure I was ready and told me that if I needed anything, or if I started to feel overwhelmed, I should let him know. I told him I was pretty sure I was good to go.

Then he laid down the ground rules.

No leaving work during work hours.
No sitting in my car during work hours — not even on breaks.
No going out to lunch with outside salespeople, whether they were trucking reps or supplier reps.
And the big one: no more drinking. Zero tolerance, if I wanted to keep my job.

I told him I understood.

Then he finished with the part that stuck I had broken his trust, but he was willing to give me the chance to earn it back.

And just like that, I was back at work.

When I walked back into the warehouse, a few people noticed me and came over to ask how I was doing. The attention was a little overwhelming, but what else could I expect? I’d been gone for nearly two months.

To this day, I’m still not completely sure how many of my coworkers know the full story.

Some of them — maybe twenty percent — are either still completely clueless or just don’t want to acknowledge the alcoholic elephant in the room. And honestly, that’s fine. I get that this kind of thing is uncomfortable for some people.

Then there’s the bigger group, probably around seventy-five percent, who know alcohol was part of the problem but don’t know the whole story. I know that because those are the people who occasionally ask if quitting was hard. And when I tell them it was both incredibly hard and, in a strange way, not that hard — because being in the hospital gave me a forced head start — they usually just look confused.

Then there’s the last five percent. The people with the front-row seats. The ones I saw outside of work, or the ones who worked close enough to me to warn me about my speech or my breath.

At the time, those were the people I thought I wanted to talk to the most.

For the most part, they were kind. They understood that the version of me they saw at the end wasn’t the real version they’d known over the years.

But a few people either like to kick someone when they’re down or just have no manners at all.

The ones who felt the need to remind me, an hour into my first day back, that they knew exactly when I used to go out to my car for a quick drink.

I remember one guy laughing as he said, Man, it was like clockwork. Every couple of hours you’d start to look a little shaky, then you’d head out to your car, and boom - you were like brand new.

I didn’t say anything. I just smiled through it and thought to myself: If it was that obvious, why didn’t one of you assholes do something about it? Were you all waiting for the day I didn’t make it in, so you could talk about how you saw it coming?

That’s how I felt then.

Looking back now, I can see their side of it more clearly. I put them in a terrible spot. Who wants to be the one who tells on a coworker? Or in some cases, their boss? It was selfish of me to be angry at them for not knowing what to do with a situation I created.

I eventually got some work done that day. Not a lot, but enough.

Thankfully, I’d been doing that job so long that the work itself came back like riding a bike. I’m not saying I felt at ease — I didn’t. I felt incredibly uneasy. But the actual tasks, the mechanics of the job, were familiar. And that familiarity gave me a kind of comfort I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Later, when some of the second-shift guys started coming in, I got hit with a whole new wave of greetings. All of them positive. All of them awkward for both sides.

I used to think I was lucky to have a nice country drive home — thirty-five or forty minutes, perfect for three or four drinks. Roadie sodies, as I used to call them.

But on that day, I appreciated that drive home for a completely different reason.

For peace.

For quiet.

For reflection.

Everything around me was familiar - the building, the people, the work, the drive home. The only thing that felt completely out of place was me.

Please enjoy Part 4 will be coming soon

The next morning, the reality of going back to work hit differently. I think it was because of one of those dreams — the kind that feels too real — where I was running late because I stopped to pick up something to drink. That alone scared me awake.

I knew I needed to go back sooner rather than later. The longer I stalled, the harder it was going to be to find my footing again. And if I’m being honest, I hadn’t been fully sober at work in almost three years. The last six months were considerably worse. Not that any of it is justifiable — drinking at work, around work, any version of that — it’s all bad. I know that.

It was Thursday. The following Monday was Labor Day, which made Tuesday the obvious choice for my return. Five days to get my head right. Five days to work on something I desperately needed to fix: my sleep. I was running on three-to-four-hour stretches, and that wasn’t going to cut it walking back into an office.

I told myself I’d go to bed right after my meeting that night — ten-thirty at the absolute latest — and hold that line through the weekend. Sleep became my fixation for most of that day. I went down a Google rabbit hole: avoid caffeine, skip naps, only use your bedroom for sleeping, no screen time an hour before bed.

That last one wasn’t a reasonable offer. Television and my phone were my top two hobbies at that point. Hard pass.

The day dragged, maybe more than usual, once it sank in that after that night’s meeting, I wouldn’t have another one until Monday. I want to be clear — it wasn’t that I needed the meeting to keep myself from doing something stupid. It was more that the meeting was a thing. A structure. A place to be. Looking back, I think I first understood how important routine was back in the mental health unit, where the schedule was rigid by design. Outpatient was the only other rhythm I had going, and without it, the days were just open water.

That night the room was a little fuller — a few more people than the night before. I never fully understood how some patients just came and went. Then again, after I hear myself say that it makes complete sense. Addicts not following a schedule — who would have thought?

The previous two meetings I hadn’t been called on until near the end. Not that night. I was first. The opening act.

No big deal, right?

Normally, probably not. But the lead question was what everyone had planned for the holiday weekend. I had nothing, and I wasn’t going to lie. So, I said exactly that — zip, zero, nada. I just didn’t feel like doing anything.

The rest of the room had something going cookouts, family visits, plans. The more people talked about grilling; something started to surface in me. There was a time, not that long ago, when I genuinely loved cooking. Really loved it. I’m good at it. But somewhere along the way, alcohol had quietly consumed that energy too, and I’d lost the thread.

One person mentioned that grilling was going to feel strange without a beer in hand, and that landed. I hadn’t grilled as an adult — not once — without drinking. I didn’t think I was quite ready for that particular test.

After the meeting, a few of the guys were outside smoking, talking about whatever they were bingeing on Netflix or wherever. Standing there, I thought I need something new. Something that might actually hold my attention.

That night I stuck to the plan. In bed before ten-thirty. Not sleeping, but in bed.

I don’t know exactly when I finally drifted off, but sometime around three in the morning I was wide awake again. Nowhere to be for five days, and still my body wouldn’t cooperate. I fell back asleep around five and got another couple of hours — which was something, at least.

Once I was up for good that Friday, I decided to make the day useful. I went outside, pulled a few weeds, even got the weed eater out. But the motivation just wasn’t there. I know how that sounds — like I’m using recovery as an excuse — but I want to be honest about it. Like I’ve said before, if there had been a hole I could have crawled into at that point, I probably would have.

Back inside. I started browsing recipes, thinking maybe cooking would help shake something loose. Nothing sounded good. I was getting genuinely annoyed with myself — no drive, no appetite, no idea what I wanted.

Then my daughter asked for pizza from Gerry’s. Stuffed pizza. And just like that, at least for that night, something clicked.

The pizza was incredible. It’s always good — I know that — but that night it tasted better, because it was the first time in, I don’t know how long that I tasted it sober. I even reheated the leftovers in the oven Saturday for lunch, and that simple thing still sticks with me. At that point, small enjoyments were so rare that each one actually registered. I didn’t fully understand it then, but I do now: every little thing worth enjoying deserves to actually be felt. Every win, no matter how small, deserves to be counted.

The rest of the weekend was quiet. I passed on an invite to a cookout at her mom’s house. I still wasn’t ready for that kind of social exposure — not outside the meetings, anyway. Maybe it was because the meetings had a built-in understanding. Nobody in that room was in a position to judge anyone else, because everyone was too aware that the same judgment could land on them.

Then it was Monday. Labor Day. One more day between me and my return. The meeting that night felt familiar — most of the same faces from week one, people starting to become recognizable, a shared shorthand developing.

But this meeting opened differently.

My name was on a list posted on the entry door. I didn’t read it fully before my stomach dropped. Did my insurance fall through? What did I miss? Then a woman behind me said, oh, look — lucky you. Your turn to pee in a cup tonight.

I slowed down and read the whole thing. Random Drug Screen. Three names. One of them: Brian Smith.

I hadn’t seen this before, but apparently, they run it every other week — more frequently if there are too many failures. I had no reason to worry. But I overheard one of the other guys on the list quietly telling someone he was going to fail.

He wasn’t wrong.

Dean pulled the three of us aside during the break. The guy had smoked weed about a week earlier. He was upfront about it — said he was there for alcohol, and that weed sometimes helped with his anxiety. Dean was direct: this was a one hundred percent drug-free program. Not just alcohol.

When it was my turn to share, my news was returning to work. I don’t think the others fully understood I’d been out since my stay in the mental health unit, but for me it was significant. It was my next marker.

Later that night she asked how the meeting went. I told her about the drug test, and about the guy who failed. She was less surprised by the test itself than by the fact that someone in the program had kept using. Then I mentioned — and I want to be clear, before the hospital, when I was trying to cut back and couldn’t go more than three or four hours without a drink — I had briefly considered it. I’d heard it might take the edge off. It was never my thing; I’d smoked occasionally when I was younger and it just didn’t do anything for me.

She was surprised I’d even brought it up. But I think what actually surprised her was the honesty. After the track record of the past however many years, a straight answer wasn’t something she was used to from me.

That’s a fair reaction.

