When I was 17, my father staged an intervention.
I remember coming home from school, and my dad and girlfriend were sitting in the living room. My heart sank because I immediately thought something terrible had happened. My father told me if I didn’t make an attempt to get clean, he would kick me out. It was one of the first times I felt that he had my welfare in mind, and I promised that I would get sober on my own, not with the help of a rehab facility.
I hate being in places like that. Hospitals, doctor’s offices, dentists, any place where there’s a likelihood you can receive bad news. At that point, I felt my father was serious, but I had to do it my own way. He didn’t think I could do it, but I did. I proved him wrong.
No one ever seemed to understand the severity of my addiction except me. The only reason anyone acknowledged my problem was because I admitted it. Even when I came out of my room, high off my ass, blow on my nose, and bloodshot eyes, my family turned the other cheek because they didn’t want to deal with a drug addict son. I functioned pretty well while I was on drugs, and I never really caused any problems, so I felt like it was easier for them to ignore it than to try to tackle a problem that wasn’t really a problem yet. I still made good grades, I came home on time, I woke up early for school, never missed work, did well in sports, and during bathroom breaks, I would lock the door behind me, snort a line off the sink, check my nostrils, then go back to life. But after my mother died, I had a lot of guilt that maybe I had been stressing her out a lot, and maybe it was my fault for causing her so much heartache. I already knew I wanted to get clean, but that sealed it for me.
I was clean for three years until I relapsed pretty heavily while I was staying out of the country. I think I hid it well until my girlfriend told me, “You should never do anything you’re ashamed of.” I admitted I had a coke problem, and because I came clean about it, I felt it was okay to continue to use. I never seemed to have a good enough reason to stop until I lost everything and everyone I loved. Then someone dropped two babies in my lap. It was the best thing to ever happen to me.
I look at these little girls and I can’t imagine bringing them into such a negative environment. I would be lying if I said I never relapsed, but I feel like I’m in a much better position to kick the habit now then I was 3 years ago. I’m a stronger man, thanks to my girls, and if they tell me they want me to get better, I’m going to do everything in my power to make it so.
They don’t know it yet, but they’re my heroes.
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