When I arrived at the sober house, everyone was welcoming. I noticed a surprising number of people from Jersey, which gave me a small sense of home, even as I started to feel completely out of my element.
I settled into my room, but the familiar boredom crept in fast. There was no structured schedule—just nightly check-ins by the pool and minivans shuttling us to meetings. It felt more like a sorority house for addicts than a place for real recovery. There wasn’t a clear leader, just whoever had the most sobriety—which, in reality, wasn’t much.
I tried to stay optimistic, but looking back, I couldn’t seem to apply the coping skills I had learned. When cravings hit, I didn’t know how to stop obsessing over them. At first, I had nowhere to go and no idea where to find anything, but that wouldn’t last long.
Over time, I found my group—a couple of girls from Jersey, one addicted to crack, the other to heroin. We were all just faking it, trying to hold on. Days were spent exploring the area and looking for jobs; nights were filled with meetings. One thing I appreciated was how different Florida meetings felt compared to Jersey. Back home, meetings were mostly older people, making it hard to relate. In Florida, everyone was my age.
As I approached 30 days sober, the cravings hit harder than ever. Every night, drug dreams tormented me—I’d get so close to using, only to wake up right before I could feel the numbness. The cycle was starting again.