Bedtime came. The nerves about going back didn’t help what was already a fragile sleep situation. By 5:30 AM the alarm hadn’t even gone off yet, but I was staring at the ceiling. I didn’t need to be up until six-thirty, maybe six-forty-five. But that was close enough. Let’s go.

Shower. Granola bar. Yesterday’s leftovers packed for lunch. Then I was on the road — a drive I had made almost every weekday for nineteen or twenty years.

But it felt different this time.

I was about to walk back in front of people who knew me before everything fell apart. Some of them had a front-row seat to at least part of the show — maybe not knowing exactly what was wrong but knowing something was. You can’t hide that kind of deterioration completely, no matter how functional you tell yourself you are.

The building was the same. The drive was the same.

I was not.

Hope you enjoyed, Part 3 will be available soon

A continuation of Between Detox and Daylight and The Finish Line That Wasn’t

Driving home from my first outpatient meeting, I noticed I had a voicemail. I couldn’t see who had called me. I’d had my phone on airplane mode during the meeting. I called home to see if she had tried reaching me. Nope, wasn’t her.

If you’re wondering why I didn’t just check the voicemail — I could have, but I didn’t want to. I’d recently gone through a backlog of voicemails after my release from the hospital, none of which I ever wanted to hear again. They were nightmare fuel: someone wondering where I’d been, or worse, debt collectors. I had been taking a break from voicemails.

Shortly after getting home, my dad called. It was him — he must have forgotten about my meeting. That was a relief. At that point, it didn’t take much to make me anxious. We talked a bit, but there wasn’t much to say. I was still very socially awkward then. I know it was my dad, but I can’t fully explain it — I just didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Maybe it was embarrassment, maybe guilt. All I know is that if I could have crawled into a cave, I probably would have chosen that over talking to another human being.

The next day I didn’t have much going on. My next meeting was Wednesday, another day away, and I was a week out from returning to work — which, by that point, I was starting to seriously question. They’d told me to take as much time as I needed, but I only had one week of PTO left. I hadn’t been off long enough for short-term disability to kick in, and even then, short-term disability only pays around 40% of your salary. I couldn’t afford more time off.

All that thinking took about twelve minutes of my day. Just twelve more hours and I could go back to bed.

Then she asked me: How was the class?

I told her it was kind of what I expected — nothing special. She asked if I thought it would help. That actually made me stop and think. Yes, I do think it did. And now that I was thinking about it, that was probably the fastest three hours had gone by since I went to the hospital. Keep in mind, my life felt like it was moving in slow motion.

After that brief conversation, I started turning over the previous night’s meeting in my head — what I might say when it was my turn to share next time. At that point, the suspense of an unknown voicemail was the most exciting thing I had going.

Huh. I guess this is how the sober life is, I thought to myself.

Wish I could say the rest of the day just blew by. It definitely did not. The next couple of hours were a lot of pacing and checking a silent phone, I guess just for the time.

Then I did something I hadn’t done since coming home: I said I was headed to the store.

No big deal, right?

Actually, pretty big deal to somebody. My unsupervised trips had been limited to rehab-based outings — except for the Marc situation, which is its own story. She asked if I was sure I’d be okay.

Yes. I have to be. I told her I couldn’t just go back and forth between home and meetings forever.

So, I went.

It was different. When I was drinking all the time I must have just flowed through a store like nothing — in and out, easy. Sober, not so much. I don’t know if it was that particular store or the time of day, but it felt like nobody noticed I was there. Or nobody cared. I’m not saying I needed special treatment, but it seemed like everyone was either cutting me off or stopping dead in front of me, eyes locked on their phones.

When I left, I had a thought that still crosses my mind sometimes. I said to myself: Maybe I died out in the woods, and this is some kind of purgatory — where I can only communicate with the people I care about most. I really questioned that. And that wasn’t the only time I’d feel that way. I’m sure I’ll get back to that feeling at some point, but for then, I just went home, had lunch, watched some Seinfeld, played card games on my phone, and had dinner.

Not the most eventful day. But at that point, I was just trying to get through another one.

The next day was another slow grind, just trying to get close enough to meeting time to justify leaving a half hour early.

The second meeting was similar to the first, but noticeably smaller. Monday there had been nineteen of us. That night, just twelve. My first thought: Oh shit — fewer people meant more time for each of us to share.

Dean opened by asking everyone to share their DOC — drug of choice — and a little background before moving into the usual topic. The most common was alcohol. A few OxyContin and prescription pill addicts. One person for crack cocaine.

I managed to go last. Three or four of the other patients had a lot to say, and I wasn’t complaining. Honestly, their stories were giving me perspective.

Then it was my turn.

My name is Brian. Alcohol was my problem.

Long pause.

Dean asked, and what else brings you here?

I wanted to say, That’s it. But that wasn’t the case.

I went on. I said I’d always — well, not always — been a big drinker, but probably for about fifteen years. For the most part very functional in my habit. But about a year back, maybe a little less, I just started spiraling out of control.

Then they asked what I’d been up to.

I weighed my options. Do I just make something up, or —?

I went with the truth. I told them I’d basically been doing nothing, because I either couldn’t or didn’t know what to do.

A few other patients said they knew the feeling. Then one woman said: It takes time, but you’ll start feeling a little more normal. Just give it time.

And then that was it. Another meeting down.

I felt a little better.

“There's no manual for this part. No orientation, no training session, no guidebook for the days between rock bottom and whatever comes next. You just get through the twelve hours, check the silent phone, make the trip to the store, and sit in the circle long enough to hear someone say the thing you needed to hear. And somehow, that's enough for one more day.”

Part 2 Back to Work Back to Life will be right around the corner

Monday had arrived. I wouldn’t say it was the day I had been waiting for exactly, but the simple fact that later that evening I would be walking into my first session — that was something. I needed things like this. That morning I started feeling like there was a finish line out there and that I could actually see it.

I was nervous. I knew this was something I needed, but I couldn’t stop the second thoughts from creeping in. Then I remembered the mental unit — how people like Marc and Craig had made me feel a little less horrible about my past — and I figured rehab would have the same kind of people. I mean, how bad could it be? I had just been in a mental health unit where more than half the people there didn’t want to be or didn’t think they belonged there. At least the people in that room tonight would probably acknowledge they had some reason to show up.

Most of the day breezed by until around 3, when she had to drop my daughter off at practice. She wished me luck and went on her way. I sat on the couch with something playing on the TV I wasn’t even watching, running through a word find game on my phone, when it buzzed. The rehab center. It was Dean, just checking I was coming tonight. I told him I was ready now. He told me not to be nervous, that I wouldn’t have to share for the first couple of sessions if I wasn’t comfortable. I told him we’d have to see when the time came and that I’d see him in a couple of hours.

Almost immediately after I hung up, the phone buzzed again. A number I didn’t recognize — which had become a regular occurrence over the past week. I didn’t answer. A few minutes later a text came through: Hey it’s Marc. I really need to talk.

Marc was my roommate when I first arrived at the mental health unit. We shared similar stories about what had landed us there. I hesitated to call him back — not because I didn’t want to talk to him, but because this was a guy who had told me he’d been to rehab twice and the mental unit three times. I thought about getting someone else’s opinion. I even thought about calling Dean, but what if he thought I was making the whole thing up? And besides, I didn’t even know what Marc needed. Maybe just a ride. Maybe a phone number.

So, I called. He didn’t need a ride. He sounded like he had been drinking. He said he hadn’t — said it was a combination of new medication and no sleep. He asked me to come by. I told him I didn’t think that was a good idea. He didn’t take that well. He sounded like he was on the verge of tears, so I told him I’d be over as soon as I could and asked him to send me his address.

I walked out too my car three times before I left.

The drive took about twenty minutes. In that time, he texted three times asking if I was on my way. I rang the doorbell and he opened it fast. The house looked like no one else had been there in a while — a recliner, a 55-inch TV balanced on a small nightstand, a PlayStation 4. In the hospital he had mentioned his wife had left but made it sound like she was coming back. Standing in that living room, something told me she never did. Without any support, Marc had gone right back to the bottle.

I asked him if he was okay. He looked at me like I had two heads. Of course I’m okay, don’t I look okay? I told him honestly — no, he didn’t, and that was fine, but I needed him to be straight with me. We went back and forth for about thirty minutes, him asking how I’d been, me saying fine and circling back to are you sure you’re okay. He kept insisting the medication wasn’t letting him sleep.

Finally, I told him point blank: I think you’ve been drinking, and if you’re not going to admit it, I’m going to leave.

Then he said it. When he was released, his wife and son had only come back to collect what they’d left behind.

As he was telling me that, his phone started ringing and there was a knock at the door almost simultaneously. Both of his parents. They gave me a look like I was there partying with him. I quickly explained who I was, made sure they were settled, and got out of there.

By the time I left, I needed to head straight to the center.

I arrived about twenty minutes early. A few people were standing outside on the curb smoking, waiting for the previous session to clear out. As it got closer to 6 o’clock more people showed up — nineteen total in my first session, most of whom seemed to know each other already. A lot of familiar names are being exchanged. Returning members.

I was caught a little off guard when you had to breathe into a breathalyzer before taking your seat. That made me wonder how often someone actually shows up to one of these sessions after drinking.

