Embracing the Journey

Landing back in Florida, I convinced myself this was my fresh start, my second chance to get things right. I immediately reached out to an old friend from the rooms and we went to a meeting together. It felt good to see a familiar face, and for a moment, I let myself believe this time would be different. After the meeting, we hung out, talking about aspirations, goals for the future—things that made us feel like we were on the right path. For the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of hope.

That night, I stayed at a hotel, planning to meet my friend in the morning to move into my new apartment. My parents thought I was at another sober house. The lie slipped out so easily, like second nature. Looking back, that should have been the first sign. If I was still lying, still hiding, then I wasn’t truly working the program. But the insanity continued—doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results.

The next day, we met at the apartment complex. It was another run-down motel-style building. Second floor to the right… last door. That detail is burned into my memory. The place was small, meant for one person, but it was clean. And when you have nothing, even a tiny apartment in a dilapidated building can feel like a luxury.

That first night came fast. The move was done, the excitement was wearing off, and my friend pulled out a needle.
“Want some?” She asked it so casually, like it was just another everyday choice.
My heart screamed no. My head whispered yes.

I had sworn I’d never use a needle. That was my line. The thing I would never do.
But before I could process what was happening, I was already saying, “Sure. F* it.”

Everything moved fast—then slow. That familiar warmth spread through me, numbing everything, but this time… quicker.

And just like that, another line was crossed.

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.

The flight home felt surreal. I landed just a day after my mom had returned from Florida, and I could tell she was upset—exhausted, really. She needed space, and I understood.

My dad, on the other hand, was ready to help in the only way he knew how—by taking me to meetings. I remember sitting next to him, wondering if he was actually getting anything out of it. Looking back now, I realize he was doing it for me. He never confronted his own drinking, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. He was there, present, and never once judged me. For that, I was grateful.

For the first few days, I tried to stay lowkey, focusing on my family and avoiding old places and people. But it didn’t take long before the familiar patterns kicked in. As soon as everyone left for work, I found myself searching through my old hiding spots, desperate to find anything left behind.

This time, though, I had fewer expectations of myself. I wasn’t making big promises or setting unrealistic goals. I was just trying to take it day by day. But even with a different mindset, the same cycle began creeping back in.

At 30 days, the same restless feeling returned. I started comparing everything—meetings back home versus the ones in Florida, the people, the energy. Now that I was back, I wanted to be there. The insanity of it all, chasing something just for the sake of escape. I was trying so hard to stay the course, but the truth was, I wasn’t facing myself—I was still running.

When I woke up the next morning, my mind was made up—I couldn’t stay in Florida any longer. I reached out to a few friends from the rooms, the ones who were really trying to do the right thing. I’ll always be grateful for the people who crossed my path at just the right time. They tried to talk me out of leaving, but deep down, they understood.

Being kicked out of the sober house meant there was no going back. No one was going to help me pay to return, and honestly, that place wasn’t helping me anyway. I needed more structure, more accountability—whether I was willing to admit it or not.

Going home terrified me, but staying felt just as scary. Shame, regret, and fear consumed me, and I couldn’t shake the hopelessness that came with failing yet again. Thirty days. That number haunted me. Why couldn’t I make it past 30 days?

As the plane took off, I stared out the window, replaying how hopeful I had been just months ago. Now, I was heading home, feeling more lost than ever.

The next 72 hours were an emotional blur, a downward spiral that felt impossible to stop. I went to my uncle’s condo to see my mom, hoping for some comfort, but as soon as I stepped inside, I saw her standing in the hallway—visibly upset. Before I could say a word, my uncle erupted.
“Get out! You’re a junkie, and she needs to be done with you!”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Anger flared inside me, mixing with hurt and shame. I screamed back, storming out, telling myself, Good riddance! But deep down, it cut deep. In that moment, I convinced myself that if they thought I was a lost cause, maybe I would be. The insanity of addiction—wanting to prove someone right by destroying yourself.
I was still surviving, not coping. Still running from responsibility, from pain, from myself.

With nowhere to go, the van dropped me off at the homeless shelter. I stepped out, stared at the door… then turned around and walked away. A friend let me crash at their apartment, but when I arrived, the living room was littered with people using. It wasn’t a home—it was just another trap. I found a corner, snorted the last of my pills, and passed out, hoping I wouldn’t wake up.

Recovery had never felt so far away. Florida wasn’t working. Maybe it was time to go back home.

