Drugs promised love and gave him nothing; choosing sobriety gave him everything, especially the chance to be the father his daughter will never forget. His mother once drove him silently to a run-down trailer park, parked, and pointed. “Keep going like this; this is where you’ll land, if you’re lucky.” She was crying. He was scared. He didn’t know if she was taking him to rehab or jail, only that the road he was on was closing in. He started young. At ten or eleven, he tasted his mom’s wine and didn’t gag; he loved it. By thirteen, he was getting high and drunk on whatever he could find.
When weed, booze, or pills weren’t around, he huffed paint or chugged stolen cough syrup. At fourteen, he was in handcuffs for stealing his mom’s bike. He ditched school, slept on benches, ran with people living on the street, and stole from his parents to feed the habit. A drug test came back positive for cocaine; pills were found in his backpack. His parents were out of answers. At fifteen, they sent him to wilderness treatment.
The following year was a revolving door treatment, relapse, sober living, and being kicked out. At sixteen, he quit high school and moved out. He worked just enough to scrape by and used even harder to numb everything else. At seventeen, he fell into a lightning-fast love with a girl who partied like he did. She was unmedicated bipolar; the relationship was fire and gasoline. They clung to and tore each other down, fighting, lines, makeup nights, and apologies that never stuck. They called it Bonnie and Clyde; it was closer to Romeo and Juliet with a hangover.
Alcohol had only one setting for him: blackout. No spins, no puking, just more. Mornings came with shakes that only another drink could quiet, and arrests came every few months when he wouldn’t stop until someone in a uniform made him. After two weeks in jail, he chose rehab again, his fourth time, did ninety days, moved into sober living, and made it ten months. Then he relapsed, and in thirty days, his life fell apart faster than ever.
He knows his wiring. The first drink flips a switch in his brain, and the craving eats everything else: love, work, promises, and common sense. He won’t stop until he’s stopped. This time, “stopped” was Glenwood County Jail. He walked out wearing one shoe, blood on a ripped white T-shirt, a few crumpled dollars and three cigarettes in his pocket, and no memory of the arrest. He was broke, homeless, and terrified of his own mind. The mental tug-of-war to not pick up again was minute-by-minute, breath-by-breath. He had reached a bottom that felt deeper than all the others benders, bottles, motel rooms, blown pupils, and a whisper that he was a lost cause. He stood at a fork: go back and maybe never make it out, or fight like his life depended on it. He chose to fight.
Years into sobriety, at eight years clean, the urge blindsided him. The old voice returned with brand-new excuses. His heart said no; his head sold lies. He walked to his daughter’s crib. She was sleeping, perfect and small. He stood there and wept. If he couldn’t stay sober for himself in that moment, he would for her. She needed a sober dad; that was the only way she’d get the father she deserved. The craving passed. He still believes she saved his life that night, even if she never knew it.
He’s been sober since June 24, 2010. Life isn’t flawless, but it’s nothing like the chaos he came from. The kid who couldn’t keep a job has a career he’s proud of. The man who was selfish and lost now owns sober living homes and gives back to people he understands to his bones. The person who slept on benches owns a house and pays the bills. Best of all, he’s a present father. Of everything he’s built, the title he cherishes most is “Dad.”