Dean opened the meeting casually, asking one of the regulars about their weekend and how their sobriety was going. The answers were simple, grounded — yard work, playing with the kids, picked up some shifts. Nobody had close calls or dramatic moments to report that first session. But two things stuck with me from the sharing. One guy mentioned how he had become a professional apologizer over the years. The woman who followed him said she was a professional at relapsing.

Then it was my turn. The whole time everyone else was sharing I had been turning the Marc story over in my head, wondering if I should bring it in. I decided against it — a story like that day one might make people think I was performing. Instead, I talked about the bowling alley, Rodney’s 40th, how shaky and uncomfortable I was the whole time. Kind of like how I felt right now, telling a room full of strangers about my weekend.

That got some chuckles. My nerves eased a little.

Overall, the session was fine. Not scary, but not something I’d put on a list of favorite things to do either.

Sitting in my car before pulling out of the lot, I realized I had been wrong that morning. What I thought was a finish line wasn’t a finish line at all. It was a starting point — for something I couldn’t quite see the end of yet.

Part 5: Nothing Planned, I Think

The next day was Friday — not that it felt like one. Being in the hospital and out of work had stripped each day of its individual meaning. Friday it was though, and I was up early with nothing planned. Or so I thought.

Shortly after 9am the center called. Classes would be Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings from 6 to 9pm, starting Monday. They also asked if I could come in sometime that day to fill out paperwork. Just like that, Friday had a purpose.

About an hour later I headed over. While I was working through the admissions packet, a man named Dean introduced himself — the group facilitator for the night classes at that location. He asked the receptionist to let him know when I finished so he could go over a few things with me.

I thought, what does he want to talk about? I’m already scheduled. What else does he need to know?

Turns out he had questions. Most of them sounded familiar — the same ones that kept circling back during my hospital stay; a few I had just answered the day before. I was starting to think someone somewhere was keeping score, checking to see if my answers ever changed. I don’t think they really did, but after enough repetition I lost track of my own responses.

The last thing Dean asked before I left was whether I was serious about getting help. I said yes quickly. He nodded and said, okay, because you’d be surprised how many people just go through the motions.

On the drive home that sat with me. Was I serious? How could I not be? But then I thought about Marc — how many times it seemed like he had relapsed — and he was just one example. The question wasn’t an insult. It was a fair one.

When I got home, I called my boss to fill him in on the class schedule and ask if I could take one more week. He sounded genuinely glad to hear from me and even happier about the program. He told me not to rush back, that if I needed more time that was fine, and that my job would be there when I was ready. I needed to hear that. I was anxious all the time, constantly trying to find ways to make the hours pass, but going back too soon wouldn’t have done anyone any favors — least of all me.

The day was shaping up okay. Then that night I was reminded — and when I say reminded, that’s exactly how it came to me, because I don’t remember ever being told in the first place — that my friend Rodney’s 40th birthday party was on Saturday. As in tomorrow.

I didn’t feel like going. A long conversation followed: I couldn’t keep myself cooped up at home, being out would do me good, and she would be there for support. That last part was the key, because the party was at a bowling alley slash bar slash OTB — a place that, two days before my first outpatient class, I probably had no business being.

Just like that, Saturday arrived. And with it came a brand-new kind of nervous — one I had never felt before that day but have felt plenty of times since. I shouldn’t have been that nervous, logically. I had my bodyguard with me, my daughter was there, and Rodney and his wife both knew everything that had happened. Nobody was going to be pushing shots my way. And yet — no, still nervous. Words don’t really cover it.

Whether it was luck or very thoughtful planning by Rodney’s wife, she had booked the party room at the opposite end of the bowling alley from the bar. I had distance going for me — not that I thought I could sneak off and drink without anyone noticing but keeping me as far away as possible wasn’t a bad idea.

The bar wasn’t even really the problem though. It was how I felt. Shaky. Nauseous. The shaking made itself known when I tried to pour soda from a two-liter into a plastic cup. My bodyguard noticed and quietly helped. A little over an hour in she asked if I was ready to go. I asked if it was that noticeable.

It was time. I needed the restroom first — which, naturally, was right next to the bar. She said she’d walk with me. I told her that wasn’t necessary. She insisted. I made it without once thinking about making a hard left to lose her, and then it was time to go home.

Looking back, going to that party — even feeling the way I did, even being somewhere I had no business being — was a small step in the right direction. A small one. But at that point, small was what I had, and small was enough.

Hope you enjoyed the 6th and final piece to The Finish Line that wasn’t is just around the corner.

Part 4: The Evaluation

On my way home a few more friends texted to check in and ask how I was doing — pretty good timing. I told them I had an evaluation later that day, an assessment, whatever you want to call it. I’m sure they weren’t totally sure what I meant, but they texted back with encouragement anyway. Little things like that were what kept me going.

I shared the news with my other half and she had questions: Okay, then what? What do you have to do after that? How soon do you start? All things I didn’t have answers to and honestly hadn’t even thought about yet. My mind was locked on the evaluation, on just being one of the first four that morning. So, what was next? How soon will I start meetings?

I knew one thing for sure: I needed to start doing something besides eat, scroll, sleep.

I did a little research on the outpatient center. Looked like one level was three three-hour classes a week, and another level was one three-hour class a week. I probably should’ve waited to ask a human, because my brain immediately jumped to logistics: timing, leaving work early, three days a week — oh shit. I was already burning a lot of goodwill with this extended, unplanned “vacation.” Not a great moment to spiral on hypotheticals. She eased my nerves and said there were likely evening classes. I let that settle.

We ate, watched some TV, and somehow 1 o’clock crept up fast. Of course, the call didn’t come until about 2:15 — but it came. I answered.

“Am I speaking with Brian Smith?” “Yes, that’s me.”

The next thirty minutes were a string of uncomfortable questions:

• What’s your substance of choice?

• Are you currently using anything? How often?

• When was your last alcohol, other substances, or prescription drugs?

• At what age did you start?

• Any prior treatment?

• Any current withdrawal symptoms?

I’ll stop the list there and weigh in on some answers. Alcohol was my SOC. I wasn’t currently using it. The “what age” one stung — I didn’t start drinking heavily until my early twenties, but other drugs… we’d get to that in rehab. Prior treatment? No. Withdrawal symptoms? Definitely.

Then we shifted to mental health and emotional well-being. I was honest: I regretted what I’d said before, and I didn’t feel like I wanted to die, but a few weeks earlier I just wanted the pain to stop. I explained how I didn’t feel right and was carrying anxiety I couldn’t explain.

Health and medical history were short — this was my biggest scare to date. Then family questions: any addiction history, what’s the current living situation — I wouldn’t be able to make sure I wasn’t in a toxic environment.

She asked if I had questions or concerns before we did insurance. By then I had just wanted off the phone. I didn’t ask about a start date, how long, how many classes — nothing.

Turns out it wouldn’t have mattered. She called back ten minutes later: insurance would cover outpatient rehab, but I needed a referral from my primary care doctor.

My first thought: you’ve got to be kidding me. Now I must go to my doctor and say, “Hey, I’m an alcoholic, and yeah, I didn’t want to live — can you write me a letter for rehab?”

Typing it now, I can see how unreasonable that panic was. Of course she’d give me a referral. And she asked no questions. The office even sent a letter supporting my decision to enter the program.

I marked that as another positive. Small, but real.

Be sure to subscribe Part 5 coming very soon

Part 3: Evaluation Day

The next morning, I was even more anxious. It was the day I needed to go to the rehab center and see if I could get in for an evaluation for their outpatient program. I woke up at 6 so I could get there around 7:30 — I had checked the night before to see when they opened, and it said 8am, so I figured a half hour early should be good enough to be one of the first three or four to get evaluated. That was the other thing that had started worrying me: I couldn’t remember if the doctor had told me they only took four or was it only three.

I picked up the pace getting ready and arrived at 7:25. Guess what — there were exactly four people standing outside the doors.

My first thought was just to go home. But then I thought, yeah, likely story — couldn’t get in, too many people. All true, but at the time the source wasn’t very reliable. I decided to wait, telling myself maybe a couple of the people came together, maybe a friend for support, maybe somebody there to babysit. While waiting, I sent a text saying I was there but that there was a chance I wouldn’t get in today and might have to come back in a couple of days.

It turned out all four people were waiting for an evaluation. I would have to come back Thursday morning.

I did get a chance to ask the receptionist how early people usually showed up — but before she could answer, one of the four said they had been there since 6. Awesome, I thought. Then I heard the receptionist asking that same person what time worked best for their evaluation — over the phone. I stopped and asked, “Did you say over the phone? She explained that due to short staffing they were only taking four people twice a week, and they weren’t doing in-person evaluations. For outpatient, due to limited instructors, they were doing remote meetings at the same rate as in person.

That news was not good. I needed help — I needed it a few years ago, hell, maybe five or six years ago — and now I’m finally trying and there’s all these hurdles, all this caution tape. What the hell?

As I got in my car to leave feeling defeated, I noticed a couple of text messages I had missed. They were from coworkers, friends, just checking in. Just like that, I felt a little less defeated. I told them I was out of the hospital and trying to get started on an outpatient program. The responses came back something like glad to hear it and we have your back. The timing of those texts couldn’t have been any better. I went from wondering how the hell I was going to get into a program to realizing there were still people out there thinking of me.