A couple of days later, the obsession took over again. The relentless need to escape my feelings consumed me. I relapsed—and this time, it counted. But I was going to be smarter. No one would catch me. I bought some vinegar, knowing it could mask a drug test, and headed back to the sober house.

Not long after, I was called down to the office for a drug screen. I sat there, watching the “counselors” examine the cup, ready to tell me I failed. Then, to their surprise—“Negative!?” they muttered, confused. “How could that be?” I smirked. “I guess your snitch was wrong.” Walking back to my room, I shut the door behind me. My roommate stood there, eyes wide. “Did it work?!” “It did!” I shouted.
But before I could settle in, the office called me back down. “You need to test again. You must have used someone else’s pee.” My heart pounded. “What?! How dare you accuse me!” The insanity of it all is so clear now, but in the moment, I was fully committed to the lie.

This time, they made me strip down and pee in front of them. I had never felt so dehumanized. Yet, somehow, I passed again. But they wouldn’t let me leave. My high was wearing off, and the weight of it all started creeping in. Was it worth it?
Finally, they had me test once more—with a different kit. This time, there was no escaping it. “Adulterated!” they shouted.

The fight was over. I exhaled, my voice flat. “Alright, fine. I did it. I relapsed.”
Since it was my second time, the consequence was clear—I was being sent to a homeless shelter. The reality of it all started sinking in. I wasn’t scared of the shelter itself. What haunted me was the thought of my mom. How was she going to feel when she found out?

I was excited to see my mom, but the emotions were overwhelming. When she arrived, she offered to drive me and some of the girls to a meeting. We piled into the car, dressed like we were going out, music blasting. Years later, she would tell me she had no idea what to make of the situation in that moment.

The next day, I was out with friends at Best Buy when I spotted the Dust-Off section. “Dust-Off,” I thought. “What a great idea! Let’s huff some.” It wasn’t heroin or alcohol, so in my mind, it didn’t really count. What was the worst that could happen?

The next 48 hours were a blur—can after can, hit after hit. I was getting ready in my room with my fellow Dust-Off users, sitting on the dresser, about to take one last inhale before heading downstairs. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, the girls screaming at me to get up. I shot up, laughing it off. “Guess I did too much!” We ran downstairs like nothing had happened.
By the time I reached the pool with the others, something felt off. I looked down—my pants were wet. Confused, I tried to piece it together. Wet pants? Why would I have wet pants?…

When I returned to the sober house, I told myself things would be different. This time, I was going to do it right—get a job, find a sponsor, and actually work the program.

Each time someone relapsed, their belongings were packed into black trash bags, and when they returned, they were moved to a new room. I unpacked once again, trying to settle in, trying to believe that this time would be different.

Two weeks later, I turned 21. There was an outdoor strip mall by the beach, and that night, Live was playing a concert. After my meeting, I wandered through the mall, watching people in bars laughing, celebrating, living. I thought, This is my 21st birthday. I should be in there, normal, with my friends. The thought stung, but then the music started.

They had fenced off the concert area, allowing entry only with a wristband. I followed the fence until I found a small opening where I could see the stage. Then Lightning Crashes began to play. I stood there, feeling every note, every word. I danced—sober. And in that moment, for the first time in what felt like forever, I was present.

My family, still holding onto hope, did what they could to support me. My mom planned a visit, staying at my uncle’s condo just fifteen minutes from the sober house.

I had started to notice a pattern—day 30 always felt impossible. Early in recovery, I had convinced myself that if I could just reach 30 days, I’d be okay. But now, as I neared that milestone again, I felt no relief. If anything, the cravings were worse.

Cravings are relentless, a battle few can truly understand. In those moments, the mind twists reality—convincing you that one tiny pill is the only escape from the unbearable weight of anxiety, despite knowing the destruction it has already caused.

One night, my friend found Roxy’s. Without hesitation, we snuck out, sat on a street corner, and snorted the pills as if it were the most normal thing in the world. The night blurred into dawn, and we slipped back into the house like nothing had happened.

It didn’t take long to catch up with us. A few hours later, we were called in for drug tests. I hadn’t even considered the rules—fail the test, and you’re out. Detox first, then pay to return. The call to my parents came next. I fought it, furious at the idea of detoxing again. Really? For one Roxy?

Despite my protests, my parents agreed to send me. When I arrived, the place was worse than I had imagined—a locked unit that looked more like a jail. Dim lighting, filth, and hopelessness filled every corner. They handed me my meds, and since I had only used once, I felt higher off the detox meds than I had from the actual relapse. Three days in this place, then back to the sober house—another cycle I wasn’t ready to break.

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.