For the first few weeks back home, I went to meetings with my dad every day. I tried the steps again, got a sponsor, and told myself I was really going to commit this time. But just like so many before me, the moment it got hard—I stepped back.
I started convincing myself that Florida was still the answer. But this time, I wasn’t going back to the halfway house. It’s almost ironic looking back—when I left Florida the first time, I knew I needed more structure. Yet, when I made the decision to return, I chose less.
A friend from the halfway house was getting her own apartment and asked if I wanted to come stay with her. It felt like the perfect opportunity. A fresh start, but on my terms.
So, once again, I sat down with my parents… ready for the talk. By now, I think we were all exhausted—me from my constant push and pull with addiction, and them from riding the rollercoaster with me. They didn’t argue as much this time. Maybe they saw how determined I was, or maybe they were just too worn out to fight it anymore.
I had the best of intentions. I truly believed I was trying to figure it all out the best I could. But what I didn’t know—what I couldn’t see at the time—was that this wasn’t a fresh start. This was the beginning of the end. Addiction had its hold on me, and I was running out of places to go. There were only two paths left: jail or death.