When I got home, I figured it was a good time to call my boss and let him know I was out of the hospital. That call went well. He assured me he had my back — and not just him, he assured me everyone there was behind me. That meant a lot then and still means a lot now.

The rest of that day was about as exciting as the previous ones. Nothing major — eat, scroll, or half-watch something on TV while trying to find a game on my phone that could keep me distracted until it was time to attempt to sleep.

That night, just before bed, I was asked to explain what exactly happened and why I hadn’t been evaluated. I laid it all out, just as it happened, and promised I would go even earlier on Thursday to make sure I was one of the first four. She seemed to believe me. Alright, she said, as long as you’re going back. I told her I was very aware of how much I needed this and that I didn’t think I could stay sober without some professional guidance.

The next day came and went without much change — still anxious, still nowhere close to feeling anything like normal.

Finally, Thursday morning arrived. I was up at 5am and at the rehab center by 5:50. No one else was there. I did it. I stood right in front of that door like there was a Black Friday sale — and it’s a good thing I posted up early, because by 7:30 there were about eight people in total. Apparently not everyone knew about the first-four rule.

When the doors opened at 8am sharp I was the first one in, but three or four others started trying to get the receptionist’s attention at the same time. I thought to myself — oh no. No way. I’m not missing out this time.

I spoke up. “No, no — you all know I was the first one here.”

One very kind woman backed me up, telling the receptionist I was right, that I was already there when she arrived and she was the second one there. I spoke with the receptionist and set up my call time for between 1 and 3 that afternoon. I made sure to thank that woman for her honesty on my way out.

I had a slightly different feeling about leaving there that morning. Something that felt a little like hope.

Keep an eye out Part 4 will be here soon. Thank you

Part 2: What Did I Do?

That first night I hardly slept. I’m not sure if it was because I tried to force myself to sleep at 8pm, or I was just that uncomfortable being home, or it could have been that I needed to call my dad, my work, check who knows how many voicemails. Whatever it was, I couldn’t sleep, and it seemed to take forever for morning to come.

When I finally got up, I decided it was time to start checking voicemails — but before I could do that, I had an incoming call from my friend AJ. I answered. He asked what the hell was going on, told me he could cover the expenses but that I needed to pay him back quickly, and that I had put him in a bad spot. I was struggling to figure out what exactly he had covered, and then it hit me. AJ works in HVAC and about a month earlier he had fixed something for me using his company account. I was supposed to pay him back in a week, two max. Obviously my priorities had been a bit out of whack, so I had been ignoring him. I don’t remember much of that stretch — which is a level of suck that only feelings can measure.

I told him I had just been released from the hospital and that tomorrow I was hoping to get outpatient rehab started. That seemed to calm him down a bit. He said, “Holy shit, the hospital huh. You did seem pretty messed up, but I just thought maybe you had a long day when I was over fixing your AC.” Then he told me that if I could give him something in the next few weeks, he could take small amounts as long as I paid him back eventually. And then he reminded me that he had quit drinking right around the time I first met him. He told me it wasn’t going to be easy, but that I could do it.

I needed that. Those words made me feel a little better than I did before I answered the phone.

The rest of that day had nothing for me to do. Cut the grass? My neighbor had already taken care of those a couple days earlier. I was struggling to sit still long enough to watch any TV. It was like alcohol had occupied most of my time — it was my hobby. As horrible as it sounds, it was all I knew, or at least it was something I did so much that I had forgotten what it was like to just relax and watch a movie or play a game.

Since there weren’t halls, I could pace back and forth like in the Mental unit, I just started strolling around my yard. My dogs seemed to enjoy it — they treated it like some sort of game. Eventually that got boring, and I was asked if I had called my father or my work. I had not called either. I decided I would call my dad and save work until tomorrow, when hopefully I would have some news on outpatient rehab.

That phone call was the toughest I ever had to make to my dad — and that’s saying something, considering I once had to call him from the county jail when I was 12. I didn’t rob a bank or steal a car; I was just picked up for being out after curfew. That’s a story for another time, but my point is this: I was scared at twelve to ask him to come pick me up, and this time I was even more nervous. My dad doesn’t drink and never has, so his view of alcohol was already skewed very negatively.

But after all the worrying, it turned out he was just happy I was out of the hospital and trying to get better.

Even though I didn’t feel great and wanted to jump out of my skin, that day had started to show signs of improvement. The rest of it passed by extremely slow — small bursts of snacking, trying to figure out what I felt like watching — but I had made it through another day.

Hope you enjoyed Part 3 is coming soon

It was just before lunch that day I was picked up from the hospital. The ride was quiet — I mean, what could I say? And even if I had something to start a conversation, it just wasn’t there. Something was different, almost like the first group meeting in the Mental unit. I really didn’t think I could use my words. It was like everything I had built up in the hospital was wiped away by the guilt I had actually facing her in person.

I do remember her telling me I needed a haircut and that that is where we were headed. About 10 minutes later I was getting out of the car and heading to get my haircut. I know this probably sounds ridiculous, but I think at that time I would have rather been back in the hospital than getting my haircut. I like haircuts — typically I even like the small talk between the hairdresser and I — but not that day. I was not ready.

I made it through the most awkward haircut ever and was on my way. Next was a stop at a sandwich shop where the conversation opened a tad — not much, but a tad. I told her I needed to get up early on Tuesday so I could sign up for outpatient rehab. She was still skeptical about me doing anything on my own, but honestly, how was she supposed to trust me to do anything on my own without sneaking a drink in somewhere.

When I arrived home, I discovered my phone had died and for some reason I couldn’t get the charger to plug in right — not the frustrating thing I needed at that time. I was reminded that we had a wireless charger somewhere and I could try that. I found it and it worked, but about two minutes later I wished it hadn’t.

I was flooded with texts and voicemails. The texts gave me a feeling I can only describe as the shame shivers. Most of them were from that Monday morning — “Where are you?” “Are you coming in today?” “Hey, there’s a meeting this morning.” “Hey, everyone is wondering where you are.” — and multiple other variations of where the f##k are you. I needed to lay down. I couldn’t even think about listening to any voicemails. I just wanted to hit a reset button.

A little later there was one small bright spot to my return: my daughter came home. It was the first time I had seen her in almost two weeks, but much like her mother she didn’t have much to say to me besides hi. That was enough. It wasn’t quite 8pm and I headed to lay down.

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Considering I hadn’t exactly spent the week building friendships, I wasn’t sure how this next arrangement was going to go.

My new roommate’s name was Craig.

He was probably ten years older than me — maybe late forties.

At first glance, he seemed fine.

Quiet though.

Extremely quiet.

I’m talking barely-more-than-three-words-at-a-time quiet.

When I walked into the room carrying my things, I introduced myself and tried to break the tension a little.

“I’m pretty easy to get along with,” I told him.

Without even looking up much, he replied:

“I know.”

That was the entire conversation. How could he know?

The rest of the day passed about as normally as life inside a locked mental health unit could pass.

Oddly enough, I noticed I was becoming more comfortable around the other patients.

Maybe Marc had acted as some kind of bridge for me.

Something that helped me slowly settle into the reality of where I was and stopped feeling so isolated.

Part of me also hoped this meant I was entering the final stretch of my stay there.

That night, after lights went out, I climbed into bed and said:

“Goodnight, Craig. See you in the morning.”

There was a short pause.

Then, from the darkness across the room, Craig replied:

“I forgot to mention… I don’t sleep.”

I’m not sure if it was the change of rooms or just everything finally catching up to me mentally, but I didn’t fall asleep nearly as easily that night as I had the previous few nights.

And Craig wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t sleep.

At least, I don’t think he slept.

I woke up two or three different times during the night, and every single time he was either pacing the room or sitting on the edge of his bed fidgeting in the dark.

The next morning still arrived with the same routine.

The same doctors.

The same questions.

Then breakfast.

But during breakfast that morning, I noticed something that has stayed with me ever since.

About half the patients — especially the newer ones — looked completely devastated to be there.

The other half, which probably included me by then, looked resigned.

Not comfortable.

Not happy.

Just accepting the reality that this was where we were, and this was where we were going to stay for the foreseeable future.

At the time, it was just an observation.

But even now, years later, I still think about that divide.

At some point, people either keep fighting the reality of where they are… or they mentally unpack their bags and settle into it.

Later that morning, during one of the group activities, the instructor handed out a worksheet.

It had questions and little tasks for us to complete.

The first section said:

“Name 3 goals for today.”

The second:

“Name 3 goals for this week.”

Then:

“Name 3 people you are thankful for.”

And finally:

“Name 3 people who would miss you the most.”

Oddly enough, the goals section was the hardest part for me.

I honestly don’t remember exactly what I wrote. Probably something simple like:

• Go to all the activities.

• Finish the arts-and-crafts project.

• Exercise or walk laps.

Nothing in life changing.

But that final question hit me hard.

“Name 3 people who would miss you the most.”

It wasn’t hard to think of three people.

That part came easily.

What hit me was realizing the list was probably much longer than that.

