She picked me up from school thirty minutes late. Drunk. Again. We went to the same bar in the plaza where she always drank. She handed me a roll of quarters so I could play pinball, and we stayed long after the quarters were gone. I would beg her to leave, but I knew from experience it was useless. Later, as we drove home, I clutched my stomach the whole way, terrified of what she might hit—or, perhaps worse, that she’d end up in jail again. Once home, I would cry myself to sleep, silently promising myself that I would never be like her. I would have a family, children, a life free of her chaos. I dreamed about my father—someone I’d never met—rescuing me. I was certain he existed somewhere, missing me, ready to love me in a way she never could.
At fourteen, I got my chance to test that theory. She was on her way to prison; a warrant hung over her head, and it was only a matter of time. Knowing this, she whisked me away on a summer-long road trip from Texas to Oregon to meet the man I had been dreaming about since I could remember. By that point, I was drinking every chance I could get. I had started the summer before, attempting to scare her into sobriety by chugging a bottle of liqueur myself. It didn’t work—if it scared her, she never showed it.
I remember the first time I saw him vividly. It wasn’t what I expected. There were no fireworks, no instant connection. He felt like a stranger—because he was. The very next day, she was arrested in Oregon, turning the transition into something far from smooth. I lived with him for the next year and a half, and through it all, he remained a stranger. That aching longing to feel wanted, to feel loved, lingered—and maybe even deepened. By fifteen, after a massive falling out, I left. He had wanted me to be “normal,” not realizing how broken I was, or how the hole I thought he could fill only fueled my anger.
The partying escalated from there. By sixteen, I was pregnant with my oldest daughter. I dropped out of school and spent the next three years trying to fill that emptiness—through my first husband, and, of course, alcohol. It never worked. The rage remained. Hoping to reclaim some sense of love, we had another baby, thinking it would solve the growing distance between us. It didn’t.
When our son was six months old, we separated. I joined the Army, where my alcoholism escalated into a full-blown pill addiction. It was tragic, because the Army offered structure, camaraderie, and security—the very things I craved. But I wasn’t sober. Pills became my solution for every ache, anxiety, and sadness. I quickly learned to manipulate the doctors, and drinking was widely accepted among my peers. Ironically, my mother was the only one to voice concern, but I wasn’t about to listen to her—‘pot calling the kettle black,’ I thought bitterly.
Leaving the Army, I was more broken than ever, carrying trauma and a pill addiction. I had another addiction, too: men. Always seeking to fill the emptiness with someone else, only to feel more hollow than before. After a series of failed relationships, I became involved with a man battling his own addictions. He introduced me to new drugs, keeping me so foggy I couldn’t see the abuse happening to my son. One morning, the police came to arrest me for a robbery I’d committed while high. That night, after my arrest, my son was put into a coma by the man I had trusted, and my ex-in-laws found him blue and unconscious. He was life-flighted to Portland, spending three weeks in the ICU. Unable to see him, I sank deeper into addiction, and stayed there for two years.
I packed up my belongings, threw them into storage, and lived homeless with another ex-boyfriend. One night, after drinking, we fought, and I was arrested again. When I got out, he was gone. Released with a group of people, one man caught my eye, and I followed him to the coast. There, I plunged further into meth, stripping to maintain the habit, eventually turning to prostitution when money ran short. I no longer cared about myself, the emptiness, or feeling anything at all. I wanted to die, but even death felt unreachable.
I tried treatment at the VA once, though I didn’t really want sobriety—I just wanted warmth. During that stay, I remember crying out to God: “God, if you’re real, why have you let this happen? Why me?” That night, I felt His answer, nearly audible: “I’ve been walking with you through it all along; I’ve never left you.” It was November 2013. I didn’t stay sober then—not yet—but I was close.
Months later, after being kicked out of rehab over an argument, I returned to the streets, prostituting to fund my habit and hopping from dope house to dope house. Most of the men were married, seeking an illicit escape, and their presence only reinforced my disgust—both for them and for myself. One night, a man named John reached out. What began as a transactional encounter turned into something different. We talked. I shared my story; he shared his. He was years sober and believed I could be too. Infatuated, I stayed sober for him at first, terrified to lose the connection. Though controlling and unhealthy at times, our relationship sparked the first genuine change I had felt in years.
After six months, I became pregnant with our daughter. The pregnancy was difficult; he was abusive. When she turned six months, he tried to take her from me. By God’s grace, after nearly two years of recovery and a brutal, four-day custody battle, I retained custody. A few years later, my older children returned to me as well. I can’t take full credit; while I did the work, I know my Higher Power guided the outcomes.
Today, I have five years and nine months sober from any mind-altering substance. I’ve worked to heal the brokenness that drove my past choices. Sometimes I stumble—last year, rushing into a marriage that was annulled three months later—but I’m growing. Recovery is not instant. I had to create a new normal, a new life, and a new me. I can no longer use trauma as an excuse. I have choices now, and I accept accountability for my actions.
I still navigate PTSD, anxiety, and depression, but I face them without substances or unhealthy relationships. That hole I once carried is now filled with God and recovery, unshakable. Promises I never dared dream are coming true, and more continues to manifest as long as I show up for myself. I got sober for a man, I stayed sober for my baby, and now I stay sober for me.