At least I hoped it was.

And for the first time in a while, I really started thinking about how selfish my actions had been.

Not in a hateful way toward myself.

Just honestly.

I had become so consumed by my own pain that I stopped fully understanding how deeply my choices could hurt everyone around me.

I think that was probably the whole point of the exercise.

At least, that’s what I took from it.

The rest of the day carried on pretty much the same as the others had, just without Marc around anymore.

I wasn’t isolating myself exactly, but I also wasn’t going out of my way to bond with people either.

I did try, though.

At one point, good old “Sheila Tequila” walked three or four laps around the hallway with me before I suddenly “needed to use the bathroom.”

I gave it my best effort.

That night during the final group session, everyone was asked to share their goals for both the day and the week.

I don’t remember most of what people said, but I do remember one moment very clearly.

One patient mentioned that one of their goals was simply “to be happy.”

The instructor stopped them almost immediately.

Not rudely.

Just thoughtfully.

He explained that happiness was a difficult goal because it’s heavily dependent on outcomes and circumstances.

In other words, happiness often relies on things going your way.

Your team wins the game.

You get the promotion.

The relationship works out.

Life cooperates.

I remember him saying something along the lines of happiness being “result reliant.”

At the time, I thought that was an interesting perspective.

Especially in a room full of people whose lives had recently fallen apart in one way or another.

Later that night, back in the room, I remembered that Craig’s only stated goal for the week had been getting a decent night’s sleep.

So, I finally asked him how much sleep he got.

He told me there were times he’d go four or five days while only sleeping maybe four or five total hours.

Then he explained how he’d seen multiple therapists over the years and had even tried hypnosis at one point.

I never asked what exactly brought him to the same place as me.

At that point, it didn’t really feel necessary.

Because honestly, I couldn’t even imagine what it must feel like to almost never sleep.

That conversation didn’t last very long.

But something tells me it was probably the longest conversation Craig had had with anyone in quite a while.

That night I slept a little better.

I can’t say the same for Craig though.

Every time I woke up during the night, he was either pacing the room or sitting on the edge of his bed staring into the darkness.

The next morning started like all the others.

Doctors making rounds.

The same questions.

The same routine.

Only this time, the doctor looked at me before leaving and said someone would be by later that morning to discuss my possible release.

Honestly, it caught me off guard.

I mean, I knew eventually I was going home.

But after Marc left, I’d kind of stopped thinking about my own timeline. Unless I completely missed something, nobody had seriously mentioned release to me before then.

After breakfast, Craig looked over at me and asked:

“So… what do you think?”

For some reason it took me a second to even process what he meant.

Maybe because Craig barely spoke, so anytime he started a conversation it felt important.

Then it clicked.

He was asking how I felt about leaving.

I remember shrugging a little and saying:

“I think I’m kind of excited… I guess.”

Craig gave a slight grin, and then we went back to our normal routine.

A couple of activities came and went.

Then lunch.

Still no doctor.

And now I started getting nervous.

Part of me wondered if they’d mixed me up with somebody else.

Or maybe somebody had reviewed my chart and decided I needed to stay longer.

What took so long?

I never did figure out the delay, but about an hour later, while I was walking laps through the hallway, a nurse waved me over and led me into one of the empty activity rooms where a doctor was waiting.

The meeting started with the usual questions before becoming much more practical.

Who would I be living with?

Did anybody their drink or use drugs?

Did I feel safe going home?

Did I feel safe being alone?

Then came the final question.

“What’s your plan?”

I paused for a second before answering.

“I’m thinking about doing some kind of rehab.”

The doctor nodded and said something that has stuck with me ever since.

“It’s great to think about it,” he said. “It’s much better to actually do it.”

Then he explained how outpatient rehab worked locally.

Apparently, there could be waiting lists.

And the clinic only allowed the first three people to sign up for evaluations on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

If you showed up fourth, you had to come back another day.

I remember thinking:

Seriously? Even rehab has limited seating?

Still, I appreciated how direct he was being.

The meeting wrapped up quickly after that, but there was one thing bothering me.

He still hadn’t said when I was leaving.

I didn’t want to assume anything, so I finally asked.

He told me a nurse would confirm the exact timing later, but most likely I’d be discharged the next day.

And strangely enough, just hearing that I had a finish line in sight changed my whole mood.

Now, obviously, I understand that getting released wasn’t really a finish line at all.

It was more like reaching a checkpoint.

But at the time, it felt huge.

I suddenly had a little more energy.

A little more hope.

Later, I called home to tell her I’d probably be released soon, although I still didn’t know exactly when.

I also explained what the doctor had told me about signing up for outpatient rehab and how only three people per day could get evaluations.

That’s when something hit me that honestly should’ve occurred to me much sooner.

She didn’t trust me anymore.

And why should she?

After I explained the rehab sign-up process and mentioned needing to be there early, she asked:

“So… you’re going to take yourself?”

That question landed hard.

But I understood it immediately.

For over a decade, I had been stopping at gas stations and liquor stores on my way home from work, hiding alcohol, lying, disappearing mentally even when I was physically present.

Why would she suddenly believe that habit disappeared after a week and a half in the hospital?

No.

I understood completely.

I told her she had to trust me eventually, and if I messed up, that was on me.

I also told her I never wanted to feel that kind of pain again.

But honestly, looking back now, I realize something important about that conversation.

You can’t convince people you’ve changed through words.

Not after years of addiction.

Real change gets proven slowly through actions.

Days.

Months.

Years.

Not phone calls.

The rest of that day flew by faster than any of the others had.

Then, shortly before the final group session that night, a nurse officially told me I’d be released sometime the next morning between nine and eleven.

A few of the other patients overheard the conversation, and suddenly people I’d barely even spoken to were congratulating me.

Some asked if I was nervous.

Others asked if I feared relapsing.

The questions were all over the place, but what stood out most was how genuinely supportive everyone seemed.

People who were struggling still found a way to encourage somebody else.

That stayed with me.

But the moment that stuck with me the most happened later that night.

Craig looked over at me and quietly said:

“You’re going to be okay.”

Then after a short pause, he added:

“There’s just something about you. Something that tells me you don’t belong in a place like this. You’re meant for more.”

Honestly, I didn’t know what to say besides thank you.

But over time, I’ve thought about those words a lot.

And looking back now, I realize all those people — the patients, the nurses, the therapists, the instructors, the doctors — they helped me more than they probably ever realized.

Without them, I honestly don’t know if I would’ve found the right path.

Or maybe even wanted to.

The next morning, just before lunch, I was finally released.

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I was wheeled to my room, and almost immediately another nurse came in to go through the few belongings I had with me.

They had to make sure I didn’t have anything I could use to hurt myself or someone else. No belts. No drawstrings. Nothing sharp. Nothing questionable.

One positive thing was that I’d finally been allowed to change back into my regular clothes. After several days in hospital gowns, that felt surprisingly huge.

Of course, without a belt, my pants weren’t exactly cooperating.

Thankfully, one of the nurses showed me a trick. She handed me a handful of those hospital wristbands, and I looped them together tightly enough to hold my jeans up.

Not exactly high fashion, but it got the job done.

Once the nurse left, I started taking in the room around me.

The first thing I noticed was there was no TV.

The second thing I noticed was another human being in the bed across from mine, tossing and turning under the blankets.

Before either of us attempted introductions, another nurse stopped in and handed me a daily schedule.

It listed mealtimes, snack times, lights out, and all the group activities throughout the day.

Honestly, the place was incredibly structured.

The nurse explained that all the activities were technically voluntary, but “highly recommended.”

At that point, my personal plan was simple: to sleep as much of this experience away as humanly possible.

At least, that was the idea.

The nurse also mentioned we were allowed to walk through the halls anytime except after lights out, so I decided to shuffle around a bit.

Which was probably a good thing, because my legs still felt like Jell-O. Between detoxing, dehydration, and spending days lying in a hospital bed, my body barely felt connected to me.

Walking through those halls quickly became an eye-opening experience.

First came a blood-curdling scream from somewhere far down the hallway.

Then I passed a woman sobbing in her doorway.

A few rooms later, another woman was yelling at a nurse to get out of her room.

As I neared the end of the hallway to turn around, a man — younger than me, probably late twenties — walked toward me carrying on a full conversation with himself.

At first, I remember thinking, “Well… at least he’s calmer than the screaming.”

But during my second lap, his conversation with himself had turned into a full-blown argument, and a nurse had to guide him back toward his room.

That was enough sightseeing for me.

I headed back to my room and sat on the edge of the bed studying the schedule they’d given me.

Then I realized something else.

There wasn’t a clock in the room either.

There were barely any clocks at all. One at the nurses’ station. One near the end of the hall. A few inside activity rooms that stayed locked unless there was a group session happening.

I eventually wandered back into the hallway to check the time, and a nurse spotted me looking around.

“Do you need something?” she asked.

I told her I was just trying to figure out what time it was and guessed dinner was probably coming soon.

That’s when she asked if I had filled out my dinner menu.

I didn’t.

Since I’d transferred during the middle of the day, nobody had given me one yet. She was nice about it, though, and made sure I got a menu, so I’d at least have something to eat later.

Not long after that, I finally met my roommate.

His name was Marc

At the time, that was about all either of us was interested in sharing. Honestly, conversation felt exhausting, and I don’t think either one of us had the energy to pretend otherwise.

In a strange way, we were probably a perfect match.

Later, we had dinner.

I honestly couldn’t tell you what they served. My appetite was still basically nonexistent. They could’ve handed me a steak dinner or a shrimp cocktail and it all would’ve tasted equally bland.

After dinner, Marc returned to his bed.

I think he was trying the same strategy I originally had, sleeping through the whole experience.

I decided to check out one of the evening activities instead.

It turned out to be an open group discussion.

At the time, the format was completely new to me, but looking back now, it was very similar to the AA, NA, and outpatient rehab meetings I would eventually become familiar with later.

People went around the room talking about how their day had gone, why they were there, or whatever else they felt comfortable sharing.

I managed to make it almost through the entire session without speaking.

Then the instructor noticed I was a new face.

I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as dramatic as it feels in my memory now, but at the time it honestly felt like I forgot my own name.

I think I muttered out a quick introduction, but I mostly just remember feeling embarrassed and convinced everyone in the room was staring at me.

Once that ordeal was over, there was a quick snack time followed by about an hour of “free time” before everyone had to return to their rooms for the night.

During snack time, while I sat eating what was probably pudding or Jell-O, Marc finally decided to join the conversation.

“So,” he said, “when’d you get to the puzzle factory?”

Apparently, that was his nickname for the mental health ward.

We made small talk for a while before heading back to the room.

Once we got there, I asked him how long he’d been there.

“Just got here this morning,” he said.

I remember asking, “Wait… so you came straight to this floor?”

Then I hesitated for a second before asking the obvious question.

“Do you mind if I ask why you’re here?”

Marc explained that his wife had been out of town. When she called to check on him, she thought he sounded drunk.

Which, according to him, he was.

He mentioned he was a recovering alcoholic.

At that point, he’d been clean for 130 days.

“This time,” he added.

I remember catching that immediately.

“This time?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve been to rehab twice. This is my third stay in this place.”

At the time, that was a lot for me to process.

But honestly, looking back now, that conversation probably helped me more than I realized.

Marc went on to explain that after his wife got suspicious, she contacted his parents. When they confronted him, he told them that if nobody believed him, he might as well kill himself.

And that’s how we ended up roommates.

We stayed up talking for a couple more hours.

I told him what little I could remember about ending up there, and I asked him what sobriety was really like.

At one point he mentioned that the longest he’d ever stayed sober was three years — and that had ended about five years earlier.

Hearing that really stuck with me.

Because for the first time, I started realizing this wasn’t just about surviving one terrible week.

This was going to be a fight that could potentially last the rest of my life.

From what I remember, I slept okay that first night.

I mean, considering the circumstances, “okay” is probably the best I could’ve hoped for.

The next morning, around 5:30, I got woken up by a doctor standing beside my bed with more questions.

The same questions.

“How are you feeling?”

“Do you feel depressed?”

“Have you had any thoughts about harming yourself or others?”

“Any suicidal thoughts?”

At the exact same time, another doctor was asking Marc almost identical questions on the other side of the room.

That quickly became part of the routine there. Questions. Constant questions.

After the morning evaluations, it was time for breakfast.

I realized I forgot to mention one thing about the place: at the end of every meal, they handed out menus for the next one. You were basically always deciding what you’d be eating a few hours later.

Another thing I’ll never forget was the amount of food they served.

It was unbelievable.

Breakfast alone could include oatmeal or cereal, toast or a bagel or muffin, eggs, bacon or sausage, and sometimes waffles or pancakes on top of all that. Plus, two drinks.

Honestly, it felt like there was enough food for three people.

I guess part of recovery is trying to get people to eat normally again, but at the time it felt overwhelming.

I still barely had an appetite, but Marc warned me that if you consistently refused food, the staff might start watching you even more closely.

So, I tried.

Unfortunately, somewhere between breakfast and the first morning activity, I ended up throwing most of it back up.

My body just wasn’t ready yet.

Truthfully, I still felt awful in general.

Even now, I struggle to fully explain what early withdrawal felt like. It wasn’t just being sick. It felt like my entire body and brain were malfunctioning at the same time.

Everything just felt different.

Still, I went to the activities that morning.

One was some kind of arts-and-crafts session.

The other was another group setting where they played a short video followed by a discussion.

Even though I still felt miles away from normal, having Marc there with me made things slightly easier.

Not comfortable exactly.

Just… less uncomfortable.

By lunchtime, I was finally able to keep most of my food down, and before I knew it dinner had come and gone and it was time for the evening group session.

This one was different.

Instead of the usual open discussion format, the instructor walked up to the whiteboard and wrote:

“Close to Greatness.”

Everybody in the room looked confused.

People started asking each other what it meant.

Then the instructor explained.

“Have you ever been close to greatness?” he asked. “Maybe you know somebody famous. Maybe you met a celebrity or athlete. Or maybe you accomplished something great yourself.”

Then he started going around the room asking everyone to share.

I only remember a few responses.

One woman talked about her nephew playing in the NFL.

Another said she went to high school with a comedian who later became famous.

When it got to me, I debated between two stories.

One was about a childhood friend who had a brief run in professional wrestling.

The other was about a boxing match I attended in Rosemont where I met Chicago Bears players Matt Forte and Greg Olsen, while Vince Vaughn happened to be sitting a few rows in front of me.

I went with the boxing match story.

At first, the whole exercise seemed kind of random.

But afterward, I realized how smart it really was.

For a little while, nobody in the room was “the suicidal guy” or “the alcoholic” or “the woman having a breakdown down the hallway.”

People were just people talking about memories.

And for the first time since arriving there, the room loosened up a little.

Some of those conversations even carried over into snack time.

I remember somebody asking me if Vince Vaughn was a nice guy.

I told them, “He seemed nice enough, but it’s not like we went out to dinner. He was just sitting in front of me.”

Eventually, though, free time ended and everybody headed back to their rooms for the night.

Back in the room, Marc and I talked longer than we had the night before.

We talked about our jobs. Our kids. Normal life stuff.

Then he admitted something.

His wife really wasn’t out of town.

She had left him because she suspected he’d started drinking again.

And according to him, she was right.

After a while, he asked me something I could tell he’d been wanting to ask.

“Why did you want to do… you know…”

He never actually said the word.

I told him I just wanted the pain to stop.

He asked if I meant emotional pain.

I told him no.

Or at least not entirely.

I explained that in the end, I couldn’t even go for a few hours without alcohol anymore. If I tried, I’d start shaking, sweating, and trembling.

Every morning I’d wake up dry heaving so violently it felt like somebody was kicking me in the stomach. The routine of pain had become too brutal.

Then I shared a theory I’d been thinking about.

For years, I believed I was mentally dependent on alcohol. I thought I just needed it to relax or function or get through life.

But during that last six months or so, something changed.

It stopped being mental.

It became physical.

It felt like my body itself had adapted to a certain amount of alcohol being present all the time, and whenever it wasn’t there, everything inside me started breaking down.

Marc sat there quietly for a second after I said all that.

Then he just looked at me and said:

“Damn. That’s scary.”

After that, neither of us had much left to say.

“Guess we better get some sleep,” he said.

And just like that, another strange day inside the puzzle factory was over.

The next morning, I woke up with another doctor asking me the same questions as the day before.

“How are you feeling?”

“Any thoughts of harming yourself?”

“Do you still feel depressed?”

This time, though, I was slower answering.

Partly because I was still half asleep.

But mostly because I was distracted by the strange dream I had just been pulled out of.

It was the first vivid dream I can remember having after getting sober.

In the dream, I was running late for work.

Not just a few minutes late either — extremely late. The clock in my car read 10:30, and I was supposed to start at 8.

But instead of rushing straight to work, I stopped at a gas station to grab something to drink.

And by “drink,” I mean exactly the kind of drink you think I mean.

While I was inside the gas station, I saw one of my coworkers.

They didn’t notice me, but I panicked anyway and left to find another gas station instead.

When I got there, they didn’t have the alcohol I wanted, and I started frantically searching through the coolers trying to find something else.

That’s when I woke up.

The strange part was how guilty I felt afterward.

Even though I obviously hadn’t done anything wrong.

I was still in the mental health unit. I hadn’t gone anywhere. I hadn’t drunk anything.

But for a few moments after waking up, the guilt felt real.

After the usual questions, the doctor noticed I seemed off and asked if I was okay.

I told him I was just tired.

At breakfast, I told Marc about the dream.

He listened quietly for a second before saying, “That sounds like something I actually used to do.”

I remember asking him, “Seriously?”

“Hundred percent,” he said.

That completely threw me off.

Because during the last six months or so before ending up in the hospital, I had started doing the exact same thing — stopping at gas stations on the way to work to buy alcohol just to make it through the day.

Hearing somebody else casually describe the same behavior felt surreal.

Up until then, I honestly thought I was the only person whose drinking had gotten that bad.

The only person who couldn’t even survive a workday without alcohol anymore.

Breakfast came and went, and for the first time in a while, I managed to keep all the food down.

Small victory.

Later that morning, I noticed there was a phone mounted near the nurses’ station that patients occasionally used.

The next time I saw a nurse, I asked if it was available to everybody.

She told me it was, if people were respectful about sharing it.

That immediately made my stomach tighten.

Because I knew eventually, I was going to have to call home.

And honestly, I had no idea what I was supposed to say.

How do you even start a conversation like that?

There aren’t enough ways to say “I’m sorry” after putting the people you love through something like this.

And deep down, I wasn’t sure there ever would be.

I talked to Marc about it later, admitting I was nervous to make the call.

He told me he understood exactly how I felt.

He said he was scared to call his wife too, but if he truly wanted to repair the relationship, eventually he was going to have to pick up the phone.

I agreed with him.

Still, I decided I wasn’t ready yet.

The rest of the day followed pretty much the same routine as before, with one exception.

They started pulling us one at a time for individual therapy sessions.

The questions themselves weren’t all that different, but this time they became much more specific. I’m assuming the therapists had reviewed our files beforehand because they seemed to know exactly where to push and where to dig deeper.

Honestly, I think that helped.

In a group setting, it’s easy to stay guarded because you’re worried about what everybody else might think.

One-on-one felt different.

It felt safer to talk.

At one point, I told the therapist how overwhelmed and exhausted I’d become — how badly I had wanted everything to just stop.

Then she asked me a question I genuinely had never considered before.

“Why didn’t you ever seek professional help?”

That question hit me harder than I expected.

Because I honestly didn’t have an answer.

Why didn’t I?

Why had I convinced myself I had to carry all this alone?

Looking back now, I think part of it was pride.

Part of it was shame.

And part of it was the simple fact that addiction changes the way you think. When you’re trapped inside it, you slowly start believing isolation is normal.

Now I realize there were plenty of people who would’ve helped me if I’d been honest about how bad things had gotten.

People who wouldn’t have judged me nearly as harshly as I judged myself.

But when you’re drunk or high all the time, your brain doesn’t exactly specialize in rational thinking.

That night, Marc and I talked again about the phone call we both knew was coming.

Neither one of us wanted to make it.

But both of us knew eventually we would have to.

The next morning, I actually woke up on my own just before the doctors started making their rounds.

I’d had another strange dream though.

This one was less disturbing and more confusing than the previous one.

In the dream, I had somehow left the hospital and was desperately trying to sneak back in before anyone noticed I was gone — as if casually wandering out of a locked mental health unit and returning unnoticed was something that could realistically happen.

Dream logic is a weird thing.

By that point, life inside the unit had started feeling strangely routine.

And I realize how bizarre that sounds considering where I was.

But even with the structure becoming familiar, there always seemed to be something different each day that reminded you this wasn’t normal life.

That day, for example, two men came into the unit and started meeting privately with patients one at a time.

To this day, I’m not exactly sure what their official titles were or what their exact jobs involved, but the best way I can describe them is that they felt like recruiters.

I know that sounds strange.

And to be clear, I’m not saying they were doing anything shady.

But years later, after watching the movie Body Brokers, they reminded me a lot of some of the characters from that film.

Their whole purpose seemed to be encouraging people to continue treatment after release.

They talked about inpatient rehab, outpatient rehab, AA meetings, NA meetings — basically every possible recovery option available.

Since I was there because of alcohol, they also strongly suggested a medication called Disulfiram.

From what they explained, if you drank alcohol while taking it, it would make you violently sick.

Honestly, most of the information they gave was useful.

The problem was their approach felt incredibly pushy, almost like they were trying to close a sale instead of talking to patients.

Still, both had lived through serious addiction themselves.

One had lost nearly everything during a crack addiction.

The other talked about alcohol and cocaine destroying his family life.

And despite how aggressively they came across; I do think meeting with them helped me.

Because that conversation planted the first real seed in my head about outpatient rehab.

Up until then, I’d mostly been focused on surviving the hospital stay itself. But after talking to them, I started realizing that getting sober wasn’t going to magically happen just because I detoxed for a few days.

I walked away thinking outpatient treatment was probably going to be necessary if I wanted any real chance of staying sober.

Now, of course, that’s an easy thing to believe while you’re literally locked inside a hospital.

But still — seed planted.

As for the medication, I decided against it after overhearing one of the women in the unit casually mention that she used to drink while taking it anyway. According to her, it just meant she couldn’t drink as much.

After hearing that, I figured it probably wasn’t the right fit for me.

Later, I found Marc and told him how my meeting went.

He told me he had finally called his wife and that things were “about as okay as they could be.”

Now, whether he actually made that phone call, I honestly don’t know.

There were a few things that happened later that made me question parts of Marc’s stories.

But at the time, I took him to his word.

And either way, the conversation reminded me I’d avoided making my own call long enough.

Unfortunately, every time I walked past the phone that day, somebody else was already using it.

Finally, after dinner, the phone was free.

So, I made the call.

Honestly, there wasn’t much to the conversation.

I apologized.

Then apologized again.

I told her I planned on entering an outpatient program once I was released.

Then I apologized some more.

At one point I mentioned I’d been transferred to the mental health floor.

She told me she already knew.

Apparently, there was some kind of patient tracking system or website family members could use to see where patients had been moved within the hospital.

Then she hit me with something I wasn’t remotely prepared for.

“You need to thank your dad,” she said.

That sentence felt like getting punched in the stomach.

Through all the chaos of detoxing, hospitals, and mental evaluations, I hadn’t even stopped to think about how this was affecting my dad.

She explained that he had paid our mortgage.

Not just one payment either.

Three months’ worth.

Apparently, somewhere in the middle of my alcoholic spiral, I had stopped paying most of our bills.

I honestly didn’t know what to say.

I think she could hear how overwhelmed I was because she quickly added that she hadn’t told him everything. As far as he knew, I was in the hospital detoxing.

She never told him about me wanting my life to end.

Before hanging up, she also told me she had contacted my employer and planned to stop there to fill out FMLA paperwork in case my leave ended up lasting longer than expected.

By the time the call ended, group therapy had already started, so I walked in a little late.

During the session, Marc talked about speaking with his wife and mentioned he was supposed to receive an evaluation soon to determine when he could be discharged.

I’ll admit, hearing that made me a little jealous.

At that point, I still had no idea where my own finish line was.

But I guess recovery doesn’t operate on equal timelines.

When my turn came, I talked briefly about my phone call and how difficult it had been, but also how it felt like a step in the right direction.

That night, lying in bed, Marc and I shifted away from all the heavy conversations for a while.

We talked about the Cubs and wondered if they were still in first place.

Then somehow, we ended up swapping favorite moments from Seinfeld like two regular guys hanging out anywhere other than a locked psychiatric unit.

Right before we both fell asleep, I asked Marc how long he thought I’d end up staying there.

He thought about it for a second before saying the longest, he’d ever stayed was five days.

“But I’ve heard of people being here for two weeks,” he added.

That was one hell of a final thought.

The next morning started pretty much like all the previous ones.

Doctors making rounds.

The same questions.

The same sleepy routine.

Only this time, while the doctor was speaking with Marc, I overheard him say that somebody would be meeting with him later that morning to discuss his release.

And honestly, hearing that made me nervous.

Not because I wasn’t happy for him.

I was.

But Marc had become the only person I consistently talked to in that place.

Sure, I had little interactions with other patients here and there, but I hadn’t exactly shown up looking to make lifelong friends in a mental health unit.

It just happened that Marc and I had a lot in common.

Now, admittedly, having a lot in common with somebody in a psychiatric ward probably isn’t the greatest achievement in life.

But it was true.

Up until then, patients had come and gone regularly, and I barely paid attention.

That sounds cold, but the truth is I was too wrapped up in my own situation to invest emotionally in everybody else’s.

Still, that morning I noticed the new arrivals almost immediately.

Maybe because I knew I’d probably be getting a new roommate soon.

Or maybe because they were impossible not to notice.

None of the three new patients were cooperating with the staff.

One was a young girl — maybe eighteen or nineteen — crying hysterically and begging for her parents.

Another was a young guy around the same age yelling into the phone that he “didn’t belong in this place.”

And then there was the older woman.

She was unforgettable.

Unlike the others, she wasn’t crying or screaming.

Not yet anyway.

But she desperately wanted everyone within hearing distance to know that her name was “Sheila Tequila.”

I’m completely serious.

That’s what she repeatedly called herself.

And if you made the mistake of engaging her, she would enthusiastically explain why.

The day became more interesting after that.

Just before lunch, Marc and I were walking laps around the hallway when a nurse stopped him and said someone was waiting for him in our room.

And immediately I thought:

Well… here we go.

I guess I’m about to figure out what this place feels like alone.

Marc returned to lunch just before it ended with a grin stretching across his face.

Turns out he was being released in a few hours.

“Wow,” I said. “Congratulations.”

Then he told me he’d “put in a good word” for me.

Whether that was a thing or not, I have no idea.

But I appreciated the thought.

That afternoon, I continued going to the group activities while Marc mostly stayed back waiting for everything to be finalized.

Sure enough, a couple hours later, he was gone.

We said goodbye and exchanged phone numbers.

At the time, it felt like the right thing to do.

Although part of me also wondered if two people with nearly identical addiction stories should stay in touch. My guess is we should probably stay very far away from each other.

I figured time would answer that question eventually.

Almost immediately after Marc left, a nurse told me I’d be moving rooms.

Apparently, two new female patients were being admitted, so they needed to rearrange roommates to make space.

And just like that, I was getting another roommate.

Perfect. Part Three coming soon. Subscribe so you don’t miss out

Almost three years ago, I woke up early one Monday morning in the woods behind my house.

And no, I wasn’t camping or out for some peaceful nature walk.

I ended up there through an alcoholic haze and a very real desire to just go to sleep and never wake up again.

But for some reason, I woke up.

I still don’t know how long it took me to crawl and stumble my way out of those woods. In my condition, it felt like forever. My legs barely worked. Everything was wet and muddy. Every step felt impossible.

Somehow, I made it out.

At the time, I had no idea this would only be the first of many difficult things to come.

When I finally stumbled out of the woods, I saw my neighbor — who is also one of my closest friends — standing there with my daughter’s mother. We’re not married, but after this many years together, calling her my “girlfriend” feels weirdly inadequate.

The look on both of their faces was some combination of worry, anger, disappointment, and shock.

I’ve been told I mumbled something like, “I just wanted to die.”

Not exactly my finest moment.

But honestly, those slurred, half-coherent words may have saved my life.

My friend helped move me into the garage and shut the door before my daughter left for school. He didn’t want her to see me like that.

Inside the garage, he had questions. Fair questions.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“What happened?”

“Why would you do this?”

The truth is, I don’t remember much from that conversation. My memory of that entire morning comes in fragments. But I’ve been told I kept repeating that I just wanted it all to be over.

Once my daughter left for school, he helped me back inside and told me to clean myself up.

It was Monday morning, and somehow my brain was still stuck on the fact that I was already two or three hours late for work.

As if work still mattered at that point.

I was standing in the living room when I noticed a police car slowly driving past the house.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. I mean, I hadn’t hurt anybody except myself. I’d scared the people who cared about me, sure, but you can’t go to jail for falling apart… right?

Turns out, somebody — my sort-of father-in-law — had called the police and asked them to do a wellness check.

Like I said earlier, those incoherent words I muttered in the driveway may have ended up saving my life.

The officers had questions too. I answered them the best I could… I think. Honestly, it’s hard to remember.

Eventually, they suggested I go to the hospital for an evaluation.

They made it clear it was technically my choice, but by then I knew I probably needed help, even if I didn’t fully understand what that meant yet.

So, I agreed.

I do remember asking one of the officers during the ride how long the evaluation would take.

He said, “Probably overnight at most.”

I remember thinking there was no way it would be that simple.

Turns out, I was right.

It ended up being a little longer than overnight.

When we arrived at the hospital, I couldn’t even walk. I nearly fell trying to get out of the police SUV, so they had to bring out a wheelchair just to get me into the emergency room.

Once inside, they transferred me onto a gurney.

A lot of what happened next is still spotty. Some moments are crystal clear, while others feel like pieces of a dream I can’t fully put back together.

At one point, though, I remember overhearing — or at least I think I overheard — one nurse say to another, “There’s no way he hasn’t had alcohol since 11 last night.”

That must have been one of the many times they asked me when my last drink was.

Honestly, I have no idea how I even came up with an answer. At that point I barely knew what planet I was on, let alone what time I’d stopped drinking.

Then came another conversation that has stayed with me ever since.

Again, maybe I really heard it. Maybe my mind was filling in blanks. I honestly can’t say for certain because of the condition I was in. But I remember thinking I heard one nurse say she didn’t know why they let “people like this” take up hospital beds and staff time when they’d probably just end up right back in the ER a few weeks later.

Whether those words were spoken or not, they stuck with me.

Lying there, barely functioning, I remember thinking about how many people like me end up in emergency rooms every day because of drugs or alcohol. How many nurses and doctors see the same faces again. How exhausting that must be. How frustrating it probably is trying to help people who, from the outside, look like they’re destroying themselves on purpose.

And honestly, part of me agreed with them.

I had done this to myself.

There are people who end up in hospitals through no fault of their own, and there I was because I’d spent years drinking myself into the ground.

At some point during all of this, I was moved to the ICU.

The next couple days are mostly a blur.

I vaguely remember waking up every so often just long enough to take medication before drifting back out again. Wake up. Pills. Sleep. Repeat.

Eventually, I woke up long enough to notice what was going on around me.

The first thing I remember clearly was how thirsty I was.

But when the nurse brought me water, I couldn’t even hold the cup myself. My hands were shaking so badly she had to hold it for me like I was a toddler. Every time I tried on my own, water spilled everywhere.

At the time, that felt humiliating.

Looking back now, I probably should’ve been more embarrassed about what landed me in the hospital than the withdrawals themselves. But shame works in weird ways. Sometimes the small humiliations hit harder in the moment than the larger truths surrounding them.

And unfortunately, that wasn’t even close to the most embarrassing thing I would go through over the next few days.

Since then, I’ve heard people say the physical pain of withdrawal is nothing compared to the shame and regret you carry afterward.

I think there’s a lot of truth in that.

While struggling just to drink water, I noticed I had two bracelets on my wrist. One had my information on it. The other said:

FALL RISK.

At the time, I didn’t think much about it. It’s not like I was planning on going anywhere. They literally had to wheel me into the hospital.

Apparently, though, somewhere between fading in and out of consciousness, I had attempted an escape.

To this day, I have no memory of it.

Honestly, I’m not even sure how I could’ve physically gotten out of bed. But one of the nurses later told me I had tried to leave, which explained why there was now an alarm attached to my bed and a full-time nurse practically babysitting me around the clock.

The next morning, shortly after waking up, a nurse asked what I wanted for breakfast.

I didn’t have much of an appetite, but I picked something simple — scrambled eggs and a sausage patty, I think.

While I waited for the food, a woman came into the room and started asking me questions.

That would become a recurring theme.

Over the next several days, I answered the same questions repeatedly, just phrased slightly differently depending on who was asking.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Do you know who you are?”

“Are you having thoughts of harming yourself or anyone else?”

“Do you own any firearms?”

“Do you live alone?”

“Does anyone close to you own guns?”

The questions never really stopped.

Around this point, my memories start becoming clearer. Not perfect, but clearer.

A couple days later, I was moved out of intensive care and onto another floor of the hospital. I think the room change happened sometime between breakfast and lunch.

At one point, a male nurse was assigned to watch me.

He was actually pretty cool.

I remember us watching the Little League World Series and talking about the Cubs for a while, almost like two normal people having a normal conversation.

Then, almost casually, he mentioned that he thought it would be in my best interest to spend some time in the hospital’s mental health unit before going home.

A little later, he told me a psychiatrist would eventually come speak with me and ask whether I thought I needed treatment there.

He made it sound like it was technically my choice.

But then he looked at me and said something along the lines of, “It’ll probably go a lot better for you if you agree.”

I remember asking him, “What happens if I say no? You think they’ll make me stay anyway?”

He paused for a second before reminding me why I was there in the first place.

Then he said he genuinely thought it would help me, even if I didn’t believe I needed it yet.

After he put it that way, I didn’t really have to think about it for very long.

A couple hours later, a doctor and a therapist came into the room to talk with me about extending my stay at the hospital.

They explained that they believed it would be in my best interest to transfer to the mental health unit for further evaluation and treatment.

Even though I already knew the answer, I still asked the question anyway.

“Is this because I said I wanted it all to be over?”

The therapist told me that was only part of it.

Then the doctor said something that, looking back now, made a lot of sense.

He explained that anytime someone considers or attempts to take their own life, it’s extremely important they receive a thorough mental health evaluation before being released. In my case, most of my time in the hospital so far had been focused on detoxing and stabilizing me physically.

At the time, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about extending my stay.

But the more I thought about what he said, the more I realized he was probably right.

Looking back now, I almost see that hospital stay as a strange kind of head start on sobriety. I’ve even joked with people before that it felt a little like using a “cheat code” when they ask me how difficult it was to stop drinking.

Don’t get me wrong — staying sober is still hard.

But being stuck in a hospital for days, cut off from alcohol while doctors monitored me around the clock, forced me through the worst part before I really had the option of changing my mind.

Not long after that conversation, a nurse came in to help move me to my next stop.

I could walk in short bursts by then, but I was still shaky and unsteady, so they brought a wheelchair anyway.

As we got off the elevator, I immediately noticed the receptionist’s desk and the locked doors behind it.

The nurse swiped a key card.

The doors buzzed open.

Then came another locked set of doors requiring another key card.

That was the moment it really hit me.

This wasn’t just another hospital floor.

This place was secure.

Maybe “high security” isn’t technically the right term, but at the time, that’s exactly what it felt like.

Up until then, everything had happened in a blur — the woods, the police, the ER, the ICU, detoxing, nurses, endless questions. I’d mostly just been surviving moment to moment.

But sitting there in that wheelchair, staring at locked doors opening one at a time, reality finally started settling in.

I wasn’t going home anytime soon.

Part Two coming next week. Subscribe so you don’t miss it